Earlier this week the one hundredth and final issue of The Surfer's Path magazine was pushed through my letterbox. The arrival of the centenary issue should have been one of celebration but instead it was, for me at least, a sad occasion as I read the accompanying letter from the magazine's publishers. I first picked up a copy of The Surfer's Path sixteen years ago as a young teenager. It was issue 6 and it had a dark green cover if I remember correctly. It had a lot of words in it and different photos to the sort that I was used to seeing in the other surf magazines and it cost a bit more too, so my young, short-attention-span, bright colours and fast music angled brain probably didn't really get it. As I matured and my understanding of surfing and the culture that surrounds it developed I would pick up a copy of The Surfer's Path more and more often - a look at the bookshelf at my Dad's house where my collection of early editions is archived would probably be a good indicator of how my surf-centric brain developed: the frequency of more tabloid, "here and now", surf publications tails off to be replaced by a magazine that carried much broader, deeper content. This was a magazine that spoke to my absolute and all consuming obsession with riding waves and started in some way to satiate my appetite to know more. It's pages were filled with trips to places that I'd often never heard of - far-flung corners of the map where there might be waves but there was definitely a story, sparking in me a wanderlust for far-away coastlines that has had an enormous impact upon my adult life, and for which I am incredibly thankful. It taught me about the value of the marine environment, where waves come from and about the history of surfing. The Surfer's Path taught me that there was more to this whole watery escapade; much more. I'll pull-up short of descending into an essay on the knock-on effects on "bigger picture" surf culture of big surf companies cutting their marketing budgets and the rise of free surf content on the internet. Now's not the time or place. What I will say, however, is that the world of surfing is going to be a bit thinner, a bit flimsier and without doubt a bit shallower without The Surfer's Path spreading interesting and thought provoking articles with beautiful images selected for their artistic merits and their story-telling qualities. This good stuff will certainly still be around, but we might have to search a little harder for it and may not be able to pick it up, curl the edges of the pages, stuff it in a bag before a bus trip or put it on a shelf to revisit in many years time. Thank you to The Surfer's Path for informing, entertaining and inspiring, to it's editor Alex Dick-Read for your service to surf culture and to all of the photographers, writers and subjects who appeared in it's pages for showing me just what's possible if you put your head down and paddle hard.
I recently had the pleasure of interviewing Christian Beamish for a short piece in the current issue of The Surfer's Path (issue 92 Sep/Oct 2012). Christian is the former associate editor of The Surfer's Journal, a writer, wooden boat builder and wilderness surf adventurer who lives in California. I had a hundred questions that I wanted to ask him, but had to parr it back to fit on a single page. Below is the full transcript of our interview, with some of the images that he sent through and a recent video vignette produced to promote his brilliant book, "The Voyage of the Cormorant"; absorb and enjoy.
How did your ocean attraction begin?
From an early age I spent a lot of time at the beach with my Dad
bodysurfing, boogie boarding, and then, naturally, board surfing at around
10-years-old. An L.A. County lifeguard in California’s “golden era” of the
1950s, my father raised me with what I now recognize as an overall waterman
sensibility: Free diving the reefs of Laguna, sailing and fishing were all
background activities to the main pursuit of wave riding. In my grown up
surfing life I have pursued wilderness surfing experiences as much as possible,
having nevertheless surfed a lot of “parking lot” beaches in Southern
California. What I find most interesting about surfing is the way that it puts
us into the natural world with such immediacy. It was in this spirit that I set
out to explore wilderness shores in my small, open boat.
Can you please tell us about your boat, Cormorant.
A Shetland Isle beach boat, designed by Iain Oughtred on the
Isle of Skye, Cormorant is 18-feet long by 5’4” in the beam. Although modeled
on traditional craft, the boat is built in marine grade plywood, secured with
epoxy resin. The boat carries about two weeks of food and water. With a
mainsail (a balanced lug) and a smaller mizzen, Cormorant makes about 5 knots.
There are three reef points in the mainsail and the “double ended” design
handles a following sea very well, so it is truly a “sea boat.” Historically,
the Shetland Islanders fished banks 40 miles offshore in these boats, and then
landed in small coves.
What inspired and drove you to build your own boat for solo surf
searches?
A feeling has nagged me that our headlong embrace of electric
gadgetry threatens to sever us from an essential, physical, aspect of ourselves
developed over the 50,000 years (or however long it has been) of our modern
human physiology. I suppose it’s a longing for a forest home and the adventure
of open water that informs the notion that florescent lighting, emails and
automobiles make machines out of us. I was living on the grounds of a lighthouse,
on the North Coast above Santa Cruz, California, and the maritime history
seemed to haunt the place. There were historic photos offishermen plying those waters in traditional
craft and a vision hit me so hard that I knew right then that I needed to
experience that kind of essential human endeavor.
Where have you sailed her to date?
I’ve got about one thousand miles “under the hull” (as Iain
Oughtred has said). Two long Baja sails, a couple of 30 mile crossings to the
Santa Barbara Channel Islands (with circum navigations of Santa Rosa and Santa
Cruz Islands), countless “local” trips from Dana Point and San Clemente down to
Trestles and up to Laguna, and a great month-long journey in Vancouver Island,
British Columbia, Canada.
Can you give us some high and a low points from your adventures in Cormorant?
The high points are nice sailing conditions and the quite glide
of it all. Low points are abject terror, far offshore when conditions threaten
to overwhelm – but in those situations one is too involved in the moment to
really judge “high” or “low”. The low is running out of supplies, far from help
and feeling the inherent limitations of such a small vessel.
Did you ever miss a surf to work on the boat in the two years
that you spent building her?
I wouldn’t have missed “epic” days, but sitting in a line-up
with a bunch of people in tiny waves will always be less appealing than the
mediation of building a boat (or shaping a surfboard for that matter!).
How did your experiences with Cormorant lead into you surfing
Mavericks?
I can’t say that building and sailing Cormorant led directly
somehow to surfing Mavs. But once on that program I recognized a real
similarity to the feeling of being in “big water” with just yourself and your
equipment (self-built) to rely on. But neither pursuit – solo expeditions or
big wave riding – has ever had an element of being something I wanted to
“challenge,” “overcome,” or “conquer.” The inherent danger is not to be
dismissed, as much as accounted for. Then I make an assessment of my abilities
and the conditions for any particular day. Luck plays a huge role for anyone
involved in ocean work.
Is/was Cormorant just the start of a much deeper relationship
with the ocean?
Yes. I sometimes shudder when I think of some of the situations
I’ve put myself in. Oddly, I think I’ll be more cautious now in my ocean
forays… they’re not done, but I want to make a few adjustments.
What lessons did you learn from reducing your immediate world to
an 18’ x 5’ space?
Hard to say, but Cormorant was my transport and shelter, and
traveling this way is much like traveling by bicycle with a tent to sleep in at
night. So it wasn’t quite like a monk in his cell… I sometimes rowed ashore and
set up a beach camp, or, if staying aboard, I’m off surfing or fishing most of
the day, leaving the boat at anchor. One of the great feelings is having a snug
cove you’re anchored in, a good meal you’ve cooked (and caught) on the camp
stove, and a good book to read by lantern light. It’s sort of the small boy and
his “fort” made in the woods feeling.
What’s next for Cormorant and your boat building exploits?
Do you have plans to extend your fleet at all?
Solo expeditions have their place, but I’ve also greatly enjoyed
traveling with friends. The vision I have is to build two new boats (need to
speak with Mr. Oughtred!) scaled-up to 22- or 24-feet. I want to sail with
2-surfers per boat in wilderness areas. The boats will stick together and share
camp duties and of course the fun and challenges of these adventures.
Were your trips simply surf trips, or were they by their very
nature more multi-dimensional?
Multi-dimensional, but guiding by a foundation in surfing. A lot
of the old timers say that “it’s all surfing,” and with beach boats that really
is true.
And finally, on a purely inquisitive level based on my own boat
building experiences (and not part of the main interview), how many clamps did
you have to use??!
Always about twice the
number I had was what was needed it seemed!
