Chris Ward is going to be a Great World Champion
By Matt George
You learn a lot about a man when you are driving a small, curved needle into the inside of his cheek. Chris Ward had wiped out at Bingin on Bali and smashed himself up and now I was suturing him up … again. The first time I did it was two years previous at G-land where he was surfing with a broken and badly infected lower jar. This from a drunken brawl a few nights previous. I had given Chris enough morphine to kill a rhino and he still almost won our G-land contest.
One session and a few words with surfing’s favourite dissident.
By Ben Bugden
Like him or not, Noa Deane is a surfer who elicits an opinion. This is a good thing because it means, at the very least, he’s interesting enough to get a reaction; to get people talking, or for some, seething in vein-popping rage over two words and an acronym. More, in my opinion, than can be said for many in a sport that Noa sees as moving ever further away from its roots.
You’ll hear Christian Fletcher before you see him.
It’s not like he sneaks up on anybody.
And anytime he shows up, an ordinary day suddenly ends.
This time he’s tear-assing down crowded Poppies Lane, which is only about 12 feet wide and packed with vendors and holidaymakers. He’s doing about 60 clicks on his fire orange supercharged café racer with its bald back tyre and crappy front brakes. Where he found this bike is anybody’s guess. His helmet is a terrifying green full-face skull with Hindu symbols of perfection bleeding from the sides. The same symbols Hitler perverted into swastikas. The cops are in pursuit for the second time that day. Pub patrons roar as he blazes by, Balinese shopkeepers cheer. Two Aussie girls flash their breasts. He gears down, grabs an offered beer on the pass, kills it and tosses it over his shoulder. Avoiding a cringing dog, Christian gets a little out of shape and starts to wobble