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Noa Deane hears Mudhoney. He speaks his own tongue. He chooses tweaked-out throwaways over the same ol’ end section air-revos. He hates when shit is cooked, loves when it’s fucken sick. Noa digs oversized tees and loose-fitting jeans, and bunny hops into rock slab pits. His Thrasher hat got stolen at a Goons of Doom gig. Did you steal it? Give it back. Nah, it’s cool, he got a new one for Christmas.

Noa loves his mom and dad, loves playing his strat super loud in his bedroom all by himself, loves his mates… absolutely fucken loves them. He’s right into his girl, but he keeps that on the down-low because he wants to give her space, doesn’t want to smother her. He knows the value of lightness. Noa lives in a shed in Ozzie Wright’s backyard, he had photos of Oz on his wall as a grom. Had photos of Alien, of Barney, of Bruce. He wanted to ride for the Stone even then. Couldn’t say why, but could feel why. Freedom. Kin. Moxie. The Stone was fizzing with it. He knew one day it would happen, but first… the usual rounds: boardriders, grom bashings, Nationals, stickers, passports, surf trips, magazine covers, :), Tuff, busted ankles, Cheese II, Strange Rumblings, A.I. Breakthrough, “surfs like Dane, looks like Cobain,” Skegss, Cluster, …the WSL, Pulp, and Blister, until he suddenly arrived here, at this moment, right now. The start of the rest of his life…

Noa is a good person. A person who can change people’s perceptions about surfing for the better just by being himself, saying what he thinks, surfing how he feels. He’s the antidote to surfing with a plan, a torch to the spreadsheets that turn riding oceans into a pile of stinking numbers. He’s got the DNA of every surfing miscreant and rabble-rouser and hot-blooded purist in his veins, and the delightful ignorance of youth on his side. He’s the living, breathing embodiment of the Stone. If Volcom had a baby, Noa Deane would be it. Welcome Home…

Words by Vaughn Blakey

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