Today, out loud, I said that I didn’t even like to watch surfing anymore. I actually said that. The fucking editor at a surf magazine thing: over it. And the scary part is, I think I meant it. At least in the way we have to watch them these days (usually when I should be doing something else, or on a toilet or when I’m completely distracted and trying to look busy. AKA: when I’m eggy).
But let’s be real: the way we inundate and pile on the underwhelming and flip through shit so fast and mindlessly it’s hard to have any emotion toward it. Sure it happens, and the surfing moves around, but does it evoke anything? Lately I’ve just felt like I don’t really need any more of it. Be it surfing, or cleavage or FuckJerry or Pulp Fiction. The media Wheaties just aren’t going down how they used to. Because it’s mostly garbage. I mean, I used to burn through surf vids, re-loop them, study them, memorize, analyze with pinpoint accuracy how they waxed their fucking feet. But lately, I’ve been hard pressed to even finish a web clip over a minute long (probably because another minute-long web edit is released). Another surf edit, bleh, whatever. Not even a Spindle Flip or the latest Nazaré cleanup set can induce a thrill from me on my toilet seat. And it’s not that what I’m seeing isn’t amazing. I’m just on to the next so fast that I can’t even finish a feeling.
But I was reminded of the beauty of surfing today.
Because I chose a strange day to utter this statement about being over surf videos. I chose a day when the Volcom released their first surf film since The Bruce Movie. Leave it to Volcom to make me eat my shorts. Today is the day their beautiful new film Psychic Migrations is out on iTunes. And while I said that statement earlier today, I truly believe that this film by RT and Volcom is here to resurrect the the grom in me. Just in time.
I remember watching it for the first time during a super secret HQ screening a few weeks ago, Coors Light between my legs and music blasting and thinking to myself: This is what the world is missing. This shit, right here. On the screen. This is no web clip. This is a surf film. One that has transported me. To another dimension. Another place.
This is not something to watch on my phone. This is a damn experience.
I actually remember a specific moment, a few minutes into the South America section, and Ryan Burch is torching a left point on a self-shaped twin fin when my adrenaline was bubbling up under my skin so strong that I nearly hooted. And if you know me, I don’t “hoot”…often.
But another urge I remember having when watching this film for the first time, is that I was so excited to write a review for it. To tell you that you have to see it and see it properly. It is a long, strange watch, and I couldn’t mean that in a better way. I challenge you to immerse yourself in it. Do you for an hour. Fuck your phone off, pour a drink, turn it up, and watch the boys transport you into feeling some emotions that you didn’t know still existed in your enormous distracted heart.
A few hours ago I was ready to paddle out and just keep paddling. No need for land existence, just surf and let everyone else toil away and watch their little surf clips, but I have been brought back. I have returned. I am frothing again. And I have Psychic Migrations to thank. (That South America section though!)
And seriously, fuck everything else off and really get to know this film. Maybe watch it twice. The grom in me is already on his third viewing. —Travis