'A Lunar Cycle': Easkey Britton in the ocean

I remember a time when I rolled my eyes at the idea of new surf films as they arrived on the scene. For so long, surf films told the same story over and over and over and over, and over and over and over. I stopped watching them.

But that changed, and I had to start to eat my cynicism. Surf films got diverse. They got interesting.

Part of this is the acceptance of new people as surfing's storytellers; letting surfing be more than men, more than sunshine, more than grunting descriptions of getting barrelled and feeling stoked, more than roadtrips, more than power turns, late drop ins and airs. New stories about surfing that suggested surfing was more than the worst of it.

Well hello there, A Lunar Cycle.

You might have heard about the latest offering in this new world of surf films, that was directed by Andrew Kaineder, and written by and featuring Irish surfer, Easkey Britton. If you haven't heard of Easkey, then you haven't been paying much attention to surfing culture in the recent past. Easkey is a powerhouse of surfing for social good, highlighting the development of women's surfing in Iran, focusing on the role of living a life like liquid, of thinking and being like the sea. She is a daughter of √Čire, a lover of big waves, cold waves and of surfing in the ocean in whatever way she can. She is a tiny force of nature who doesn't listen to the idea that things can't be done. She is a surfer, writer, researcher, and she has made a short surf film that has already been winning awards, A Lunar Cycle.


A Lunar Cycle is a surf film about women, about women's bodies. A Lunar Cycle is about the moon and sea, about being immersed, about giving in and being taken away by a force that is physical, emotional and messy. It is about the linking of oceans and the life within them. It is about ebbs and flows, tides and seasons and cycles. It is a poem, a story, a journey into the sea. It is a film like liquid.

In academic terms, it is affective.


I breathe into my belly, as the pain of the story fills the hollows and oceans of my own body; an odd ache pulsing in time with the music through my guts, breasts, blood and heart. My body immersed in the story cycle, in the sea. I am falling down a wave face, twisting my body with the water, spinning across the mirrored sand, the rhythm of the music wrapping through my chest. I am atop the seastack summit, the wind and salt spray in my hair, skin is prickling with cold, feet sharp with the rocks, standing firm in my fear, leaning into the void but not falling. And above it all, the moon.

Blue is my blood; red, the sea.


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