In the garden of the Prophet I was not safe, in the garden of the Prophet I was not wrapped in cotton wool, in the garden of the Prophet my life was worth more than the clothing label I wore. In the garden of the Prophet I was alive. And in the garden of the Prophet vague murmurings I’d been feeling crystallised into something solid. Something powerful, something called hate. Hate of the little piece of the world that we live in. Hate of what we have done to it and a fear for its future. For in the garden of the Prophet I thought the unthinkable and spoke the unspeakable. I realised that I hate surfing. I hate the surf world. I hate the image of surfing. I hate all that it has become. I hate Hossegor, Newquay and Tavarua.
I hate the billion dollar corporations who use it to sell their telephones, beer and clothes. I hate the gloss and the glamour of the world tour and I cannot get my head around the concept of paying to surf a ‘private wave’. I hate the fact that you can buy hair gel that promises to make you look like a surfer and cars that are sponsored by surf brands. I hate the ‘I’m a surfer therefore I’m cool’ attitude. I hate the way that we all have to look like identical clones in order to show the non-surfing public that we are ‘different’ from the rest of society. And yes, even though I admire his surfing and think that he sounds like a switched on kind of guy, I’m afraid to say that I hate Kelly Slater and all that he represents. But most of all I hate the big surf brands for allowing and even encouraging all of this to happen. I hate them for selling the soul of my passion and my life.
https://www.stuartbutlerjournalist.com/content/garden-prophet-yemen
― Stuart Butler, 2004.