Our Story

Growing up on Cape Cod in the 80s and 90s was different than it is today. That’s probably true everywhere, but back then things were less convenient—and looking back, much simpler. There was no “instant,” unless you count oatmeal.

If you wanted a mixtape, you waited for your song to come on the radio and timed the play/record buttons perfectly to pirate the track. If you wanted a picture, you needed a camera loaded with film—and you didn’t just print one shot. You stretched those 26 exposures as far as possible before dropping the roll off for development. Days, sometimes weeks, passed before you found out whether your buddy actually captured that perfect heel flip. And if the photo sucked, that was it. No Photoshop. No edits. You waited for the next roll.

Attitudes were different too—less anxious in a lot of ways.

Kids who grew up on skateboards, dirt bikes, surfboards, or BMX bikes were seen differently. We were labeled delinquents. Punks. Dirtbags. Chased off trails by environmental police. Run out of public spaces by local PD. In short, we were troublemakers—not athletes. These weren’t intramural activities. There were no coaches pushing us, no cheerleaders, no rules.

We woke up at first light and met wherever we’d agreed the day before. We rode, skated, and surfed until the day ended. We got bruised and bloodied. Lifelong scars and lingering ailments. But we did it for the love of it. There were no trophies.

This was before ridesharing and 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 we’d only heard about through rumor. Sometimes we stuck a thumb out just to get to where the next adventure was.

We lived off $1.19 a day—enough for a two-liter of high-octane yellow soda and a couple cans of ready-to-eat spaghetti shapes. We tried and failed the same trick over and over until we landed it. Failure wasn’t an option—only the loss of daylight stopped us. We hauled scrap to build makeshift ramps to jump obscure shit. We waxed jagged curbs so we could grind without eating our teeth.

Cape Cod has two sides: Upper Cape and Lower Cape. It’s ass-backwards to me, but not my call. The Upper Cape was flush with street and dirt sports. The Lower Cape was dictated by riptides and surf charts. And if you were young and dreaming of real waves, you had to make the journey east—across a thirteen-mile stretch of highway known as Suicide Alley. A literal and symbolic staple of a once-vacated peninsula.

So for anyone chasing something for the love of it—for passion over comfort—what’s stopping you?

Dream big.
Live bigger.

What’s your Suicide Alley?