The washed-out drone soundtrack evokes that unsettling power of desert Australia and the Indian/Southern oceans chillingly. The aesthetic is distinct, but never overpowers. Muted hues and tonal fades are in the edit throughout. It shows through in the film.Ī supporting cast that expose no weak links.Įven though the locales are mostly well known, the waves are shot in a new light. I was lucky enough to be out during a few of the Indo sessions featured in Pentacoastal and he was by far the standout in real time. Harry Bryant, the fizzling quokka with a Marzo-esque level of command in some damn heavy situations. That foamball wrestle and bounce at P-Pass needs to be watched again, and again. The pop-shuvit funboy of the early naughts is still there, but with a style and presence that’s rounded out into something much more substantial. Wade’s had a narrative arc that would match any character from The Wire. The reinvention of Wade Goodall, who’s as close to a central figure in the film as we see.
This is exactly where the sport should be. It captures attention like a well placed punch on the nose – blam! – and forces our gaze back to what’s most important. Pentacoastal is blistering, exhilarating. It shows us surfing at the vanguard of the modern performance spectrum, pushed even further forward by the sure-handed direction of an in-form auteur. Vans’ latest film Pentacoastal is a war cry for the contemporary surf fan. If you don’t have a plan you can never fail. The one I’ll be stuck surfing most of the summer what with Coronavirus restrictions malingering with no end in sight and now, this grey morning, death all around, I’m skipping to the beach and will, in three months time, surf like Tom Curren at J-Bay. I know it ain’t for every wave but it feels made for the wave a bike ride away. Little things blown right through on my way to trying to surf like Ritchie Collins at Newport. Little things that I’ve been neglecting for years. Like I had time to pay attention to the little things. It is a fast board but, riding it, my body felt slow. It felt good, almost too good, and I quickly paddled back out, swung, dropped on a late one and it felt glued to the face, rail drawing its own line with me simply along for the ride. I rolled back on my heels, moving my back foot over the fin box, and took the rollercoaster drop before repeating then gliding over the diminished shoulder into the flats. I could feel the energy, feel that it wanted to harness that energy, so pointed it toward 9 o’clock (where Devon Howard told me to point it) and suddenly I was there. It bit with rail and fin hard and pushed back against me. I stayed low, lower than I normally do, and thought about my body, my legs, my trunk. The first wave I swung, dropped and… felt it. Peaky, shoulder high nuggets spread in front of the crumbling bluffs watched over by the ghosts of campers past. The next morning, I woke, waxed, paddled before the wind had a chance to yuck my yum. I caught a couple waves, had a bit of fun but it wasn’t good enough to fully assess. When I saddled up it sunk to normal sitting-on-shortboard depth. I thought it would be like a cork, bobbing above the water, impossible to duck dive with my spindly arms but it was no problem at all. The afternoon surf was garbage but… I couldn’t help it, waxed up fresh and paddled into the wind beaten chunk.
#Tyler wright surfer full#
Maybe but Devon Howard, Devon fucking Howard, surfs the way I want to surf clean lines, no wasted movement, in control and pretty, so I touched it, posed for a picture, drove home with a mind full of sin. Would touching the thing taint me forever? Turn me into a lily-livered, big tent-preaching, cop-calling Vichy capitulator? In love with a beautiful mid-length surfboard and I don’t care if the whole world knows it.īefore I received my custom 6’10 21 2/34 seamfoam green Channel Islands MID from the very hand of Devon Howard, I’ll admit to being extremely conflicted. A vehicle is backing up somewhere on the street making that horrendous beeping sound.Įverything is the color of death, the sound of death maybe reflecting the hundreds of thousands of otherwise healthy overweight diabetics with underlying heart conditions north of 80 years-old who are mysteriously dying but I’m entirely unaware of the grey, the crow, the refrigerator truck and/or hearse, the fragility of life because I’m in love. One lonely crow squawks a miserable song in the backyard.
The sort of grey that rudely threatens to malinger all day. A grey pall hangs in the air this morning.
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