Our Story

Growing up on Cape Cod in the ’80s and ’90s was different than today—though that’s probably true of most places. Life was less convenient, but looking back, it was much simpler. There was no “instant,” except oatmeal.

If you wanted a mixtape, you waited for your song to come on the radio and perfectly timed the play/record buttons to pirate the track. If you wanted a photo, you needed a camera with a roll of film—and you didn’t just print one shot. You used all 26 exposures before dropping it off for development. Days—sometimes weeks—passed before you found out if your buddy actually caught the perfect moment. And if the picture sucked? No Photoshop. No edits. You waited for the next roll.

Attitudes were different too. Less anxious, in a lot of ways.

The perception of kids growing up on skateboards, dirt bikes, surfboards, or BMX bikes was mostly wrong. We were seen as punks or dirtbags—outsiders. Not the social norm. Chased off trails by environmental police, run out of public spaces by local PD. Trouble makers, not athletes.

These weren’t intramural sports. There were no coaches pushing results. No cheerleaders. No rules.

You woke up at first light and met at the place agreed upon the day before. Kids rode, skated, and surfed until the day ended—often walking through the front door bruised and bloodied. Lifelong scars and nagging injuries followed, but it was all done for the love of the sport. There were no trophies.

This was before ride-sharing or Wave public transportation. We piled into the back of a buddy’s mom’s station wagon to skate the freshly paved lot at Airport Plaza. We walked train tracks to the next town, chasing destinations known only through rumors or word of mouth. Sometimes we stuck out a thumb, just trying to get to wherever the best adventure might be.

You lived off $1.19 for the day—enough for a two-liter of high-dose caffeinated yellow soda and a couple cans of ready-to-eat spaghetti shapes. You tried and failed the same trick over and over until it finally worked. Failure wasn’t an option—only running out of daylight. You dragged scrap wood to build ramps to jump questionable things. You waxed jagged curbs so no one lost their teeth grinding them.

Cape Cod has two sides: Upper Cape and Lower Cape—and they’re almost backwards. Upper Cape was packed with streets and dirt for riding. Lower Cape was ruled by riptides and surf charts. If you dreamed of surfing the Lower Cape, you had to cross a 13-mile stretch of highway known as Suicide Alley—a literal and symbolic passage on a once-isolated peninsula.

For those who dream of doing things for the love of the sport.
For those who follow passion over permission.

Dream big.
Live bigger.

What’s stopping you?
And what is your Suicide Alley?