On Style

There are surfers in our collective consciousness so pure, so imbued, that their every performative movement seems faultless, even in non-Kabuki moments of stasis. 

Take this shot: Yes, it’s Waimea, the Three Tables boneyard looks hungry, and the track speaks to sheer section-connecting speed from way outside. Yet all a viewer really sees is “Reno Abellira.” Snap call. All in. Shove chips. Any further unpacking unnecessary.

And yet…let’s. Lithe. Almost feminine, but a man in full. A cat landing on its feet, hitting the bricks after some high-wire salto mortale. Using the stability of a no-foam-hidden full gun to bleed things off and negotiate some inside-boil treachery. 

Any real surfer feels this frame: the Hawaiian hegemonic chain of custody. It fairly comes out of Reno’s pores. 

—Scott Hulet

[Feature image: Photo by Dan Merkel/Lost and Found Collection.]