THE SURF DUDE

Sometimes you wonder whether you have accidentally slipped into a parallel universe.

An original ’73 Carrera RS in Targa Florio blue — sacred meat in the Porsche world — sits there as if it somehow took a wrong turn on the way to a concours.

And next to it: “the Surf Dude”.

He looks as if the last three nights were spent in a sleeping bag somewhere near the beach. Beard like driftwood. Hair personally styled by the Pacific. A shirt carrying oil marks with enough history to deserve carbon dating.

The man has the calm confidence of someone who either owns the RS — or absolutely does not.

Maybe he borrowed it.

Maybe he found it.

Maybe the universe simply decided to put these two creatures together for five seconds before everything went back to normal.

Nobody knows.

What we do know: he lives somewhere beyond the Mexican border in a hippie settlement, surfs until the sun burns and legally smokes exactly the sort of thing required to make this scene seem perfectly reasonable.

And then you have to look twice:

An icon on slicks. A guy in a Mezger shirt. A car park smelling of burritos and hot asphalt. Signs that appear to have wandered in from an absurd comedy.

This image later stood at the Leica World Congress and collected awards.

Hardly surprising.

It is too strange, too real and far too disrespectful of Porsche sainthood not to love.

One RS.

One Surf Dude.

Pure West Coast anarchy.