The Cradle of Storms — PART 1

The Cradle of Storms — Part 1
Words and Film Ben Weiland // DP Chris Burkard
Edited by Bryce Lowe-White

***

Our plane had stopped in a small Alaskan fishing port, en route to a remote island in the Aleutian archipelago. Alex Gray, Pete Devries, Josh Mulcoy, Chris Burkard, and I knew very little about our destination, but were eager to discover new waves and learn about a coastline devoid of surf cams and reports. We weren’t asking for much—only for the weather to cooperate. But we already had other problems.

“Where is our food?” Chris yelled over the sound of propellers. We stood on wet tarmac and stared into the cargo hold of our prop plane, the whole thing no bigger than a school bus. Boardbags filled the fuselage, padded by heavy-weather armor—waterproof backpacks, 6mm wetsuits, rain suits, goggles, gloves, and gum boots. It was all there, except our food, which was nowhere to be seen.

Only eight people lived on the island we were headed to, so our crew would almost double the population. It would have been more than rude of us to show up without bringing anything to eat. There was no gas station, no police station, no cellular reception, no supermarket, no school, no hospital, and not a single paved road. Our visit required a permit, and the few weeks before winter was the only time we could get one.

As we headed toward the airline’s office to resolve the food situation, Alex meandered around the complex. He spotted a blinking “OPEN” sign hanging in one of the windows and remembered someone telling him that the bars here were for drinking and fighting. The town was an outpost for dangerous jobs and fast cash.

He opened the door and stares from the patrons landed on him like fists. Trying to look at ease, he took a seat between two fishermen, one broad and scowling, the other tired-looking and unshaven. He ordered a beer and asked the men if they lived on the island.

“Hell no,” one of them scoffed. “I’m just here to fish.”

“I’m here to surf,” Alex declared.

The man’s eyes grew wide.

“Good luck,” he said.

Just as the beer arrived, Chris appeared in the doorway and waved Alex over. It was already time to leave.

As we hurriedly squeezed into the plane, Chris explained that the cargo company hadn’t loaded half of our food, and that they would try to fly it out at a later date. They just couldn’t say exactly when that would be.

The pilot sealed the hatch behind us. He took a seat up front and began flicking switches and turning dials. As the propellers began to turn, he leaned over his armrest and looked back at us. “You’ll wanna tighten your seat belts,” he said. “It’s the only thing that’ll keep you in your seat. The winds are up…and uh…we’re gonna experience some negative G’s.”

The propeller’s pitch climbed to a scream and we were up in the air again, streaking through fjords and passing waterfalls that plunged hundreds of feet into the ocean. The plane shuddered, then dropped, then scooped back up, and repeated the sequence. Suddenly, a new island appeared through the cockpit window, a dark wedge that rose into the clouds.

***

Go to Surfer.com for the latest daily videos, photos, stories, news and more: http://www.surfer.com/

Like Surfer on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/surfer

Latest photos and breaking news on https://www.instagram.com/surfer_magazine

Latest videos at: https://www.instagram.com/SURFERfilms

Tweet at Surfer: https://twitter.com/SURFER_Magazine

Видео The Cradle of Storms — PART 1 канала SURFER