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Dion Agius, The Man From The Year 2000

 

Skate-informed tech ain’t all tweaked elevation. Backside board slide at Yo Yo’s in Sumbawa.

Dion is ecstatic with where surfing finds itself today. As a teenager it was the World Tour or nothing for pro surfers. Ozzie Wright and Rasta were the whacky outliers in that equation but for the most part surfing had forgotten its roots.

“It’s come full circle,” says Dion. “It’s back to what it was like in the sixties and seventies. There’s just so much self-expression going on in surfing right now. It’s great,”

he says.
That also brings with it some problems, however. Namely that there’s no real set way in which to make a career as a surfer these days. “There is no path for us so you have to either be surfing as good as Dane Reynolds and rely solely on that or yeah, reinvent yourself and stay busy,” he says.
As we pull up at the wave, a surly sun-beaten worker confronts us for driving too fast. “It’s a country town!” he reprimands us.
Dion is in the passenger seat and cops the brunt of the anger, though apologises profusely and expertly defuses the situation.
The day before he’d arrived at the same spot to the same man digging a hole in the midday heat. He’d felt guilty that here he was making good money by simply going surfing while other people slaved for their earnings. But he also sees it as a choice and says that no matter the outcome he always choose uncertainty and freedom over the drudgery of a nine to five routine. “It’s easy for me to say because I’m in a privileged position but fuck this working towards retirement bullshit. I wanna live my life in reverse. I couldn’t be happier being this age and having so many different opportunities and the freedom to pursue them all,” he says.
We arrive at the picturesque beach to a waist-high right-hand wedge bouncing off a cliff. Nate Tyler, Brendon Gibbens and Chippa Wilson take a peak up the beach while Dion opts to paddle out alone and surf a different peak. He catches less than a handful of waves and is the first to return to shore.
Regarding the task of putting together a section for Kai Neville’s next hi-fi blockbuster, Dion admits he’s got his work cut out for him.

“It’s gonna take me seven years to make a section as good as those guys,”

he says. Instead he’s planning to talk to Kai about putting together a more mood-soaked mind expanding collection of clips, an idea he’s not sure whether his old friend is gonna go for.
For all the glitz and glamour and entrepreneurial savvy that surrounds Dion, it’s easy to forget he was once one of the most progressive surfers in the world. He’s comfortable with admitting that’s no longer the case, that a new generation of of surfers – the John John’s, Medina’s, Matt Meola’s – have usurped him.
Back at the house, Dion’s head returns to the screen of his Macbook as he sends out email after email ensuring his game of spinning plates will continue. When he comes up for air it’s the early afternoon and he joins me on the verandah for a cup of tea. That inferno of an Australian sun has faded and hits our backs like a soothing balm. A light sea breeze ruffles the trees and out of the silence Dion confides in me that he’s missing home at the moment. It’s been months since he’s done a good stint at his cottage in Byron Bay and he can’t even remember the last time he did a load of washing or ate from his own fridge. He might enjoy the freedom of the roaming itinerant but he’s also concerned this luxuriant life he’s led might have made it impossible for him to deal with life’s harsher realities. “I just don’t even know anymore. I feel like my head and my brain has just been so desensitised, like I’ve just turned into some soulless creature who doesn’t even know what he wants,” he says. Routine is something he’s sure he’ll want at some point. He just hopes he’ll be able to recognise that point when it comes. “I don’t wanna wake up when I’m 35 or 40 and still be like: ‘I’m living the dream’ and still be partying. Then I wake up one day and just go, ‘Fuck, I’m a scumbag. I’m a soulless scumbag,'” he says.

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