SOUTH EAST QLD surf, music, style, enviro & Politik

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Adventure - page 3

What really happened to little Jimmy?



“Murmurs of empty point breaks that rolled for a mile, of big dark shadows in the water and a few shredding locals who, whilst detached from the mainstream world, were firmly glued to the place here and didn’t like to share. Busting heads was as commonplace as busting fins out in Margaritas.”

EXTRACT FROM ISSUE #2 – In A Town Called Margaritas

The allure, the danger, the risk and the reward – exotic surf junkets to unexplored foreign lands with just your passport, board and a few pesos can deliver you waves and waters of untold perfection, or land you in the fiery centre of your worst nightmare. Chase the sun, pay the bribes, sketch some maps, dodge the diseases, side step the drug cartels, pickpockets and nasty food, and then seek out the farthest reaches. It’s a pirates life without the chest-of-gold price tag, and you might just score some of this!

Exotic locations on a shoestring budget – Little Jimmy’s photos were lucky to make it out of there

‘Drop everything, pack your bags grommet, and get the f#@k out of here!’- we had grabbed the nearest intern by the ear and fired a finger blindly at the world map. Wherever it landed, that was where he was going. With a couple of cheap lenses in hand, his solitary mission was to find a tiny surf town and assemble a killer photo spread. Not wanting to make it easy, we gave him 50 bucks, two bottles of bath-tub tequila, a map drawn on a piece of bark and just eight days on the ground to not piss the locals off – to get in and get out with his stash of imagery gold whilst trying not to get killed by the red-eyed revolutionaries.

Dangerous breaks, hostile locals, swirling currents and sheer cliff faces – but is the risk really worth it?

His airfare was … well, we made it the cheapest and nastiest ticket we could find online, there’d be no meal service on this rivet-less flying boat and malaria shots were at the intern’s discretion – as too the insurance. The hours turned into days and we began to doubt our judgement here. The only phone calls we had received were a flurry of frantic communicates from his grief-stricken parents, wondering why little Jimmy didn’t make it home last Friday – oh shit, what had we done?

Finally the wireless spun up a jingle, on the end was a scratchy voice, segmented and popping, and all we caught was – ‘It’s cracking here, the tequila just keeps coming, and the waves too, it’s off the charts good! I’m in some shit hole called Margaritas’. The line went dead and a calm and silent moment filled the room. At least he’s not in prison, we thought …



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