It’s 5:00 AM at Wave House. The world is still half-asleep, roosters are only warming up their vocal cords, and somewhere in Canggu, a kettle is silently judging you for not making a Bali kopi yet. But we? We’re already up, boards waxed, eyes bleary...

Once upon a time in the lineup, a sacred pecking order reigned. Surf localism was law, and that law was enforced by dudes with sun-leathered faces, neck tats, and a stare that could curdle coconut water. Paddle into their peak without the proper passport (read:...

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