"These were not ordinary boards, they were boards ridden by all my favorite surfers..." - Jamie Brisick
Wander around the 29-acre island of Tavarua and you find all kinds of marvelous things: a kava ceremony in full swing with hard clapping and baritone Bula!s, a 12-inch sea snake squirming its way up the beach, a huddle of boatmen sipping beers and talking story, a wife of a world champion surfer riding her first wave at Kiddieland.
One afternoon in 2006 I came across this cemetery of broken boards. These were not ordinary boards, they were boards ridden by all my favorite surfers, boards that had come from Hawaii, Australia, South Africa, Brazil, France, and the USA. They were boards that had lived full, fruitful, and adrenaline-charged lives. They were sailing along at the height of their powers when all of a sudden, WHACK! went the lip or KABOOM! went the stomping foot. Life can be so sublime. Until it’s not.
The kid in the pic? That’s Johnny. Johnny and I shared a mutual fascination with the broken boards. We spoke no words. He stepped into frame, dug his toes into the wax, imagined big things.