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One of our favorite contributors Sera Lindsey is planning an adventure to reconnect with her Moroccan cultural heritage and is looking for a little help from people like you. You've probably "liked" countless photos and stories by her in our magazine, but her personal journey is far more interesting. Head over to her profile page for more info and help out if you can.
Photos by Kat Carney // @katcarney
Interview by Justin “Scrappers” Morrison // @scrappers
Featuring Textured Waves Community Members // @texturedwaves
Chelsea Woody // @chel.bythe.sea
Danielle Black Lyons // @salty_sol
Gigi Lucas // @living_inthelight
Martina Duran // @duranmc
“My beach! My chicks! My waves! Go home! Go home!”
-Surf Punks, from their 1977 tape My Beach.
Growing up as a “Valley Kid” in Burbank, California, I so desperately wanted to be a surfer, so I dressed the part. Using white foamy mousse, I styled my blond hair into a curling wave. Back to school clothes came from Val Surf: Jimmy Z velcro pants, Hobie surfasaurus T-shirts, and T&C stickers for my Trapper Keeper. I watched North Shore countless times to learn the walk and talk. The secret surfer gang sign became all mine. “Shaka, broh-ther.” The soundtrack for my whole vibe came from a tape by the Surf Punks. They rhymed “tubes” with “boobs” and they taught me surf culture. When I finally got a surfboard the reality of my fake surfy identity melted like a sand castle against the waves.
On the elementary school playground, I could walk and talk like a surfer, but in the water I was 100 percent pure, unrefined kook. The kind locals tell scary stories about while warming feet by driftwood fires. It wasn’t until I grew out of my fake surfer phase and moved north to Oregon that I actually began surfing and seeing the truth about surf culture. The dominant narrative of checking out teenage girls, chugging brews, and having radical tube rides was sold to me from the surf industry by old white men. The truth I found out in Oregon’s cold water was about picking berries on the hike in, the magic of Canadian wool, and that we all look the same in black hooded wetsuits. Surfing strips me of all the decorative nonsense I surround myself with—so I can stand up solid with pure intentions and ride waves of natural freedom.
Surf culture as it was sold to me was not the truth. Culture is fluid like the water it grows around; it’s not up to an industry dominated by old white men to define. Culture is up to each of us to define.
People of color in the States face more obstacles than a white boy from the Valley like me, but in finding our separate paths to the water, we found culture. The women of Textured Waves are redefining surf culture. Their perspective isn’t what we see printed in surf magazines or sold in surf shops, but it’s a truth we should all welcome and encourage if we want to elevate the surf culture conversation. I asked Textured Waves a couple questions and realized very quickly that we might come from different backgrounds, but we all get in the water for the same reasons.
Danielle Black Lyons // I feel deeply connected to the sea. After dropping my son at school, riding waves is how I start my days. It gives me creative inspiration and sets the mood for the day ahead.
Chelsea Woody // Surfing is my baptism. I have a stressful day job working in healthcare and it’s so important for me to plunge into the ocean and wash off all the trauma and stress of my day.
Martina Duran // Surfing is my grounding activity. It is how I release the negative, but also how I release the ego. It brings me back to center my thoughts for the remainder of the day.
Gigi Lucas // I surf because it reconnects me to a place that grounds me and frees my mind.
Danielle- Surfing has molded me into this shiny version of myself that I didn’t know existed. I am more tolerant, kind, and creative when I start my days with a surf. It’s a noticeable difference when I haven’t surfed. It’s like how some people rely on that morning cup of coffee to get them through their day. Surfing is my cup of coffee!
Chelsea // Surfing has allowed me to see the world through a different lens and express myself in various creative ways. The ocean has taught me so many lessons in patience, perseverance, persistence, and self acceptance.
Martina // As someone who suffered a seven-year battle with depression, surfing was the activity that pulled me out of the dark. It was at times the only thing that gave me light. The ocean has taught me the purest form of acceptance. It allows all forms of energy to roll through her without changing its permanent mold. I used to think that the ocean “washed away” my problems, but now I know she has taught me to accept them and let the world roll through me without changing who I am. I keep true to myself because the ocean has shown me that for every storm I may have to weather, there will be twice as many sunsets. And accepting both equally is the true definition of grace, power, beauty, and peace.
Gigi // I call surfing my type A personality therapy. Surfing is constantly teaching me to surrender and remain present, which is completely contradictory to my innate behavior.
Danielle // I have always been a waterwoman growing up in northern California. It was a natural next step in my journey when I was visiting a friend in Hawai’i and she let me borrow her longboard. Everything just clicked and I knew I was meant to ride waves.
Chelsea // I haven’t been surfing for a very long time—I only started about four years ago at the age of 30. My husband and I were on a year and a half sabbatical from work and one of my goals was to learn to surf. We planted ourselves in Indonesia for a couple of months and taught ourselves to surf.
Martina // I took my first lesson while spending a semester in Costa Rica for a study abroad program in college many years ago. I further honed my skills while living in Florida and continue to grow in my surfing journey here in Hawai’i.
Gigi // Surfing has always been on my “learn-to-do” list. So when the opportunity presented itself to move to a locale where I could literally design my day around swells and tides, I jumped on it.
Culturally, in America it’s not a sport that has been nourished in the African American community. There have been a select few influential African American surfers, but somehow their stories seem to get overlooked. Surfing is a sport that is passed down through generational exposure—that coupled with our limited access to water that dates back all the way to slavery times. There are key points in history that held black folks back from their potential as waterwomen and men such as Jim Crow laws, the segregated pools and beaches of the 60s, and specifically for African American women, societal pressures imposed on us to maintain unrealistic standards of beauty. As time goes on, oppression is adopted as culture and we find generational gaps in aquatic arenas. African American women have an especially complicated relationship with water due to fear of repercussions for their hair, another type of eurocentric bondage to unpack.
There are still no professional African Americans on the World Surf League or professional circuits, and it’s important that we analyze what those barriers might be. Lack of representation and feelings of otherness can make it hard to enter surf culture. Surfing professionally still requires somewhat of a leisurely lifestyle, and if your folks aren’t financially able to afford to send you into the competitive world then that makes it difficult. There’s a lack of sponsorship to infiltrate and influence change in the mainstream surf industry. Also, entering a surf culture that for nearly 70 years remained so tightly-knit is intimidating. Localism at surf spots is hard to penetrate, especially when much of the rhetoric behind localism is reminiscent of that of the Jim Crow era mentality. For example: “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here.”
In American coastal towns, there is often a lack of diversity. To be good at surfing, daily exposure is necessary. So people of color tend to stick out like a sore thumb and that comes with a lot of curiosity. People are mostly kind and welcoming once they’ve seen you a few times, but we still get a lot of long looks in the lineup. Some people have never seen a black surfer and there is a sense of having to be an ambassador of your people and proving that you deserve to be there.
Wave riding is indigenous in its roots; Hawaiians brought surfing to the masses. White Americans took this sport of kings and made it mainstream.
A great majority of people still associate surfing as being for white males only. This is reinforced due to the saturation of surf films, advertisements and photography focusing on that culture and dominating the media. Textured Waves’ mission is to smash that dated narrative and turn it on its head.
We hope future generations feel more comfortable in outdoor and aquatic spaces and don’t question their place in the lineup. We would love to see groms ripping on the professional circuits, perhaps the first Serena Williams of surfing.
As far as journalism goes, it’s important that surf trades, organizations, and media outlets do their research. So much of the attention focused on black surfing is negative and clickbait material that contributes to the stereotypes that many of us are working hard to tear down.
We can’t change anything if we aren’t allowed in the door. Every person can be a bit more kind when they see a new face in the lineup and try and have some empathy. After all, it is a privilege to grow up feeling comfortable in the ocean.
The ocean does not belong to one person or one group.
Story by Lexi Smith & Cody Cheng // @dynamoultima
Photos by Suzie Gotis // @suziegotis
For some, driving seven hours to a remote area seems like an impossible feat, especially if you’re camping. There’s a lot of setting up to be done and many precautions to make. But a van can make the adventure much more feasible. All we needed to do was pack was ourselves, some beer, and snacks, then hop in and go.
On our drive, we were greeted by a beautiful mountain range. We’ve lived in Oregon the last 28 years, but were shocked to have never heard of the Steens Mountain range.
We continued down a long, remote dirt road where stillness and quietness filled our souls. Remote places allow us time to stop, time to live in the moment, time to leave our worries behind. We’re encouraged, in such spaces, to put our phones down and bear witness to this giant explorable earth which surrounds us.
Arriving at the Alvord Hot Spring, we met the amazing family taking care of the campground. We connected instantly as they toured our van. Driving down to check out the playa, we were blown away that we were still even in Oregon.
The playa went on beyond forever, moving around the desert with the flow of the wind. We brought kayaks but quickly discovered the lake was a mere couple of inches deep. But our fun couldn’t be stopped!
We spent the next few days running around the playa, spending hours in hot springs, and catching mosquito bites hiking in the Steens.
The last night, in the hot spring, someone mentioned that a meteor shower was happening. Being in the middle of nowhere during a new moon was the perfect opportunity to stargaze. We ran to the middle of the playa beneath the darkness. We played Hans Zimmer instrumentals. We sprawled out in a circle, looking to the sky, our heads touching one another.
This was a moment to cherish, one that a camera phone could never capture. I now believe the most beautiful moments are happening right in front of us, that we need to give ourselves time to take it in and just BE.
Back at our campsite, we packed up all of our things slowly, dragging with the sadness of this epic weekend’s end. That is until someone put on the song “Break Free” by Queen. We started dancing and running around the desert, breaking free from the expectations, worries, and stresses weighing us down. We cherished the moment one last time.
This adventure was made with Keen // keenfootwear.com
Story by Cameron Vigliotta // cameronvigliotta.com
Photos by Anthony Aquino // @anthony__aquino
In time, he finished the tedious job and handed me the Leatherman, instructing me to tuck it back into its case. I felt its cold, stainless steel build pass through my weeny hands as I studied the characters on its surface. Ruler markings lined its edges. “Leatherman Tool” was engraved on the side. Hesitantly, I placed it in the kitchen junk drawer amongst an assortment of tools and clutter; it was the very same catchall junk drawer that occupies space in most every American kitchen.
Years passed on and still my father’s Leatherman somehow managed to stick around. It was always rather loyal in that way. As his birthday approached only days beyond the new year, I strategized excitedly with my mother to buy him a new one. We sifted through the company’s multitool inventory before appointing the Leatherman Blast to become his latest everyday assistant.
When the big day finally arrived, I handed him the new tool in its hallmark leather case. It was a serious upgrade over the previous model he’d used for so long, the Leatherman PST—the original Leatherman Pocket Survival Tool. I found myself excited by the notion that he’d have a new tool in his life, another everyday instrument that was sure to last a lifetime. Secretly, I found myself more excited knowing I’d inherit his old Leatherman.
And soon after, I did.
This reads like the story of so many that choose to welcome Leatherman into their lives. The narrative always manages to evoke the notion of heritage, family, and, perhaps, humble beginnings. I discovered Leatherman because someone else had one in their hands. And quickly I realized that I wanted one too, as so many of us do.
I think of that peculiarity as I sit across the room from Adam Lazenby, Leatherman’s head designer. In his hand is a gadget released only months ago as part of the company’s newfound multitool collection, the Leatherman Free series. Nine Free multitools have made the cut under his inquisitive eye. I notice the tool in his hand and again grow transfixed, just as I had so long ago.
“It starts to feel like my hand is better than it was before because it’s so effortless,” Lazenby says. “The whole thing is much more ergonomic.” In his hand, a Leatherman Free progresses through a series of clicks and snaps, each one firm and comforting as tools lock into place. The Leatherman moves with such ease and freedom that a quick glance might lead one to assume he’s fiddling with nothing more than a metallic fidget spinner. “If we can create a tool that is pleasant enough to touch that people will just naturally start playing with it, then we know we have succeeded,” he confirms.
But a single word from the, ahem, unfolding conversation seems to resonate with Lazenby more so than any other: freedom. I say that because Lazenby prides himself on freedom. At 36 years old, he lives with his family on a sailboat and bicycles to work each day, all in rather modest fashion. It’s a lifestyle he’s chosen to lead for a few years now.
Before buying the boat, he and his partner lived life in a van. They did so if only to enjoy the present moment, and the moments to come. “We wanted to save money in a way that guaranteed adventure,” he says. “We really enjoyed that easygoing, free lifestyle of ‘if you want to have fun, just go.’”
When asked how he defines freedom, Lazenby pauses. I can see the gears turning as he ponders, searching for a simple response.“Freedom is being able to go until you choose to stop,” he answers rather stoically. “Choosing when and where to have an adventure without being hampered by logistics—that we can just up and go—there’s something incredibly beautiful about that.”
Perhaps only more compelling than Lazenby’s personal life is a lineage that can be traced from his perception of freedom to that of the Leatherman Free series, a project that took five years to bring to market. While the original Leatherman was famous for its butterfly design, everything you needed was on the inside, stowed away in hiding. With the Free series, tools now face out, removing the need to open the Leatherman simply to access one. With the flick of a thumb or push of a metal release, most any tool can now be opened with one hand, even without a fingernail. “When you have a problem, you can fix it,” Lazenby said. “There’s very little holding you back. It’s just right there, ready to go.”
I walk down the hall towards a room nicknamed “the torture chamber.” Leatherman’s headquarters evoke a similar notion of freedom, simplicity, and small beginnings. Located unassumingly in Portland, Oregon, the company both designs and manufactures every Leatherman tool here from start to finish. Around the workplace, desks are covered in assortments of tools, both constructed and deconstructed. Some workbenches resemble Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory bench over that of a modern day engineer’s. Parts from various Leatherman products are scattered in seemingly randomized fashion.
As we enter the product testing space, the rhythmic sound of pneumatic motors provides a soothing white-noise backdrop. Blades open and close thousands of times as engineers test the breaking point of every tool in every possible manner. A composite glass chamber that houses a hydraulic press is covered in scratches and nicks from Leatherman tools that are squeezed to the point of explosion. An oxidation rig exposes tools to years of moisture damage in a matter of hours or days. And buckets of defeated parts closely resemble a graveyard of tools that made the sacrifice to whatever better innovations come next.
The sophisticated equipment dispersed throughout the open room captures the transformation of the Leatherman brand. When the company’s founder, Tim Leatherman, launched the first Leatherman tool in 1983, he did so with far simpler intentions. “There were often times where a pocket knife wasn’t quite adequate, and I also needed a pair of pliers,” recalls Tim. “I was jotting down notes, and one of the notes in essence said, ‘Add pliers to a pocket knife.’” And so he did.
Tim is what one might consider the quintessence of small beginnings. An easygoing man, he evokes memories of your high school shop teacher. Wiry frames rest on his nose while he sports a collared, button-down shirt that serves equal parts presentability and function—in most instances, the top button is undone. Perhaps a pen or two emerge from his breast pocket while grey corduroy pants are held up by a belt with holsters; in one is a flashlight, and in the other his titanium Leatherman.
His original idea for a multitool design stemmed from a cross-country road trip through Europe and the Middle East that was highlighted by repair sessions on a rundown 1969 Fiat 600. After realizing his pocket knife lacked a pair of much-needed pliers, Tim returned to Portland, Oregon where he took eight years to produce the very first Leatherman tool in his garage. Despite initial hesitation from most every knife and tool catalog in the country, Tim was soon filling orders for 500, 750, and even 1,000 Leatherman PSTs per week.
Back in the “torture chamber,” Tim cuts a seatbelt with one of the Leatherman brand’s many tools. As it turns out, the device has saved countless lives from car crashes, and the company therefore needs to ensure its life-saving duties.
Tim goes on to perform his signature test as he removes a business card from his pocket. With the wire cutters from his Leatherman, Tim makes a few cuts in the edge of the paper card, illustrating the tool’s precision. But then he goes a few steps further, inserting a 12-gauge nail into the wire cutters before clamping down until the nail cuts cleanly in half. He performs this test around the world with his personal Leatherman, and does so without fail.
Beyond the testing room, Tim provides a tour of the manufacturing floor. What starts as a spool of steel from a mill in Ohio becomes the very multitool that rests on his hip. Each step of the production process is treated like a small business in which utilizing the very best materials translates to a purposeful tool for the customer. Everything is constructed with trust and pride in this space.
On a separate rack of the production floor sit the many die castings that form each and every Leatherman tool SKU. Equivalent in price to that of a car, each individual die is far more valuable than one might assume upon first glance; Tim aptly named the huge rack of dies his “parking garage.”
The production process on the floor feels rather human. Leatherman takes pride in employing American workers to produce their tools rather than relying entirely on automation that continues to phase out jobs. The company has instead expanded as new positions become available—a rarity in modern American manufacturing. “I’m really proud of the jobs created as a result of the success of Leatherman tool,” notes Tim. “That’s probably, to me, my greatest legacy, the jobs created here in Portland, Oregon.”
And while one might assume the factory floor would be a scene of lumbering men in flannels and Carhartts that just returned from a night’s stay in the Mt. Hood National Forest, in fact it is anything but. Instead, everyone from each walk of life is present and accounted for. Oddly enough, it all feels a bit like family.
As we prepare to leave, Tim reveals a dremel tool and signs our various Leatherman that we’d brought along for the journey—the one my father handed down to me included. Afterwards he places the dremel tool into a homemade sheath, fashioned out of an old toothpaste container. In time, we say our goodbyes.
There’s something about that single gesture that encapsulates the Leatherman brand so well.
Leatherman’s worldwide success is a product of the greatest multitooled minds that work together with a sense of humble passion. The company, no matter how much they may grow, remains small at heart in a location nestled discreetly along the Columbia River. The Leatherman is a symbol of Americana, that rare functional object passed down from father to son, and so on. It’s the tool that’s made appearances in the X Files, Speed, The Hurt Locker, and other Hollywood blockbusters. It’s also the same tool that millions of us carry and put to use every single day.
Perhaps 15 years have passed since my father’s Leatherman PST came into my possession, and still it remains close by. So close, in fact, that I could blindly unzip a small pocket on my backpack with the flick of two fingers to unveil it once again. As I upgrade my Leatherman multitool to something a little more modern, the old one passed down by my father sits on a shelf for display. Rest assured, a day will come when it’s needed once again. And when that day comes, it will always be ready, leaving nothing undone.
