Step One: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable.”

Rob Brown needed a drink. Blazing down I-40 from Raleigh-Durham International Airport, the Wrightsville Beach local had just punctuated the most fruitful year of his pro surfing career — which included a promising new contract with Zoo York; an Eastern Surf Supply/ ESPN.com trip to Australia with “The Good Times Are Thrilling Me” webisode videographer Jerry Ricciotti and surf/skate cross-thrashers Aron Gieger, Mike Morrissey, and Cheyne Magnusson; ample Hurricane Season exposure from the Panhandle to North Carolina in ESM, The Surfer’s Path, and Surfline; and a high-profile trip to a deadly Northwest slab for ESM and The Los Angeles Times — with another epic winter on the North Shore, which emblazoned him on the cover of Wrightsville rag Local Sessions. Now all Rob needed was a cold beer at his beloved King Neptune Bar to wash down all the success. “All the boys will be there,” he thought, “The Mayor [Jon Gilleland] just got back from Indo, the chicks will be firing... only an hour and a half to go!” That’s when it happened — flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror. Rob explained to the officer that he had just flown in from Hawaii and needed to make it to the bar before last call. To which the cop smirked and handed him a speeding and reckless driving ticket for going 92 mph in a 70. But he took the fine in stride, knowing Eastern Surf Supply (ESS) owner Reggie Barnes’ righthand man, Subhan Anwari, was arranging a trip to Nicaragua for Rob and his buddies. “Besides,” Rob said, “I still made it to Neptune’s with 45 minutes to spare.”

Step Two: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”

Everyone in town refers to Jon Gilleland as “The Mayor.” Not because he’s so gregarious and loyal to the New Hanover County community — which he is. Not because the former Podium Distribution East Coast Surf Team Manager organized so many surf-centric ragers and benefit events along the Carolina coast — which he has. It’s because Wrightsville Beach/ Wilmington is as famous for its Surftopia appeal as it is for its Port City charm, thriving music/ art scene, and UNCW campus. Thus, the place attracts young adults like fungus to a dorm room. And after any given weekend here, come Monday morning when hundreds are doing the walk of shame out of town to avoid having to explain themselves, trying to ignore the pangs of nausea while looking for their cars and their wallets and their cell phones, desperately attempting to patch things up with the girlfriends they just lost, stitching up mysterious battle wounds, or trying to otherwise re-connect the pieces of their broken lives — Jon always seems to be the one guy left standing who’s expected to clean up everyone else’s shit. A recent sojourn to Bali gave him a much-needed breather from all the stress involved with babysitting so many children. And this encore Nicaragua vacation was more than icing on the cake for The Mayor. It was a Godsend.

Step Three: “Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”

He spent a large chunk of last year plagued by injuries, but the eternal optimist, Mark Yonkers, kept his chin up and mended remarkably well in time for Hurricane Season and the North Shore winter. The yin to his best friend Rob Brown’s yang, Mark punches the clock equally hard in waves of consequence year after year along the Seven Mile Miracle. He got the biggest wave of his life this winter at Waimea Bay (dude got throttled) and froths over the ugly, onshore days at Pipeline (solely because “there’s a lot less guys out”). And he bends like a reed in the wind on the home front, achieving an enviable balance between work and play. He logs as much time at the many local skateparks as he does the saltwater lineups from Masonboro to Figure Eight, loves skulling a pitcher or four with the boys, and claims the sexiest, sweetest girlfriend in a town flooded with sexy, sweet girls (chick/dude ratio of 11-1, to be exact). When he is at home, Mark serves drinks and grub to college kids and loc’dogs at Triangle Lounge — his bosses offering a work schedule as flexible as a gypsy contortionist so he can pursue his pro surfing dream. You’d think he has it all figured out and is just cruising, but Mark has dealt with his share of personal tragedies, the heaviest being the loss of his mother a few years back, which a tattooed reminder, “In Loving Memory Adeline G 1944-2003,” remains inked on his forearm for life — a life worth living to the fullest, even when it doesn’t make sense.

Step Four: “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”

“OK, I got the 5’10” squash, the 6’1” roundpin, the 6’6” mini-gun, plenty of wax and combs, extra leashes and pads, fins, fin holders, fin screws, fin keys...” Nobody knows inventory like Surf Hardware Territory Manager (FCS, Gorilla Grip) Nigel Haynes, who handles enough account equations to stump Will Hunting. “I haven’t been on a surf trip in over two years,” he said, explaining his rather anal-retentive checklist. The last trip came shortly before his wife Lori gave birth to the couple’s first and only son Kingston Dylan Haynes (the kid’s initials being the same as their hometown, Kill Devil Hills). And Nigel deserves a little tube time abroad. Along with close buddy Jamie “Wilbur” Ward, Nigel was actually one of the first and last Outer Banks surfers to enroll at UNCW back when Wrightsville Beach was still a sleepy lil’ town in 1993, before the place drew Yankee waveriders like locusts with increased recognition as “the surfer’s college.” But those rumors didn’t satisfy Nigel. While plenty might consider a five-minute drive between campus and the oceanfront paradise, Nigel was dreaming of bigger swells, longer lines, and thicker barrels. Just like that, he left UNCW in 1994, moved to Southern California, and spent the next six years finishing school while stretching his 5’6” frame inside the heaviest lefthand tubes Black’s could drop on him. In that time, his cramped hovel served as an unofficial youth hostel for all his North Carolina brethren making their respective west coast pilgrimages. Eventually, Nigel moved back to the Outer Banks, in 2000, where he met his dream girl, had a little boy, and tucked into an ideal lifestyle as an affable sales rep and respectable family man who rips the shit out of every Atlantic bump that comes his way when he can’t get away on the occasional surf trip... in that order, in fact. It’s almost as if this was all on his “to do” list from the very beginning.

Step Five: “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.”

Like most of us, Nags Head’s Jeff Sykes experienced a seedier side of life when he was in his late teens, reaching a low point when he relocated briefly to Wilmington a few years back. Luckily, Jeff ultimately realized that surfing, family, and friends were the only things that really mattered, and he was smart to adhere to the principles set by Outer Banks alpha dog Billy Hume, who has served as Sykes’ Yoda over the past couple years. The positive metamorphosis the kid has undergone as a result is evident in some truly blistering rail turns and increased patience in the tube. Carolina surfers have always looked after their own. Sykes’ addition to this Nicaragua roster is shredding testimony to that. He may not have the sponsors or the reputation of the others. But he has common sense, and sometimes that’s more than enough.

Step Six: “Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.”

And then there’s Billy Hume. Ah, William, where art thou? Well... the west coast, quite frankly. Passing the 30-year mark last year, Billy knows that his visible presence in California is decidedly vital to his career as a professional surfer. The action sports industry has a hard enough time paying attention to East Coasters as it is when dishing out their meager slices of the pie. Isolating your talent on a cold barrier island off the North Carolina coast, far away from the companies’ not-so-wandering eyes isn’t the wisest vocational choice... no matter how hard you rip. And make no mistake, Billy’s in his physical prime right now, but he understands the best way to extend the window of a charmed life is to bring the fight to them. And let’s face it: those cranking Hatteras storm drains he’s so fond of plugging himself into — they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Step Seven: “Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.”

Hailing from Yorktown, VA, and calling the Outer Banks home for three years now, surfing shutterbug Matt Lusk is fairly new to the game. And he knows it. Plenty of rookie surf photographers ask for constructive criticism. Few actually listen when they get it. With all the brands represented on their floating billboards, this talented crew required a lensman. Lusk was available, and after heeding various editors’ and pro surfers’ advice, he produced indeed. But as Nicaragua is pretty much a sure thing in the way of surf photography — head-high and offshore all the time — something hints that we’ve merely seen a glimpse of things to come, as Lusk’s best work seems to result from the worst conditions. Shooting water photos in the middle of winter along an unprotected island with overcast skies and some of the most powerful beachbreak lips on the East Coast crashing down on your head is not an easy feat. Lusk is up to the challenge. Way up.

Step Eight: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”

While half the crew here (Rob, Mark, Billy) was on photo incentive, the other half was merely on vacation (Nigel, Jeff, Jon). You’d think segregation like that would create a wedge in the group consciousness. But seeing as they were all on the same mission here — score waves just like a hurricane swell at home, but without the bad weather or crowds — the bickering and disruption was kept at a minimum. You have to be able to go with the flow on any trip. Luckily, these guys’ expectations were all flowing in the same direction. If someone did stray from the water’s edge, the river had a way of sweeping them right back up.

Step Nine: “Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”

Having been on more professionally funded surf trips than all the other surfers here combined, Billy knew his fairly carefree job description puts him in a unique position to serve as a role model, even when he isn’t really feeling it. That’s how the pro surfer gives back. So after he badly tweaked his leg early in the trip, instead of sulking and immediately hopping a plane back home like a spoiled prima donna, Billy did what any chill, unsponsored bloke would do: he poured a thick glass of rum, sat on the beach, and cheered his buddies on as they traded off tubes. That was the least he could do. And when you think about it — that was probably the most professional way to handle things.

Step Ten: “Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.”

“Good waves, tight crew, a couple big nights out, bullfight, local flavor, water shots, land angles, portraits, lifestyle pics, lineup images... Oh shit! We forgot the video camera! Dude, we’re so lame.”

Step Eleven: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His Will for us and the power to carry that out.”

A few days before departure, the electricity powering the entire area went out, putting the kibosh on all ceiling fans and AC units and leaving the crew sweating like Columbian drug mules night after night. All were resigned to praying to their higher power for the one manmade convenience that was as important as their surfboards. Those prayers, the camaraderie, and lots and lots and lots of rum, helped them through the dark times, no pun intended.

 

Step Twelve: “Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”

The crew applied the area’s literal blackout to its most common figurative connotation — imbibing enough rum to make their profuse sweating almost laughable. Upon departure, the crew — exhausted, sunburned, surfed-out, and badly hung-over — considered Nags Head buddy Kyle Jordan’s upcoming wedding in Wrightsville Beach the following weekend. With the power back on and a shimmer of light overcoming the blackout, someone spoke up, “Hey you know what, maybe we should all do Kyle’s wedding completely sober.”

That revelation lasted about 45 seconds.

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