it howling, but the swell was soon to be flatter than Paris Hilton’s chest. And, just when we thought things couldn’t get off to a worse start, our head photog Bosko got a call that his daughter had been admitted to hospital in Newcastle. “She’s really crook mate. I might have to go home.” Three phone calls later and Bosk was boarding a metal-bird back to Sydney. His departure meant that Andrew Christie, a man who is as comfortable with a motion camera as he is with a still-shot had to step up to the plate and attempt to be the stone that would kill two birds. But despite the trip getting off to a shithouse start, by the third day there was a glimmer of hope in this honeymooner’s paradise and it came by the name of Devil’s Island. The swell, although declinging by the hour, was predicted to be big enough to wrap around to the side of the atoll, which would blow offshore in the rank gusts. However, Devil’s Island didn’t invoke Beelzebub’s name for no reason. Local Samoan tribes believe the island is haunted and if anyone dares to spend a night on it then they won’t be alive the following morning. “Fuck it, I’m gonna stay there for sure,” cried Hazza, until our tour guide informed him of the human-sized crabs that live on the island. Not surprisingly, we weren’t game to crash there. Yet, if it meant this so called Devil fella would banish all the wind to another Polynesian island and serve up epic waves then I woulda happily played the part of the sacrificial lamb. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. As soon as we’d parked our ark in the nearby lagoon and Christie’s camera lens had gained focus, Hippo took off on below sea-level monster. The goldy surfer disappeared deep into the wave’s bottomless vortex and stayed completely veiled until appearing, riding straight on dry reef as the wave shut down behind him. Hippo even went as far as to throw down a