To get this photograph of surfer Brook Phillip catching a wave off Tasmania, photographer Luke Shadbolt hiked for two hours through beautiful scenery to get to Shipstern Bluff on the island state’s southeastern coast.
According to Shadbolt, the surfing here can be a rough ride, as the waves off the coast are “renowned as [some] of the most intimidating and remote waves in Australia … about as far from civilization as you can get.”
This trip marked Shadbolt’s first time at Shipstern Bluff, and a group of locals took pleasure in telling him “all sorts of horror stories about sharks and killer whales and huge unruly swells” while they hiked in.
“It wasn’t quite as scary as they made it out,” Shadbolt says, “but it was definitely an adventure.”
Not wanting to miss any of the action, Shadbolt spent about eight hours in the water to get this shot. His use of a fish-eye lens required him to be as close to the wave as possible, which also gives the image its wide, slightly distorted look.
Shadbolt had no idea who the surfer in the photograph was until he posted it later on his Instagram feed, discovering Phillip’s name from a few Tasmanian locals.
Dean Groves, a Binder was also a SANFL league goal umpire, of some note, long before the AFL ever existed. He was picked to umpire, not sure who the teams were, but I think it was one of the better matches between two of the top teams.
The game happened to be televised live that day and Dean was centre stage waving his flags and doing a great job. I was watching the game at home on the live telecast when all hell broke loose about a disputed goal.
The goal umpire down the end of the disputed goal happened to be Dean. The problem was that the footballer that kicked the ball was convinced he kicked a goal and Dean instead of putting the two fingers up to signal a goal he only put up the one for a point.
Well then it was on, the player rushed up to Dean and tried to stop him waving the one flag instead of two, but to Dean’s credit being the professional umpire that he was, he ignored the player and carried on waving the one flag with one very angry player in his face trying to stop him.
The only problem was that because the game was televised they had a camera right behind the player when he kicked the ball and it showed on replay that it was clearly a goal. The commentators had a great time playing and replaying the goal that never was thanks to poor unfortunate Dean making one of his worst decisions and televised for all to see.
Of course when Dean returned to work on the Monday we all stuck up for him or was it we all stuck it up him.
As you know at the Old Guv you were not necessarily remembered for any good deeds you did – but mostly remembered for the stuff ups.
“Working alone and out in remote locations is always time-consuming, and it involves a lot of back and forth to get the shot,” says Paul Zizka of this self-portrait he took in a kayak on Goat Lake in the Canadian Rockies.
“I had been planning on visiting this location for some time, and on this night the conditions were perfect.
The stars danced across the surface of the lake, and it felt like I was gliding through the night sky.
”Shooting a self-portrait at night isn’t without its challenges, Zizka says. Keeping yourself still enough in a kayak so the camera can catch a sharp exposure is particularly daunting.
“I propped the kayak on top of a rock to help stabilize it once I was in the frame. It took a few tries, but eventually I got a frame with sharp focus that I could be happy with.”
It perhaps says something of tennis’s slightly misshapen role in the national consciousness that a grown-up book documenting the sport’s entire history doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous.
It’s hard to imagine a publisher going for a social history of football such is the wealth of knowledge already out there.
But tennis, as Elizabeth Wilson explains in Love Game, has always been seen as a slightly effete cousin among British sports.
One which envelops the country for a fortnight, but barely makes a dent for 50 weeks of the year.
So it’s reasonable, you suppose, that you could capture much of the history of it in just over 300 pages.
Of course, you can’t. Not really. For those that know their McEnroes and Murrays but not their Lenglens and Lacostes, she weaves a well-drawn line straight through the game.
Which is handy, but frankly, there are whole books to be read or written on tennis’s Riviera era from the 1870s to the war; on the sport’s uneasy, but in many ways pioneering relationship with gay players; on Roger and Rafa; on Gottfried von Cramm and the Nazis.
Wilson addresses all here, of course, and, to be fair, often in depth.
She’s particularly good on the early days of the game, when vicars promoted the sport, through to its widespread adoption by the turn-of- the-century moneyed classes.
But the human stories – many forgotten to non-tennis buffs – are what give this history some bite.
Yes, we get chunks on Connors/McEnroe/Borg but most fascinating are the stories of gay players like serial US Open winner Bill Tilden, who was shunned by the tennis world because of his relations with young boys, and died penniless, and Von Cramm, who survived being gay under the Nazis on account of his fame.
I caught a wave to my head, and then another one right after that,” says photographer Fred Pompermayer of this shot he took of surfer Adriano De Souza riding a wave in the early morning darkness in Mentawai, Sumatra.
“It took all of my energy just to get back to the boat after that.
”Pompermayer and De Souza were part of a team that had spent time surfing during the day and traveling at night by boat from island to island.
On the day this photo was taken, the team arrived at the location around 4 a.m. and jumped in.