This is a story about being a 'real' surfer. It's about the myth of adventure travel perpetuated by surf videos and magazine photo shoots. It's about how by being 'pro' our heroes sacrifice one of the core experiences of being a surfer. It's about how no matter how much you respect the legendary surfer 'X', you, the humble normal person can, with a bit of guts and brains, experience surfing truths they will never be able to attain. It's about one of the last things left to us as surfers that makes us real, unique, separate from the global forces of marketing and money.

It's about the road.

Like Hollywood stars, the pros do a deal with the devil. I'll give you fame and fortune you give me your soul. Take Brad Pitt, he can't go shopping, can't slip down to the beach for an afternoon surf check, can't hit the pub with his mates on a Friday night, can't live like you or I. And yes, he's got millions of dollars in exchange for that, but in the post Diana world what's it worth when you're freaking for the safety of your kids everyday and wondering who's got a telephoto aiming at you through the bushes?

Sure, the modern pro surfer doesn't have it that heavy, but they do make a similar sacrifice. They have to go in contests, they have to fulfill sponsorship commitments, and they have a degree of fame within the surfing world.

If they go on a surf trip it's a fully organized two-week jaunt to some spot with photographers in tow. Mostly it's on a commercially available surf charter. Ring the number at the end of the article and you too can get these barrels.

They blaze in, rip the crap out of it, briefly reflect on life with a sunset beer then five days later it's back on the plane to the next 'connest'. Who's with them? A couple of other pros who they know, a photographer and journo they know, probably a skipper they know from the last trip. You've seen the videos -- too many times -- you know exactly what it's like.

And for the pros on those trips there's really no alternative if they want to continue pursuing their careers. Only the odd maverick bucks the system -- maybe a Jim Banks in the late 20th century, a Timmy Turner in the 21st.

The point is this: their surfing career denies them one of the deepest, coolest most different experiences that surfing offers. An experience that the 'average' surfer has at their fingertips.

Pro surfers do an awful lot moving -- not a lot of traveling. Can they ever experience the deeper feeling of surf travel? What are they missing?

Travel is more than just surf camps and yacht charters and -- brace yourself -- it's about more than scoring perfect surf.

Travel is pitching in with your mates to buy a rusting VW Bus and doing six months through Europe. Winding up on the dusty headland at a Moroccan pointbreak, swapping well-worn road yarns with an international tribe of nomad surfers -- new friends you'll carry for life. It's feeling the emotions of the long journey, wondering how far your cash will last, hoping your gun won't snap, pissed that the holes in your wetsuit are letting in more of the icy Atlantic in each day, and dreaming of returning to a cool little town outside Mundaka where the girls go mad on Saturday nights.

Real travel is settling in a foreign country for a few months, learning the language, getting in touch with the customs, becoming a weird part of the everyday village life. It's surfing the same perfect reef for so long your affinity with its moods becomes almost mystical.

The road is fear. Being sick and scared. Dealing with the horrors of third world doctors and hospitals. Making a desperate 3am phone call to someone's doctor brother to work out why your pissing blood all the time. Wondering if you'll die there. Panicking as another wave of fever engulfs your weakened body.

It's frustration. The twisting metal in your guts when you know there's a good wave somewhere over that hill but the shonky piece of local transport you chose has dumped you somewhere else. You're sitting beside a lonely road with this stupidly large piece of baggage and starting to wonder if your gonna punch your mate out if he says one more bloody thing about 'why didn't we get the other bus' and just staring hard at this weird three square inches of foreign soil near your big toe while a voice deep inside you is just yelling... faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrkkkkkkk this!!!!!!!!!!!

Real travel is discovering a new spot. Going on a hunch and a bit of dodgy info overheard in a bar. Journeying for days, slowly winding along different coastlines with strange maps and weather reports drifting through your consciousness. Critical shreds of language practiced for the interrogation of innocent fishermen: Strong wind? East or West? Which month? Big waves? From where?

Then as you near the goal, the final negotiations. Tricky deals in a foreign tongue: Can we rent your boat? Where is the head of the village? We want to ride the waves on that island. Can you come back and pick us up on this day? Feeling the fragility of a tiny canoe in the wide ocean, the fear of being so far from help. The joy of resting your aching body under a shady tree and watching your mate pull in to another perfect barrel. Hooting while you remember the weird bus rides, kooky locals, squalid mattresses, and bizarre food you endured and enjoyed on the journey to that one stunningly pure moment in your life.

Travel is real. In this world where the image of our lifestyle is refracted through a million marketing mirrors it's the place where we get back to our roots. You don't need a trademarked look to go on the road, you need a ticket, a board, an open set of eyes and a good pair of boots.

The truth of travel is the journey. The pain, the anticipation, the accidental adventure -- these feed the final reward. Sure, a stand up tube is a stand up tube, but as you slide casually off the back of the wave and into the warm blue glass of the channel . . . what got you there? What did you learn on the way?

You're not famous, you're not being paid to be there, you're free. You're very, very lucky. --Andrew Farrell



(*In addition to having been editor of Australia's Surfing Life magazine, Andrew Farrell has pulled into stand-up tubes all over the world, both with pros and photogs in tow and with only a camel to see the spit. Based in Sydney, he just endured the worst summer/early fall in NorCal surf history while working on the TV show Mythbusters and looks forward to finally scoring as November kicks in.)

All photos copyright Marcus Sanders