It’s only a new flipping decade innit? One with a proper name and everything. Couldn’t ever really get on with the noughties or the teenies or whatever the last bit was called. Now the ‘twenties’ has a nice ring to it. Surf’s been roaring in as well; you knew that was inevitable. What will a new decade bring? Where is surfing right now? On the surface, surfing is booming. You’re never short of friends in the lineup. Crew on all kinds of craft, of all sorts of levels, are enjoying the slide. Any coast of the UK with a rideable wave gets sessioned and with the wave pools surging even the inland folk will find it easier to go for a wiggle. (Not that you’re ever really that inland, seeing as you can only ever be 70 miles from the salt in the mainland UK). Buoyant as surfing for the everyday punter seems it’s not so rosy at the high end. You’ll have read about Nike selling Hurley and the resulting booting of, arguably, the strongest surf team ever assembled. John John Florence, Machado, Riss, Bourez and many more are now hunting for a new sticker for their beaks. Surf companies always rise and fall. Ocean Pacific and Town & Country were massive when I was a grom. Don’t see them anymore. The cream will still rise, and there was a bloat where a lot of folks got sponsored for not doing much at all. It’s all change and the people that surf good, make good gear, boards and suits will carry on doing so. The happenings of the WSL and the pro world’s paychecks don’t have much resonance when you’re struggling into a nearly frozen 6mm in February to go for a quick surf in two-foot brown closeouts after all. Which leads neatly, in conclusion, to where we are at as a magazine; since we’re now entering our 26th year of publishing. The 25th season celebratory bunting has been taken down. The cake long since digested. Normal service resumes. As ever we’ll be pushing the British and Irish crew that are blowing up and chatting to anyone and everyone we find interesting in the world of salty fun.

Sharpy

Editor

Rubber Love

You stare.
It stares back at you. Deep into your soul. Smug in the knowledge it is chillingly damp and gritty. It is the master here.
You wish you’d remembered to take it out of the car and shower the damn thing off. Maybe even let it dry out for the first time in weeks.
Like you do after every session. You’re a terrible person.
This lack of care borders on neglect, nothing deserves to be stamped into the mud. To be scraped over rocks. To be a discreet toilet. To be an all-weather protector with little thanks. To be left dirty and stinking in a cheap builder’s bucket from Morrisons in the nearly frozen boot of your car.
No wonder it wants to hurt you. To make you squeal and yelp in discomfort. The sharpest grit cunningly concealed in the dark recesses you can’t see.
When lovingly looked after and dry your trusty armour slides on like a dream. Suiting up makes you feel like a salty Batman ready to slide some waves. When wet, cold and minging, it is a war of attrition. Easy it is not. Cold fingertips veering towards frostbite as you claw and fight each centimetre of progress. You reap what you sow in this life, and your faithful friend is putting you through this drawn-out torture, not to mention exposure, as a message. Things could be so different if you took care. If you made an effort in the relationship. Because you neglect, because you’re too busy scrolling through shite on your phone, because there’s never enough time in the day – yet there is to surf of course – to look after your state of the art gimp suit, it now hates you.
Which is why you’re hopping around a car park swearing profusely as your faithful, but abused friend is refusing to go on. Your foot is in a vacuum lock. Your towel falls. The dog walking pensioners gasp, not in admiration, don’t be daft it’s December after all. Your glowing white derrière is lighting up the place. Your foot stuck in one leg as the other is halfway up. Gravity has been hanging around bored and decides it wants to play. You topple. Imagine reader, if you will, in glorious slow-motion. Feet tied up in neoprene, baby carrot and deux petit pois flapping in the wind. The surfer hoisted by his own petard. You are going down like an Indonesian hardwood.
You say: flip, damn, bother. And other colourful words. You salute the folks that witnessed your clown show. Regain your feet, your dignity and give a little bow. The fight continues as the waves pump on.
Wetsuit 1 – You 0.
Now you’re the muddy and gritty one even more in need of your neoprene protector. Hopefully, the message has been received. Look after the essential things in your life. Care for them as required. Otherwise, they may bite you on the ass.

Sharpy
Editor

Hello you

Our mantra here at Carve has always been: surfing is fun.
So the magazine reflects that as much as possible. Sure we cover serious topics and talk to serious people. The thing that binds us together is a shared love of sliding around in the salt because it’s one of the most fun things you can do. It’s an escape from the stress of life on land. A release from the shackles of gravity. A commune with nature.
If you’re good at it, some can even make it their living — the ultimate in getting paid to do what you love.
Us magazine folk don’t live the glamorous jet-setting lives of pro surfers, sure we travel more than most, admittedly a lot less than we used to.
We are here to document the goings-on in the British, Irish and world surf scene. So in a ‘getting paid to do what you love’ sense we’re also winning.
A small team runs the mag in a compact and bijou family-owned publishing house. We’re ably assisted by freelance photogs and writers all over the shop.
It’s a labour of love bringing you eight mags a year when print media isn’t having the best of times globally. Niche titles, like ours, are surviving because they talk to a distinct crowd, as in you lot, and getting the internet ad dollar together to get good content is tricky for online-only sites when Google and FB rob all the $$$.
So we here. We doing it. Proud to be paper. Print’s not dead. Etc.
The only issue with having a team you can count on the fingers of one hand is if one, or even two, of those fingers gets stomped on you’re in the poop.
Somehow the swirling hand of fate decided that the recent few weeks was a good a time as any for our designer James and my respective mums to pass away suddenly.
When it comes to a kick in the balls that makes it hard to concentrate on work, not to mention feeding and cleaning yourself, it’s a doozy. Of course, the powers that be have freely allowed us all the time we need to sort things out, but mags don’t make themselves.
Bereavement is a personal thing, and no one knows how it will affect them. Suffice to say it leads to a lot of thinking, tears, reflection, depression and in my case, possibly a few too many lovely beers and takeaways.
The central ethos instilled in us from our respective mums is very similar: be kind, follow your dreams.
This might explain why we’re working somewhere that it’s OK to rock up in shorts and flip flops with sand between our toes.
This issue and the last have been created under a cold, grey cloud of loss. It hurts like hell, and it will for a very long time. It’s inevitable when you lose people that are part of your soul.
All we can do is keep on keeping on. Make more magazines. Ride more waves. Make them proud. Remember to smile. Be kind and follow our dreams.

Sharpy
Editor