CITY GUIDE TO SKATING PUERTO RICO


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Northeast winters can be tough, sure. It’s tough to keep your P.M.A. when a quarter of each year is spent wearing half your closet just to keep the outdoors from literally killing you. Sure, New York looks beautiful in a fresh dusting of white stuff. But that wonderland turns into its own private circle of Hell the minute the snow accumulates into an icy pile of refuse, exhaust, and dog shit.

So what’s a core ripper to do? If it was me: I’d probably pack my bag and head on down to the lively-­ass island getaway that is Puerto Rico. It’s a commonwealth of the United States, meaning that the dollar, your debit card, and Tinderall work just as well, if not better. Spanish is the official language, but not being fluent means that you’re from somewhere else and are there to spend dough and party. A word to the wise: talk to cops in English and you’ll probably get away with whatever your sketchy ass was doing wrong.

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Dudes have been skating in Puerto Rico for decades (Robert Lopez­Mont is god), but the past few years have seen a huge surge in sad New Yorkers looking for some new under­ waxed crust to sink their teeth into. A dirt­cheap flight from JFK will have you and your boys crushing strangely tiny beer cans and eating mofongo in five hours time. The price­point is right, the people are awesome, and the beaches are clean and popping. Had it not taken to the exploitation of Latin American peoples and the dope spots they inhabit—would America, birthplace of skateboarding, even exist? Damn. I’m probably not the guy to ask, but can tell you that I went to Puerto Rico, and I’ve got the light ­leaked photos to prove it.

 

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The La Perla neighborhood of San Juan seemed like a pretty good place to get your hands on some illicit substances. Sketchy half­dead cats stalk the streets, as does a multitude of uncouped chickens. Local boriqueños were happy to point us in the direction of this delightfully ­photogenic, slippery as fuck seaside bowl.

 

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Alex Mosley AKA“Watermelon” was our guide and homie on the trip. A native New Yorker, this was his second winter in a row living and doing his thing in San Juan. As genial a man as there ever was, these Euro tourists were very happy to make his post­ wallride acquaintance.

 

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That older god was wheat-­pasted all over town. Here he is watching over a nighttime Andrew Wilson wallie in the Hato Rey district. Crust never sleeps.

 

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Our last day was spent on the island of Vieques, about an hour east of the main land. Tight food, tight beaches, tight marble plaza. This boat inlet is the reason why Watermelon had such an uncomfortable ferry ride home 🙂

Here’s a recent edit of Alex’s PR footage. Go on the webstore and go get you some shit.

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