Hardcover, 216 pages. Published by Taschen (October 1, 2007)
What happens when you remove any and all financial constraints and let a surfer’s dream manifest into reality? Bunker Speckels gave it his best shot in the 1970s when he inherited a fortune at the age of 21. No need to turn pro, because while the life of a truly unencumbered surfer has a lot of worries, money is not one of them. There were no sponsors calling the shots, no team managers, just a passionate surfer left to his own devices.
A barefoot savage with hardly enough to fill his gas tank suddenly came into a limitless amount of cash to cover indulgences so outlandish that Bunker soon developed a rockstar reputation. Women and waves, quivers and car, live fast, die young; listen to no one. Lucky for us, Bunker had the foresight to purchase $30,000 of camera gear and hire a crew to document his nitrous burn through his twenties. This book is a window into a paranormal surfing lifestyle where caution does not exist, a life so crazy it has to be nonfiction, you can’t make this shit up.
Most rich kids go to the nightclub and bribe the doorman to bend the rules. Bunker went to South Africa and ignored Apartheid. He charged Pipe on experimental equipment before shortboard revolution was a term. He did enough drugs to make the entire North Shore look like a shy middle school dance, which eventually led to overdose at the heartbreaking age of 28.
Basquiat. Hendrix. Marilyn.