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MAY 5-11, 2011 | VOLUME 14 | NUMBER 27 BROWARDPALMBEACH. COM I FREE

THE DADA BAZAAR REINVENTS ART.PAGE 19 JOHN RALSTON HEADLINES THE NEW TIMES STAGE.PAGE 35

Cult of theCanRed Bull fine-tunes the science of hype.By Stefan Kamph

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The high-noon sun was a charm, and everybodystared into it, searching for a human form.

Jon DeVore stood over air on the skid of a he-licopter, altitude five grand. A mile below, SouthFlorida lay flat, like a slide-mounted specimen. Amoment before release. His white knuckles, grip-

ping a metal bar, held his destiny and then afterfive-four-three-two-onewith Clint Clawson, his jump partner let it go.

The freefall takes about ten seconds, and the only stomach-butterflies part is the first irreversible instant, acceleratingfrom zero. By the end of those ten seconds, DeVore and Claw-son were falling at 219 miles per hour. The downtown build-ings were still far away, between the glimmering ocean and the

dense-black Everglades, but they were pulling up fast.DeVore reached behind him, retrieved his pilot chute,

and chucked it back into the wind. In an instant,everything stopped: The buildings stopped com-

ing, a force jerked his neck, and the straps onhis body harness pulled him back like a

328-mph elevator slamming to a halt.Red Bull the silver can, the

promise appeared in DeVoreslife when he was a pioneeringyoung jumper at a drop zone

in Arizona. He met some ofthe companys employees:

about a dozen Austrianguys wandering Amer-

ica, selling a caffeinatedelixir with the taste ofalien candy and thecolor of dehydratedpiss. Two years later,in 1999, DeVorewas branded. The

company took

his private thrilland groomed itinto somethingmarketable.

Covered inRed Bull logos,DeVore floated halfa mile above Earth.

There was a targetdown there, just offthe snaking river inlet,where people gathered ashundreds of specks. Nowthe buildings were morereal, and the big, blue tower bythe river, shaped like a butterfly,presented its rooftop cooling unitsand came up to meet him, then pulledon past, near as a train youd run to catch.

They were close. A tug on the left brakehandle swung DeVore in line with Las Olas Boule-vard. A quick shift to the front flaps, both at a time, put

him into a dive over the Huizenga Plaza fountain, and he couldalready envision his footsteps on the grass. Pull the back lines ten feetnow, eight, five to flare out, down to walking speed, feet outstretched,and he was among the people on the ground, his nylon train deflatingbehind him, and everybody cheered. He turned to watch Clawson sweepbetween the trees and run up to him. They met in a high-five aftercountless completions and a decade of falling together and the partywas on. Effervescent, the crowd moved toward the stage, then to the river.

The people had come to see a boat race. For the 20 teams involved, thiswas the prescription: Draw up plans for a boat built from stuff you boughtor gathered. Drive hundreds of miles to join a shock of sweating

Cultof

theCan Red Bull fine-tunes the science of hype in thegunk of the New River. By Stefan Kamph>>p14

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humans in Fort Lauderdale one Saturdayafternoon in April. Drink a ton of caffeineand sugar, and throw your contraption into a

body of water that runs deeper than any hu-man history down here. Reshape that waterfor a day into an amphitheater of absurdityand failure that would make a Roman proud.

Red Bull USA wont say who had the idea

for the inaugural Red Bull Candola race perhaps someone in a conference roomin Santa Monica or Atlanta. But by then,much of America had seen Red Bull events

before and was in on the joke. The boatswould sink, people would swim and splashand get rescued, and it would be a blast. Everride your bike into the pool? Yeah, that.

Rather than peddling a vision of somethingunattainable (friends youll never have, boobsyoull never touch, athletes swaddled in limou-sines and cable packages), the company gainsyour allegiance by showing up in your life at

opportune moments and watching, like an ap-

proving older brother, while you do ridiculousthings. Red Bull, your wingman, your wings.With all the underenergized individuals

seeking entertainment across our country,theres amazing untapped marketing potentialfor something exciting and in-the-flesh. Butwhy cant this happen all the time? Why do weneed some northern European taurine racket totell us its OK to have fun in our own backyard?

Beats us, say the Austrians. But theyrehappy, because were drinking it up.

P

ablo Muoz stood on the bank ofthe New River and observed the

tidal current. It was Friday after-noon, the day before the race.

We shouldnt build it over there, he saidto three contractors from Southern Cross BoatWorks who were working with him to build atemporary dock for temporary boats. That sthe thing for the city. Water comes out all thetime. Minutes earlier, a valve somewhere hadopened and a smooth-sided slosh of storm-water runoff had erupted into the calm. Rem-nants of froth crept toward the opposite bank.

We have 16 sheets of plywood, he toldthe men, tapping something into his phone

as he walked away. Put plywood on the gapsand carpet the whole thing. And hey, put someadvertising for our company. Not too big.

The New River was named for shiftingbanks that evaded early cartographers witheach revision. Now the banks are fixed, re-inforced with concrete and steel. The riverscourse is guarded by a smug armada of white fi-

berglass, neatly moored. The formula of luxury,of acceptable fun, that plies the river and its

tributary canals through the Venice of Amer-ica is as staid as a folded mainsail, with its at-tendant rituals, both high and low: champagneor Bud, sundress or sunburn, silver or platinum.

This weekend, that would change. Byearly afternoon on Friday, teams of threewere beginning to arrive with homemade

boats, which they set up at marked-offspaces on the lawn in Huizenga Plaza. Theydrank free Red Bull from coolers and fin-ished putting together their crafts. Most ofthe contestants were male, in their 20s, andthey came from as near as Fort Lauderdale

and Miami and as far away as Georgia. Iowa

States Red Bull events team, which travelsthe country participating in such things,had canceled its trip due to budget issues.

Near the band shell, Adam Errington,a 20-year-old professional Red Bull wake-

boarder from Orlando and 2007 Rookie of theYear, was talking shop with two 20-somethingRed Bull Wings Team girls in matching tanktops who stood over a can-shaped cooler.

Were going to send out some girlsto Red Bull bars tonight, said one of thegirls. We have a list of all the places intown that serve it. Her modified Red BullMini Cooper with refrigerated compart-

ments and a giant replica can on the roofwas parked nearby, ready to impress.

They told Errington to keep aneye out for their friend. She has re-ally thick, dark hair. Shell be over at

YOLO. Thats right by your hotel.Cool, he said.

Theres not much to do in WarnerRobins, Georgia, except play Xbox

with your childhood friends, earn awage at one of the local fast-casual

restaurants, or wander around

Cult of the Canfrom p13

Jon DeVore (left) and Clint Clawson start the event with a successful landing.

>>p16

Josh Ritchie/Red Bull Content Pool

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Walmart at night. The routines of mundanecommerce are hard to escape. The townsurrounds Robins Air Force Base, near a Yof highways that lead east to Savannah orsouth to Valdosta and Floridas Turnpike.

J.R. Peeples, Winston Massey, and AdamGoolsby took the southward path early Fridaymorning. They crammed into J.R.s whiteLexus ES 300, singing and dozing with a can

of Pringles and the makings of a crude vessel.They stopped near the college in Valdostato pick up Kyle Pearce, who would row forthe three-man team. Adam had given hisplace on the team to Kyle after a disputewith Winston over how to build the boat, buthe was coming along to watch. Adam andWinston had been friends since they weresmall, and it was the kind of friendship thatsprone to blow up and recover just as fast.

Winston, a tan-skinned 26-year-old withdark, buzzed hair and a quiet demeanor, haddrawn up plans for the boat with a ballpoint penand submitted them to Red Bull headquarters

a month before. Winston had lived in WarnerRobins all his life, but he dreamed of leaving.

He studied aeronautics in college andearned his pilots license. He wanted to becomea captain for a commercial airline. He lovedflying, looking down at the crawling on-rampsand vacuous cul-de-sacs that had formed hisworld, heading to places hed never seen.

In the trunk of the Lexus was an inflat-able camping mattress and a mess of color-coded PVC pipes and joints that would fittogether like a covered wagon to ford theriver. A tarp, duct tape, and several bags

of red balloons to decorate the outside ofthe boat rounded out the provisions.

It was late afternoon when they arrivedin Fort Lauderdale and saw the first Red BullCandola banners hanging along the roadway;

they parked by the Las Olas River House (theblue condo tower in the heart of the city) andsigned their waivers at a card table near thegirls and the coolers. It was still hot on thelawn, even after the sun sank behind the CityPark garage, and the boys began to wonderwhere theyd go to drink later. The pieces ofpipe were tedious to put together, and theyneeded more balloons. Also, paddles. And an airpump. Well have to go to Walmart, said J.R.

Excitement led Adam and J.R. to take abaptismal swim in the river. Just after nightfell, J.R., a compact 27-year-old about tograduate with a communications degree

from Macon State; and Adam, a tall, kind-eyed 26-year-old who still had the buzzcutfrom his Air Force days at Fort WaltonBeach, walked barefoot across the grasstrailing a net full of inflated red balloons.

Things were dark and quiet at the river;Pablos temporary dock bobbed, and din-ers laughed across the water at the Down-towner Saloon. Cars made a hhuuuhhhsound as they passed over the AndrewsAvenue drawbridges metal grate. J.R. andAdam walked along the Riverwalk untilthey found a ladder under the bridge.

The floating net of balloons started emit-ting a chorus of pops as soon as J.R. climbed

on top of it; it was wedged against the sharpbarnacles on the river wall. Adam jumpedin and rolled ungracefully onboard.

Back to back, the friends lolled and pad-dled across the river, leaving a trail of balloonsin their wake. Two children on the bridgespedestrian ramp cheered and waved at thetwo swimmers splashing in the dark. Tour-ists stopped to smile and shake their heads.When they reached the dock on the otherside, J.R. and Adam heaved themselves outof the water, then pulled out what was left oftheir balloons and came back over the bridge.

They dried off, encrusted with the stickof sweat and brine. With no Walmart nearby,they headed to Target, where they wanderedthe empty aisles and J.R. addressed the red-shirted employees as sir and maam.

When they returned an hour later, theirfriends were still in the park putting the boattogether. Driving back along Las Olas Boule-vard, J.R. marveled at the lights and peoplestreaming past his windshield. Warner Rob-

ins didnt even have a T.G.I. Fridays, and itcertainly didnt have these warm spaces ofmodern elegance, adorned with girls whocould be in commercials, tightly wrappedand covered in sequins, just passing on by.

The teams were up early the nextmorning, still nursing hangoversand a sleep deficit. The Georgiaboys had been up late, building

and partying, then rehearsing a skit on thebeach until 5 a.m. (each team would be ex-pected to put on a two-minute skit before

the race). A crew from WPLG-TV (Chan-nel 10) arrived at Huizenga Plaza early onSaturday for a live broadcast, and race daycommenced. The guys, who named theirteam 99 RED BULLoons in a vague hom-age to the 80s song by Nena, arrived around8 oclock and sized up their competition.

They met Adam Haas and Ameer Malik,two friends from Miami who stood by a long,narrow wooden boat tiled with flattened-out Red Bull cans. Maybe theyll give usextra points, remarked Ameer. They hada small boom box playing upbeat music,and they handed out cards to early visitors

instructing them to vote for their team by

text message in the Peoples Choice contest.They were already incredibly high-strung.

Weve had a few Red Bulls, said Adam.Red Bull 37, laughed Ameer. Hey, wantto come see my dinghy? said Adam, to any-one who might hear. Hey, come check itout! Come look at my 12-foot dinghy! Votefor team 18! Club 18 right here! Ameer,who had designed and built the boat withhis grandfather, squirted a water gun.

When they got tired of shouting, Adam andAmeer went over to flirt with the only all-fe-male team, a group of girls from Palm Beach At-lantic University. Amanda Rypkema, their teamleader, explained the premise: Its like, we just

Weve had a few Red Bulls, said Adam.Red Bull 37, laughed Ameer.

Top: Hayden Pollack, Jordan Berke, andSam Risberg, engineering students fromFSU, pilot their duct-tape craft. Right: TheAI Scandinavians, from the Art Instituteof Fort Lauderdale, took third place.

Cult of the Can from p14

Todd Roller

Robert Snow/Red Bull Content Pool

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The truth is in the crash.

The Gilligans Island girls floatedfor ten seconds; then their raftlisted and heaved underneath them,

and they splashed into the water. Letsswim it! shouted Amanda, and they did.

Adam, Ameer, and their teammate,Andre Rodrigues, capsized completely

and needed to be rescued by a rovingtowboat. One unfortunate box-shaped

boat shed materials almost imme-diately after entering t he water.

Near the halfway mark of the third-of-a-mile course, a boat built by members ofCoast Guard Sector Miami began to takeon water and sink. Their boat was made ofcardboard covered in biodegradable paint. ABarbie doll fixed to the bow was their siren;U.S. and Coast Guard flags fluttered at the

back. As it sank, the guardsmen jumped outof the cardboard cutter and swam in longsidestrokes toward the finish. Sean Mc-Namara, the team leader, swam beside theother two. He held the American flag andthe Barbie doll, salvaged from the boat. Heswam with one hand, holding the flag overhis head, refusing to let it touch the water.

J.R., Kyle, and Winston finished the coursein just under ten minutes without falling offthe mattress. Afterward, they stood drippingwet and posed together for a cameraman.

The ten heats of the race were nearlyover. People strolled down the Riverwalken masse, back to the park where theydfind out who won for fastest time, best

skit, and Peoples Choice. Adam, whohad been walking along the bank takingpictures of his friends on the mattress,

joined them. The atmosphere was moremellow now. People were getting tired.

The Techno Vikings, a team from theUniversity of Central Florida in Orlando,won the race in a dark-brown home-made longboat. They paddled it dressedin heavy faux-fur costumes sewed by ateam members girlfriends grandmother.Carpe DAlien, the team of recover-ing alcoholics in silver alien regalia, took

second place as well as the PeoplesChoice award. The winning teams re-ceived trophies made of Red Bull cansand gift certificates to local restaurants.

In a few hours, the river would re-turn to its normal state, plied by pleasurecraft carrying a privileged few. Fallinginto it would be a bad thing again.

Jon DeVore and Clint Clawson werefinishing lunch on Las Olas. The nextday, the skydivers would fly to their nextdrop site and do it all over again: releas-ing, falling, swooping, high-five.

J.R., Adam, Kyle, and Winston would

have breakfast at Hooters, then pile backinto the Lexus for a nine-hour drive backto the shadowed, carpeted corners of thehometown theyd always known, to dotheir own things for a while and to sleep.

But first: It was Saturday night inFort Lauderdale. Tonight, they wouldtake all they could from the city streets

before collapsing in a beachside motelroom where the air was warm and fullof salt. Tonight, they would drink.

Stefan.Kamph@BrowardPalmBeach.com

Cult of the Canfrom p17