Normcore

Last autumn, Justin Quintal received confirmation that he’d be the newest addition to the Vans Surf Team. He had at that point been without a tenable sponsor for some time and had become accustomed to working a litany of part time jobs back home, splitting his time between college, waiting tables, and construction, gathering salable gear for yard sales to fund his surf trips. When he got the news, the first people to know were his parents, who had tentatively awaited whether or not this deal would stick and what trajectory their son’s career would take, for he had two bachelor degrees to fall back on. When his father, Mike, heard the news, Quintal told me, “He said, ‘Alright you can have coffee now,’” a reference to one of Mike’s favorite movies, Glengarry Glen Ross.

Quintal—at this point—had become the prodigal son on Joel Tudor’s Duct Tape Invitational circuit, claiming four wins and three U.S. Open victories, seven if you don’t care to acknowledge the presumed division. Eight years ago, when he found out about the inaugural Duct Tape taking place during the East Coast Surfing Championship in Virginia Beach, he immediately called Paul West—the director—and told him, “Paul you’ve got to get me in the contest.” West made a call and persuaded the organizers to include Quintal as a wildcard competitor along with the 15 invitees—the most revered longboarders at the time.

Before the opening ceremony in Virginia Beach, a spry 19-year-old Quintal managed to buy a few beers with a fake I.D., hopped on the trolley, and proceeded to drink them, hoping to calm his nerves. He’d never met Joel Tudor, and he didn’t think he would ever get the chance until then. “I was thinking, ‘Oh my god is Joel Tudor going to break my arm?’” he explained, “‘because I’m not supposed to be in this contest?’ It felt like I had to win them over.” Tudor—the event’s namesake—told me, “He got in by default. We didn’t even know who he was. When I got to Virginia, I was actually frustrated. Like, ‘What do you mean we had to give up two spots? I don’t know who these people are. Why am I inviting these two guys?’ Then he kind of beat the shit out of everybody,” Tudor added with an effusive enthusiasm for Quintal. “He surfed really well. And that was one of the best Duct Tapes, because Virginia Beach had good surf.”

Walking in from the water post final, he was met by Tudor, who commended him on the win, told him how proud he was, and made sure Quintal knew that he too should be proud. The unknown kid from Jacksonville, Florida, fared well with the judges, with no ins, no rapport, just his southern sensibility and an adept sense of how to move a ten-foot log around in East Coast slop. “It was something I wanted to happen my entire life,” he said, “and never thought it would. And then it all came together.”

*

On December 30, 1989, Quintal’s mother, Kim, woke her husband, Mike, to let him know she was going into labor. The couple lived in Satellite Beach, Florida, at the time. The two made their way to the car, hooked it onto A1A North, and pushed toward the Cape Canaveral hospital, passing Mike’s local surf haunts on the way. “We went to the hospital very, very early in the morning,” Kim recounted. “As we were passing Second Light [Brevard County’s San Onofre], I told Mike I wanted to pull in to go out on the boardwalk and watch the sun come up and just center myself, prepare myself for what I knew was coming. So we pulled over, and Mike let me walk out there by myself.” 

That night at the hospital, after a long, long day, Justin was born. She remembered there was a space shuttle launch from Canaveral. She and Mike sat there together, a front row view of the launch, the bright blue flares bleeding into orange and white, marching upward into space, leaving the earth’s troposphere as their first son arrived. 

*

The family moved around as Quintal grew up, from central Florida up to South Carolina in 1996, and then eventually down to Jacksonville in 2002, where they settled in and made a home. In South Carolina, Quintal and his dad would chase waves up and down the southeast, as the local break was dismal and only had a small window in which it would be remotely surfable. Up toward Folly Beach, Quintal turned a head or two, and both Mike and Kim were told that he should take up competing. His parents were a bit wary at first, but they abided and began schlepping him around to Eastern Surfing Association contests. His first sponsor was a shop in South Carolina called Nan-Seas, owned by Nanci Polk and Jerre Weckhorst, who implored Mike Quintal, “He could win. I know he could win.” The local ESA chapter director, Angie Youngblood, seemed to agree and the trio became a burgeoning network for him. Quickly, he became consistent in his surfing. This was still before he’d hopped on a longboard. “You know what this means?” one parent warned Mike and Kim of their son’s ability. “You’re going to be traveling all up and down the East Coast.”

Later during an unordinary day at the Washout in South Carolina, when the conditions aligned with an ESA contest, the shift from shortboard to longboard occurred. John Tolly—a dear family friend—and Mike Quintal were sitting together watching the contest. Quintal was sitting nearby awaiting his next heat when a young kid came up and asked to borrow one of Tolly’s longboards for the longboard division, citing some story of boards mislaid. They agreed, sent the kid out, and Quintal watched as he surfed near perfect beachbreak with just three other guys in the water. Mike told me he remembers the switch going off in his son’s head, like I can do that; I want to do that. And so Tolly, a shaper, decided to make Quintal a foiled out, scaled back version of a longboard, an 8’10”. Tolly encouraged the young squire to practice cross stepping on a Sector 9 skateboard to get a feel for the motion.

Soon Quintal’s friend Dylan Andrews got a Robert August retro log and they delved into Sprout and The Seedling. They practiced drop knees and nose riding on prog logs and anything buoyant enough to dance around on. This was a time when anything over six foot was frowned upon in surfing, unless it carried an old-timer. Luckily, Andrews and Quintal were brought up on the Northside of Jacksonville, a place where traditional surfing was very much appreciated and even encouraged, a far cry from the conventional thruster scene a few miles south of the St. Johns River. Mike remembered that it was clear then that Justin had a natural talent for that kind of surfing—for the balletic, paced approach longboarding demanded—and shortly thereafter, he rode longboards more than anything else. “Johnny [Tolly] basically taught Justin how to longboard,” he says. 

At regionals that year, Quintal met Ricky Carroll—his shaper and friend for the last 12 years—and he ordered his first log, a Model T. Now, Quintal and Carroll work together on a board company Quintal founded, Black Rose Manufacturing, which has been picking up steam. 

*

All these years later, Quintal has learned how to cultivate these relationships and to find solace in those in-between moments, to more wholly appreciate what he has and what he intends to pursue. He’s had a whole host of mentors along the way, but it certainly was not an easy climb. For the last eight years, since the inaugural Duct Tape, he cobbled the money together for trips however he could, often returning home with little in his pockets but volumes of experience. “Drive and determination,” John Tolly notes. “He’s had it since he was a kid.” 

In an increasingly disparate professional surfing economy, young upstarts find themselves with meager means to support themselves, let alone gather a travel budget. And when you’re not from a central destination, as far as the surf world is concerned, it’s exponentially more unlikely to reach escape velocity. “It’s hard for guys coming from the East Coast,” Tudor said of the paradox. “The industry isn’t there, so there’s not a lot of people to pay attention to you. It’s difficult to come out of there and have any chance. In surfing, it’s limiting, and in longboarding, it’s almost impossible. The Duct Tapes were created so that kids could have an opportunity to have people pay attention to them or at least earn a bit of extra cash in their efforts to try and make a living from surfing.” 

That good will has molted into a reciprocal gift for both Quintal and the Duct Tape, one that has renewed interest in traditional longboarding and cultivated a talent pool to draw from. “He’s opened doors for other kids on the East Coast,” Tudor mused of Quintal’s unorthodox ascension. “Indirectly, he’s helping the next generation of kids in Florida who longboard. It’s only given more strength to our contests, too.”

At the U.S. Open, Quintal met photographer Chris Burkard, who invited him on a photo trip. He couldn’t make that first foray but later started traveling with Burkard more frequently, especially on cold-water trips. Burkard mentioned to me that when Quintal first opened his board bag, it was filled with all kinds of craft—bonzers, quads, transition-era single fins and so forth. He was pleasantly taken aback, not just at the eclecticism of the boards this “longboarder” traveled with, but also his unbridled enthusiasm. It was immediately apparent to him: Quintal’s positivity was infectious, tangible even. 

Burkard also explained how these cold-water trips really tease out people’s true colors, especially when the ocean goes flat. When the waves are good, anybody can do it. It’s when the waves are junk that you get a sense of people’s wherewithal. “This guy was equally as stoked to sit in the cabin during a storm and talk story and hangout as he was to get out there when it was big and gnarly,” he said of Quintal. “It takes patience. This is exactly what I wanted to see in somebody like this, but I never really expected it. He shows a genuine appreciation for the places he goes because he’s had to work so hard to get there.” 

Burkard also pointed out that you can tell nothing has ever been handed to Quintal, evident in his humility and honesty. “He’s the first one in,” he added of his thirst to surf. “Last one out.” 

*

Along the banks of the St. Johns River in Ft. George, Florida, near the mouth where it spills into the Atlantic, we sat together at the Sand Dollar restaurant looking out over the wide body of water moving past in eddies and swirls, talking story over gator bites and corn fritters. I asked Quintal about what had changed since he’d made the Vans team. “I don’t feel as guilty for surfing,” he told me. “It’s a profession now, whereas before, I was always trying to make it. It seemed like I was doing everything right, but the only thing I was missing was a sponsor.” There was a quiet, unassuming calm about him, an exuberant confidence and a sense of purpose that complemented his southern sensibility. There’d be no time misspent now.

During college, Quintal weathered a dark period where, at the back of his mind, the fear of things falling apart remained ever-present, a kind of eustress driving him—the push and pull of whether or not he would make it as a pro, feeling out of place, maybe missing out on opportunities. “All I really cared about was surfing,” he recounted. “That’s what I was really passionate about, and I was barely passing classes, because I was going on trips, blowing off school.” 

The pressure from his parents and professors to commit to his studies mounted, the fear of creating a second act for himself became acutely extant. “I didn’t have any sponsors in college. I was working two jobs and for me, going to a contest and winning a couple thousand dollars in a few days was a really big deal. It helped me out a lot. That was a month of bussing tables. At the same time, it was like gambling, because if I did put up all that money—often the majority of money in my bank account—and I didn’t win, I wasn’t going to be able to make rent when I got home, so it wasn’t much of an option. For a while, I resented it,” he said, looking back now, three years from commencement. “But it’s given me such an appreciation for where I am now.” 

Talking to Quintal’s father, who grew up out West, I asked what it is about the South that breeds such a zest for life, such an endearing diligence. “First and foremost, people in the South are taught to respect their elders, to say yes Sir, no Sir, yes Ma’am, no Ma’am, hold the door open. If you see somebody that needs some help, offer your help to them,” he explained. 

Mike credited Quintal’s mother and then added, “Both her and I put an emphasis on manners and integrity. We absolutely did. We instilled that in both of our children and in addition to that, education.” He remembered stressing, “You’ve got to be smart. You’ve got to be kind. You’ve got to be humble. And you’ve got to be known for integrity, because those traits are what are going to carry you furthest in life.” 

At this point, it seems to have paid off in dividends. Quintal has always exuded a kind of compassion that is all encompassing. His southern grace remains exacting and the result of his family’s tenets: “Patience, kindness, understanding, and silence.” I believe it has engendered in his peers a sense of respect that’s increasingly rare. “He gets it,” Tudor echoed. “He understands the opportunity he has. He doesn’t fuck around trying to be hip. That’s the thing I enjoy about his deal. He knows what he’s there to do. He knows when to go to bed.”

As to the Vans sponsorship, his father told me, “I was absolutely stoked, satisfied, and I felt like my son got his just rewards.” Mike Quintal grew up in San Diego, and his family built swimming pools. He was an avid skateboarder and during wildfire season, when most residents evacuated, his crew would drive up into the meandering hills and canyons, find a perch, and search out vacant homes with backyard pools. “Look at that kidney. Look at that clover. Let’s go drain that one. We’d pull the speakers out of the damn truck. Throw a little extra speaker wire on them, put on some Blue Oyster Cult or
Led Zeppelin, and skate in our Vans. I skated pools in Vans since day fucking one.” 

So to him the sponsorship just made sense, a kind of cyclical odyssey making its full revolution for the Quintal family.

*

In 2011, after returning home from a summer in California (where he made his first appearance in the U.S. Open and placed second to Joel Tudor), and following a quick dispatch to Salinas, Spain, where another Duct Tape was taking place, Quintal went to his parent’s house and found a morose sense in the air. His dad looked as though he’d been in a fight, his face saturated red like it had been sunburned. Quintal immediately asked what had happened and learned that his dad had undergone surgery and had begun radiation for a cancerous tumor that took root just below his left eye, behind his cheekbone. 

The indentation on his face was the result of the surgical removal of a portion of his cheekbone. The first give-away was that his dad, who was always clad in a mustache, now had no facial hair. Quintal knew that his father had been dealing with a prolonged sinus infection, the negligent diagnosis of a doctor who missed the signs, but his dad finally decided to walk into the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville—a specialized cancer clinic—and recounted his symptoms in the hallway as a physician passed by and heard him mention pins and needles down the left side of his face in addition to numbness. The physician encouraged Mike to have an MRI immediately and afterward discovered a tumor the size of a walnut. He told Mike that had any more time passed and he would have lost his eye. 

Five years later, after a marathon of radiation treatments, Mike Quintal reached remission, an immense relief to the family, who for that period also felt an acute sense of pins and needles. One specialist attributed it to a lack of sunglasses and exposure to the sun over an extended period of time. “It was really hard for me to watch that.” Quintal recalled. The slight indentation on the left side of his dad’s face (still there) registers that period in the Quintal family’s life—Justin and and his brother helping with the family business, offering their support where they could. Apart from that, Quintal was still in college, waiting tables at Outback Steakhouse, and making an earnest attempt to carve out a viable career in surfing concurrently. 

Through that, he grew up. He became more himself inevitably. What was before an inconvenience—like his mom and dad nagging him to focus on school—turned into a privilege. “I started to realize that I needed to spend more time with my family and not get hung up on the little things.”

At 21, that was the first time Quintal saw his dad as anything but invincible. He had peered over the edge of the world, his own mortality brushed. And that gave him a sense of his own ephemeral nature. Those five years contemplating the near loss of his father incised in him an appreciation for all things that had saturated all threads in his life, surfing just one among many. 

I spoke to him on Thanksgiving day last year. He sat next to a smoker, stoking the fire, Bloody Mary in hand, his dog next to him peering upward, and told me how much he looked forward to hosting his first Thanksgiving dinner at his home in Jacksonville. He didn’t need some arbitrary holiday to be thankful. “That’s not going to happen forever,” he related to me. “So while we’re able to, let’s try and enjoy our time here together and have some fun.”

*

In the last year, Quintal has traveled more than in the previous five years combined, the trips now beginning to bleed together. His goal for the year is simple: to be on it. He explained how his trips with Chris Burkard to the Faroe Islands and Iceland were turning points for him. “It opened my eyes to the potential out there. You feel really alive. It was humbling, sitting out in the Artic Circle under the Northern Lights, watching the edge of the atmosphere dance around.”

He seems wholly enthralled by the wildness of places, back home and away. On his list, he’s put down hot-bed surf locales, but he’s more keen on those out of the way places, those places that still remain uncharted, lesser known. It’s undoubtedly clear that he finds the rewards in surfing to be exponentially more plentiful when the journey precludes the destination. 

On those trips, the relationships forged are an inextricable part of the experience, one that he holds dear. Hopping on a boat in the wee hours of the morning or driving through the night—the way in which travelers depend on each other, the blind trust you build, ties you together in a bond that quickly circumvents any initial awkwardness. It’s the thread among all those who wander, looking for another bend in the coast, another thumb of sand and stone beneath the surface. “You get to know people on a level that you normally wouldn’t,” he said. 

Before this past year, things seemed untenable, unrealistic for Quintal. Now it’s just a matter of making it happen. “It seems like there is a lot more possibility,” he told me. “I’m more confident, and I’m a bit more self aware. Surfing is one of the most fulfilling things in my life. Everything I do revolves around it, and I’m a really happy person because of it.” 

Whether it’s slab hunting, novelty points, beachbreak runners, two-foot slop to Waimea Bay, “I just want to be able to surf anything at any time,” he told me. “Whatever comes my way. I’d like to ride waves in all different forms. Surfing is a practice for me. It’s something you can never truly master, this continual thing. I still feel like I have a lot to learn. I feel like every time I go in the water I learn something.”