Waimea Bay shore-break surfing pioneer, husband, and father of two, Clark Little has gained nationwide recognition for his photography with appearances on Good Morning America, Inside Edition, and many local news stations across the U.S.

Clark Little - The Legend Behind the Lens

Clark Little on Good Morning America (2009):

It all started in 2007 when Clark ’s wife wanted a nice piece of art to decorate a wall.

Voluntarily, Clark grabbed a camera, jumped in the water, and starting snapping away capturing the beauty and power of monstrous Hawaiian waves from the inside out.

” Clark ’s view” is a unique view of the ocean that most will only be able to experience safely on land while studying one of Clark ’s photos.

Now with a camera upgrade and an itch to get that better shot, Clark has taken this on full time and has moved his office from land, to the inside of a barrel.

Since the recent stir of Clark ’s work, his images have been run on the Today Show, ABC World News Now, Nature’s Best Photography, Paris Match (France), La Vie (France), Hana Hou (Hawaiian Airlines) magazine, Surfer magazine, Surfer’s Journal as well as multiple publishers and newspapers in the U.S. and overseas.

These incredible images of waves in the Hawaiian Islands were taken by Clark Little, the number one photographer of surf.

Sun Glints Off the Wave - by Clark Little

He is dedicated to photographing the waves and has published a selection of his best images.

He captures magical moments inside the tube as surfers say.

Sand in Surf - "Sand Monster" - by Clark Little

This shot captures sand from the ocean’s floor being swept up by a monstrous wave and resembles a sandstorm.

Little calls it the ‘Sandmonster’.

There were clouds of sand ten feet high and I’m standing there. I’m holding on to my camera and my trigger as long as I can. Then I have to jump into the cloud of sand to try to get out of danger’s way.

His fans pay as much as $4,000 for his gorgeous photos, (not surprising).

Tubular Shining - by Clark Little

Beach - Surf Crashes Down - by Clark Little

Molten Liquid Gold - by Clark Little

White Tumultous Water - by Clark Little

Splash - by Clark Little

This stunning shot really puts Clark’s work into perspective. You don’t really realise the calibre/size of these sledging shoreys until you see a human element in persepective. One has to wonder how many times Clark cops a serious flogging just to get that “perfect shot”. This dude is a legend at capturing the moment. Obviously he’s had some serious hold-downs/floggings in the past to have enough ‘kahunas’ to capture these, mind-bending, brilliant shots.

Red Mysterious Shot - by Clark Little

Wave Crashes Down - by Clark Little

Timeless Beauty - Water Drop Explosion - by Clark Little

This shot is his favorite.

With a high shutter speed he caught the brilliant fanned effect of two waves intersecting each other and throwing out this beautiful fan of water.

As you can see Clark has got this art dialed. I’ve been getting his artwork on the email numerous times over the year, it’s been in circulation for quite a while now, and I figured it’s most worthy of a post. MASSIVE RESPECT.

Pay homage to the man behind the lens, and visit his website:

Visit Clark Little’s Website & Portfolio

You won’t be disappointed. Shot by a true Surfer, for all Surfers and Non-Surfers out there. We love yer work Down Under Mate. Thanks Clark!

Imagine tackling the huge, frigid, cold waters of Antarctica, the “Unsurfed Continent.” On February 1, 2000, these eight intrepid surfers embarked upon a 24-day sailing expedition from the tip of South America to Antarctica’s South Shetland Islands, to surf waves where they originate. You can only try to imagine these highly-experienced surfers ride the icy waves of the Southern Ocean.

Here’s a great diary dialogue about a surfing mission to Antartica. Guaranteed to “put you there”.

WHITEOUT PART 4
Steve Hawk’s Antarctica Surf Journal (02/12-02/21, 2000)

EDITOR’S NOTE: Although this ambitious surf trip took place a couple years back, with the recent demise of Quokka.com — its original home — we figured it was time to bring it to Surfline where it belongs. Enjoy.

Feb. 12, 2000
4:30 p.m.
Between Liege and Brabant islands
S 64.08
W 61.12
Air temp: 38
Skies: low clouds, snow
Swell: flat, but we’re in a sheltered strait
Wind: none

Woke up to a 6-inch layer of snow on the boat, maybe a foot in the mountains of Deception Island. Peaks that had been black and unsightly when we arrived on Friday were suddenly white and picturesque. The little pointbreak at the mouth of the bay (the mouth is called Neptune’s Bellows) was now flat. Chris is not just the first person to surf it, but also the ONLY person to surf it. We think.

There’s a decaying whaling station on Deception Island, not far from the entrance, so we rode the Zodiac ashore and poked around. It looked and felt more like a petrochemical plant than a fish factory — a maze of rusting boilers, leperous oil tanks and decaying pipes. The buildings had eventually been turned over to researchers, but that all went to hell in 1969, when a volcano erupted just over the hill. The ensuing mudslide inundated the structures, and swallowed a nearby cemetary. Today it is a sad, lonely place of ugly intentions. Sedge likened it to a concentration camp for whales, but I think Kevin had the better analogy: it was a maritime gold rush. Greedy men rushed in, ripped up the landscape, extracted riches, denuded the resource, and moved on, leaving their gear behind to rot. There was one grave in the middle of the ghost buildings, marked by a single cross. A lonely place to die.

After the whaling station, we motored to the other side of the bay and jumped in the water in our trunks. Thermal upwellings combine with the cold Antarctic water to make for the strangest swimming experience of my life. Actually, “combine” is the wrong verb, because the different thermal layers don’t mingle. When I climbed off the boat and into the water, the shock took my breath away. The top four or five inches was super-heated, too hot for comfort, and below that, the temperature was in the 30s or 40s, too COLD for comfort. So I couldn’t decide if it was too hot or too cold. Both, I guess. The key was to find a spot near shore where the hot and cold mixed to Jacuzzi perfection. Once everyone got that wired, they lounged for an hour or so, lolling on the beach like fur seals, bright white flesh against black lava sand.

Before sunset we motored back to Neptune’s Bellows to check out the reef. Still flat, but lots of locals in the lineup. Must have been a dozen fur seals frolicking on the point. If there’d been waves, it would have taken nerves of steel to paddle out there alone, as Chris had the day before.

Another great dinner, at once tasty and hearty. Mutton from Jerome’s ranch with sweet potatos and kidney beans. Chocolate mousse for dessert. Kevin gave another talk, this time showing us how to care for lacerations in the wilderness. The most important thing, he said, is to clean it thoroughly, using clean water under pressure, flushing out germs and dirt with quarts and quarts of water. When it came time to close the wound, he demonstrated on the lamb shank, first anesthetizing a knife cut with a syringe, then stitching up the gash with a fish-hook shaped driver and nylon thread. Chris, Elisabeth and I got to practice our sutures. It was a bizarre scene: all of us leaning in close to watch him sew stitches in our leftovers. Jerome pretended to be appalled at the waste of good meat, but he was as attentive as anyone. (The next day, Jerome served the rest of the mutton for lunch. Dion got the unlucky slice, and had the thoroughly unpleasant experience of spitting out a mouthful of day-old sutures.)

At midnight, with little hope of finding surf at Deception anytime soon, Jerome fired up the motor and aimed the boat southwest, away from the South Shetlands and toward the continent itself. By dawn we were in heavy seas, bouncing around in bed, but by the time everyone emerged for breakfast, we’d made it to the smooth waters on the lee of Liege Island and the beginning of the Gerlache Strait. To the south we got our first good look at mainland Antarctica — an infinite expanse of white. There’s more ice in the water down here, bigger glaciers on the islands, more snow on the mountains. Jerome says it’s more “polar.”

Speaking of polar, we just had conflicting wildlife experiences within an hour of each other. The first was a series of close encounters with several pair of humpback whales. It’s been said a million times, but they truly are graceful, magnificent creatures. When they’d sound, showing their tails before diving deep, it looked like the world had switched to slow motion. It was definitely the biggest photo op of the trip so far. Brewer’s motordrive was smoking.

A few miles away, in the narrow passage between Liege and Brabant Islands, we came upon three leopard seals sleeping on a flat, table-top iceberg. Jerome pulled us in close, so we could get a good look. The seals craned their necks to watch us pass, and it was ghastly. They looked like legless velociraptors, like air-breathing moray eels, like giant snakes. I almost wish we hadn’t seen them so close. And I sure hope I don’t meet one face-to-face in the water.

– — – — – — – — – — – — – -

Feb. 15, 2000
10:30 a.m.
Dorian Bay, off Weincke Island
S 64.48
W 63.29
Air: 42
Skies: Cloudy
Swell: none

Just pulled anchor after a night in Dorian Bay, a secure, shallow mooring inside of Anvers Island. We’re on our way now to check out the swell-exposed coast of Anvers, which is only a few miles south. Haven’t been in near a potential surf spot for more than 24 hours now; spent all of yesterday on a scenic cruise through the still waters of Gerlache Strait. It’ll be good to feel the boat rock again.

– — – — – — – — – — – — – -

Feb. 15, 2000
4:30 p.m.
Bismarck Strait, off Anvers Island
S 64.50
W 64.09
Temperature: 34 F
Skies: Low clouds, hard snow
Wind: 15-20 knots from the east
Swell: 4-6 feet, choppy, gray, gloomy

Very bouncy seas right now considering all the islands and shoals around us that should be filtering out swell. We’re inching our way deeper into the Antarctic Peninsula, and it seems to me that the farther south we go, the more we reduce our chances of finding good surf. We haven’t seen anything approaching a rideable wave since we left Deception Island.

– — – — – — – — – — – — – -

Feb. 16, 2000
11 a.m.
Off Hovgaard Island, near Lemaire Strait
S 65.06
W 64.05
Temperature: 34 F
Skies: Low clouds, rain
Wind: 5 knots, from the north
Swell: calm

Yesterday, Tuesday, was without question the emotional lowpoint of the trip so far. Also the scariest.

We woke up in Dorian Bay, a few of miles from the swell-exposed coast along the southern end of Anvers Island. Dorian Bay is an enchanting, well-protected anchorage, with much to explore. We’d arrived there Monday afternoon, and spent most of the day poking around the shoreline. It’s the launching-off point for scientists working at the main British research base in Adelaide Island, 100 miles to the south. There’s a glacial airstrip over the hill, and a small but well-stocked living quarters a few hundred feet from the water. The building was unlocked, with a notice on an inside wall politely imploring visitors not to deplete the stock of food and fuel unless absolutely necessary for their survival. On the main table was a sign-in book that provides testimony to Antarctica’s increasing popularity as a tourist desination. The book dates back to the late ‘70s, and the early years feature only a handful of entries. The vast, vast majority of the entries were posted in the ‘90s — dozens this year alone. Two people had already written notes that very morning.

Kevin hiked alone along the narrow strip between the water and a glacier’s terminal face, about a half-mile from the Golden Fleece, to a spot where the ice looked stable enough to climb. He had his ice axes and crampons, and was in bad need of some exercise. The face was only about 50 feet high, and not quite vertical, so Kevin went up and down a few times. He would have continued on up the flat glacier to a nearby rock face, but the half-mile field of freshly fallen snow was undermined with crevasses. Chris and Keith motored over in the Zodiac to join him. Each took a crack at climbing the ice face. As we watched them from across the bay all I could think about was the likelihood of the face calving off and burying them all. When it comes to mountains and ice, my mind veers unwaveringly toward worst-case scenarios. They didn’t get crushed, of course, but instead returned to the boat beaming.

Mark and I hiked up and around the point, past several hills and coves covered with gentoo penguins. They are stately, peaceful little animals, but it’s hard to regard them as “cuddly.” Too much poop. Poop everywhere. Poop in their nests, poop in their feathers, poop on our boots. As we walked along the beach, some of them would panic and waddle into the water. Once afloat, they transformed from awkward walkers to fantastic swimmers, zipping through the shallows like little torpedoes.

It was one of the first times I’d been off the boat without a camera, unfettered by the duty to record everything I saw. After a half-hour or so, the clouds began to lift a bit, and suddenly we realized that what we’d thought were high clouds were actually the snowy ridges of Mt. Francais, almost 10,000 feet high.

As we walked along the beach, Mark and I had a long, quiet talk about the interpersonal dynamics aboard the Golden Fleece. A few of the relationships have strained to the breaking point, and the fact that I’m there with camera and computer, poised to record every embarrassing moment, only adds to tension. I know that the folks at Quokka would like to hear all about this melodrama, but I promised Doc wouldn’t go into details.

Monday night we celebrated Art’s 49th birthday. Edwin cooked a traditional Argentine barbecue called asado. We feasted like cavemen, gnawing at lamb chops without the civility of utensils, grease dripping into our sailors’ beards. Art seemed truly moved when Chris presented him with a handmade birthday card that featured many heartfelt messages from the rest of us.

The next day was a bad one. We left Dorian Bay early and headed out Bismarck Strait, on the swell-exposed northern side of Anvers Island. We’d come south down the sheltered, inland side of the island, through the scenic Gerlache Strait, and now wanted to see if Anvers actually had some surf spots on the side that faces the Southern Ocean. It was supposed to be, as Mark later put it, “a three-hour tour.” When we first came out to open ocean, the swell seemed solid and clean: long, organized lines moving through a 300-yard-wide strip of brash ice. But once again, unfortunately, the bottom contour was all wrong for surfing. Reefs and islands vaulted straight out of the sea, and the waves would surge weakly against them. Despite the swell, we didn’t see a single breaking wave. Jerome started to take us to Dream Island, where we would get our first look at at Adelaide penguins, but a storm blew in and our plans quickly changed.

For a year now I’d been hearing about how fast the weather can go bad in Antarctica. This was our first taste of it, and it was scary as hell. Even though we were a mile or two from the coast, with shoals and islands all around to filter out swell, the seas quickly grew wild, and the boat was bucking through waves as violently as it had all trip. The wind was blowing about 50 knots out of the east, with visibility down to about 200 yards through horizontal snow.

Jerome had planned to take us to a spot called Dream Island for our first look at Adelaide penguins, but the storm demanded a quick retreat to shelter. He swung the nose south and headed for the Dannenbrog Islands, which looked on the chart like a hellish collection of sea hazards. It turned out to be even worse than it looked, because soon we found ourselves in the middle of an iceberg maze, with no apparent escape. In the wheelhouse, the mood grew serious. Jerome slowed the boat to a crawl. The radar was rendered useless by chop and low ice, so Dion ran out to the bow to help navigate past the bergs. Elisabeth used the GPS to chart and update our position as precisely as possible, and read numbers aloud from the depth sounder. For an hour we veered through a labyrinth of icebergs, looking for a passage to open sea. Jerome steered us through a narrow passage between two bergs and suddenly realized we’d entered a cul-de-sac of ice. In howling winds, he turned the boat around with little room to spare. Ten minutes later we passed through a tight space between a berg a low island and into another dead-end. This time the turn-around space was even more limited, and as we exited Dion pointed out that the chute between the berg and the island had gotten narrower in the few minutes since we’d entered. If we’d lingered for too long in there, it might have pinched off and sealed us in for who knows how long.

Finally, Jerome found a slice of water leading to open ocean and made it to this anchorage near Hovgaard Island. Although no one had been outside more than a few minutes all day, we were all exhausted. Later, over dinner, Jerome conceded that the situation was about as serious as it gets: high wind, poor visibility, poorly charted shoals, islands, and lots of ice.

We had yet another tasty dinner of traditional French onion soup and pasta, then listened to a thorough and persuasive talk by Keith on how nutrition has been proven to prevent, or at least reduce the odds against getting, cancer. The message, in a nutshell: eat less saturated fat and refined sugar, and eat more vegetables, whole grains and legumes.

This morning we had our first spirited argument about the expedition’s itinerary. It seems to some of us — me included — that the farther farther south we go, the more we reduce our chances of finding good surf. We haven’t seen anything approaching a rideable wave since we left Deception Island four days ago. There is some talk about “southing” even more, down to Adelaide Island, below the Antarctic Circle, to the beginning of the pack ice. Sedge seems particularly interested in going below the circle. On the other side is Edwin, who argued vehemently that we should turn around immediately and head north, back to the South Shetlands — specifically to Harmony Point on Nelson Island, which most of us agree had the best overall surf potential of any place we’ve been. Most of the rest of us fall somewhere between.

My feeling is that the best chance we have of getting real surf is back in South America, specifically the area around Cape Horn. The few weather maps we’ve seen show that the fetches to the west of us are tossing swell up that way, not down here. Plus, it’ll be relatively warm — a toasty 40 degrees, maybe even warmer. I realize that it lacks the romantic appeal of surfing in Antarctica, but still . . . it IS Cape Horn. And at this point, I’d really like to get some good surf.

So, after much debate and examination of maps and discussion with Jerome, we’ve decided to spend another day down this way, doing the touristy things. After lunch, we’ll pull anchor and motor over to xx land, on the actual Antarctic Peninsula, so that we can set foot on the continent itself. Up to now, we’ve only been on offshore islands. After that, we’ll go to visit the only bar in Antarctica — a former British base now under Ukranian command. We’ll anchor near there for the night, then get up early tomorrow and pass through the Lemair Strait, which is said to be one of the most spectacular sights in all of Antarctica. And then we’ll head back north through the Gerlache Strait, back to the South Shetlands, maybe return to a couple of the places that we’ve already surfed, and wait to see what they do if we get some swell.

– — – — – — – — – — – — – -

Feb. 19, 2000
5:30 p.m.
Aboard the Golden Fleece, off Cape Garry on Low Island
S 63.21
W 62.10
Air: 40
Wind: 10 knots out of the north
Swell: 6 feet out of the southwest, clean

Tonight we will toast Mark Renneker, and Jerome Poncet. After three weeks of sailing around the Southern Ocean, bouncing through a hundred coves on dozens of islands along the Antarctic Peninsula, we found a good surf spot. A very good surf spot. A spot that would have had 50 surfers in the lineup if it were transplanted to Southern California.

It was on Low Island, a rarely visited, glacier-covered island at the southern end of the South Shetland Islands. We knew there was a lot of swell as we traveled northeast across open ocean from the protected waters near the peninsula. We cruised the southeast coast of Low, watching confused 8-foot waves slam into the coast. But we were heartened: Low is surrounded by a shallow plateau, and most of the waves we saw looked rideable, if disorganized. Mark called Jerome over the chart, and pointed to a cove on the southwestern corner of the island. “Can we look here?”

The cove turned out to be a near-perfect setup, a point/reefbreak righthander with a bowling takeoff and a long tapering shoulder. The sets were a few feet overhead. As the tide came in, it got bigger, close to double-overhead on a couple of the biggest sets. We all surfed for a couple of hours, almost in disbelief. Some of us had all but given up on the idea of finding real surf down here. We’d started off calling it the “unsurfed continent,” but Chris was starting to wonder if we should call it the “unsurfable continent.” But this was the real deal. It was the first time any of us actually focused on the waves themselves rather than the incredible scenery surrounding it.

So now we know: there’s legitimate, good surf in Antarctica. We’re going to anchor in a cove a few miles away, eat a huge dinner, and hope the swell and conditions hold until tomorrow morning, when we’ll go back and give it another go.

– — – — – — – — – — – — –

Feb. 21, 2000
7:30 a.m.
Aboard the Golden Fleece, off Cape Hooker, heading away from Low Island
S 63.40
W 62.40
Wind: 25 knots out of the southwest
Air: 38
Water: 33
Swell: none visible

Low Island is a forbidding and desolate place, yet we leave reluctantly.

Two days earlier, to everyone’s surprise except Mark Renneker’s, we’d found the best surf of the trip (so far) at a glacial moraine near Cape Garry, at the southwest tip of the island. Chris, Kevin, Keith and I tried to surf it again yesterday morning, but the wind was bad and it was more cold than fun. While the four of us surfed, Mark and Sedge lowered a thermometer into the water and came up with a reading of 33 degrees. One degree above freezing. Icy in the truest sense of the word. Of course, the day before, when the surf was pumping, we hardly noticed the cold.

After our aborted surf session, everyone on the boat went ashore at a peninsula a few miles east of the cape, into a loud, fecund thicket of wildlife. There are many places with many more animals throughout Antarctica, but to us it was a biological wonderland: thousands upon thousands of chinstrap penguins, and scores of fur seals and elephant seals. This was Jerome’s first visit to Low Island, so he seemed eager to hike around, take a quick census. When we got to shore, he immediately marched to the highest point of land, a craggy tower 250 yards inland, and started counting penguins. We check the surf; he counts birds. He estimated 100,000 mating pairs over the breadth of the peninsula: a honking, pungent landscape of feathers, feces and mud.

“There’s so much life here, it’s amazing,” I told Dion at one point. “And so much shit.”

“That’s how it works, I guess. You can’t have a lot of life without a lot of shit,” he said.

The elephant seals were a riot. These were adolescents. Huge, of course — almost full-grown — but wimps, like the fat kid who always got picked on at school. They slept on the beach squeezed together, a dozen or more, belly to back in tightly stacked rows. A piniped slumber party. When we’d approach, two or three would raise their heads and silently open their massive pink mouths, as if to fend us off with morning breath. If we got too close (and you can get really, really close to elephant seals, a couple of feet away), one would roar, and that would wake the others, and then there’d be a tumult of undulating fat as half of them fled in fear. The ones who stayed would open their mouths and breath at us, poised to flee if we got too close. One of them almost crushed half of Art’s camera gear while Art was shooting penguins a few feet away. The elephant seal was heading for the water, oblivious to the thousands of dollars of Canon equipment in his path. Art blocked the way and distracted the fleshy steamroller while Dion sneaked in and grabbed the gear.

We kept our distance from the fur seals. Even though they were peewees compared to the elephant seals, they would lunge at any person who got too close. They’re the kids who get in trouble for picking on the fat kids, punks with giant incisors. They didn’t mess with the elephant seals, though. (They may be punks, but they’re not stupid.) Instead, they practiced scrapping with each other in mock combat, or picked on the occasional penguin. I guess the term “picked on” doesn’t exactly describe what a fur seal does when it goes after a penguin. Late in the day, we watched in horror as a seal pup singled out a chinstrap for no apparent reason and tore it apart, tossing it around a near-shore lagoon like a cat with a half-dead mouse. As soon as the bird stopped moving, the seal swam our way, raised himself out of the water and looked directly at us, as if to say, “You want some of THAT?” Jerome says there’s a fur-seal breeding beach on South Georgia Island where he and his wife Sally once counted 90,000 females and about 1,000 males (nice ratio), and where the seals’ primary pastime appeared to be inflicting wounds on each other. It would have been suicide for a human to walk on that beach, he said. The madness of the sce
ne — thousands of seals ripping into each other’s flesh for the sake of territory and sex — raised one big question for him: why?

The penguins, meanwhile, gave new definition to the phrase “fouling your own nest.” They live and raise their young in vast mudflats of their own defecation. Our boots and pants were coated with the stuff, and the smell in some places was almost too much to bear. I felt terrible for one young chinstrap — half of him dressed in dignified black and white, the other half a goofy array of puffy gray down — who fled in front of me in fear, tripped on a rock and tumbled head-first into the stinking, clay-colored stew. He came up looking like a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone. On the windward side of the peninsula, across from where we’d anchored, Jerome spotted a place where the waves crashed against steep cliffs, and he took us there so we could watch the penguins jump out of the water and onto the rocks. It was a great show: the penguins would come streaking to shore, as fast and graceful as dolphins, then fling themselves stupidly onto the rocks, flopping about for a toe-hold, struggling to keep the retreating post-wave current from sucking them back to sea. From dolphin to dork in a single leap. Then they’d scramble above the water line, shake out the excess water — straightening their ties, as it were — and waddle proudly off to feed their young.

Right now we’re on our way to Snow Island, a four-hour ride to the northeast. After that, we’ll charge up to the area around Devil’s Reef, a weird, boil-ridden spot we surfed nine days ago between Rugged Island and Devils Point. Devil’s Reef wasn’t so great, but the area had a lot of potential and there wasn’t much swell when we first passed through. The ocean seems alive right now, so we’re hopeful. If neither place produces good waves, we might ask Jerome to point the boat north and take us back across the Drake Passage, toward Cape Horn. Toward home.

The last couple of days have been wonderful: good surf, uplifted spirits, funny stories at the dinner table…an overall sense of accomplishment. But man, do I miss my family. I can’t wait to kiss my wife again, and roll around on the floor with my boys. — Steve Hawk

Factor natural events like this, coupled with the effects of Global Warming, (that our scientists have officially grossly under estimated by the way), and the fact that history has seen such vast weather undulations in the past, this poses a serious threat to many seaside dwellers. The only upside as a surfer, is the possibility of new banks. (Wrong, I know… but can you blame me for looking at the brighter side?).

Check it out, time vs erosion factor:

There’s also a sucky reef ledge off the point where the pool is located. This is popular with body boarders, and surfers trying to ditch the crowds, willing to take off as early as they can and make the shoulder. When big, this wave can smash you if you get caught inside. You can see the reef as it sucks up.

Here’s some footage of North Narrabeen firing during the Billabong World Junior Pro held in 2008. Enjoy…

Here’s some locals having some fun on a smaller day. This is mid-north Narrabeen beach. The waves aren’t really firing, but the lad is having a ball with some pocket action. Nice small clean lips. (Check out the South Narrabeen section if you’re into heaving tow-in action).

The break is not that dis-similar to Shipwrecks, albeit, Shippies has much knarlier step sections and boils to navigate. You really have to have sound wave selection and judgement, not to mention serious balls and fitness levels, to take on waves of this stature.

Serious risk, serious reward. Check out the footage below:

There are 3 main zones for take-off, and there are some shifty random spots throughout with fun sections pending on swell stacking and direction. As the swell wraps around the island, it breaks from the inside all the way down the line. Most prefer to sit out further down the line, toward the channel where the swell has had a chance to glass-off as it escapes the wind from the other side of the island. The take off is generally cleaner and more consistent by this stage. You can take-off right under the cliffs, but the swell has to stack and groom right for you to make it. Sometimes you can race around the smashing lip or float over the section. Then there are times when you get caught out on the churning face, as you’re digging the rail in and copping a walloping from the lip as it desimates your stance and sends you ass-over-tit into a rabid washing machine and snaps your legrope. Meanwhile you get sucked down the line, fast,  into shallower, and shallower sharp reef with the swell just closing out on you and pumping you into the reef, then dragging your ass across sharp reef and battering your board, which has by now dissapeared way down the line, till you manage to escape to the channel.

Surfing Rock Island

When this place fires, it’s off-chops. Even on an average day you get rides that just keep reforming and throwing fast, sucky sections at you, before walling up again for a few slashes. Then you get the rogue bumper set that comes through every 4-5 sets and just takes the whole line-up out. Motherload-warehouse-clearance. You can either dive deep, real deep, or if you think you can make it, even when you really know you won’t, simply turn and charge. It’s worth the drop even if you do get smashed….and when you land it you’re totally stoked as it just racks up down the line…so whackable.