"How's your small-wave game these days, sweetie?" Lewis' voice has a raspy, lung-cancerous tone to it. "Fine sir!" says the professional surfer Kelly Slater, laughing nervously.

An Open Letter to Lewis Samuels!

By Jake M Tellkamp

7 years ago

A message in a digital bottle for San Francisco’s sultan of surf lit…

Dear Lewis,

First. Please accept my apology for the uncomfortable and public nature of this letter. I am drunk and have been writing Christmas cards all afternoon.

The reason I cast this message in a bottle in hopes that it washes ashore on your screen is because I have a gang of angry and anonymous misfits who are in need of their daily dose of unhinged surf lit.

I fear my unique and often misspelled last name will be tarnished if I do not find a replacement for Rory Parker. You see, the last time I got drunk and emotional and got behind the keys, Derek coaxed me into giving personal stories a whirl. I could tell he was growing bored of me and my WSL analysis so I poured double when nobody ordered a shot. It has inspired others to do the same.

I have let the foul odor of bad writing into the room.

While we’ve all been singing Rory’s praises, it was you if I recall that actually had your name mentioned on webcast for what you wrote. Something along the lines of Dion Atkinson’s surfing being meat and potatoes without the sour cream? Either way he called you out and your Power Rankings got pulled.

Can you come over and burn sage wisdom?

Not only for fun but to remember what it’s like to make pros squirm. Don’t you want to feel that again?

While we’ve all been singing Rory’s praises, it was you if I recall that actually had your name mentioned on webcast for what you wrote. Something along the lines of Dion Atkinson’s surfing being meat and potatoes without the sour cream? Either way he called you out and your Power Rankings got pulled.

Whatever it was. You rattled him. Probably ruined his life forever. That’s what the wolves of this website want. They want an outspoken hero. Someone that isn’t afraid to call out big brands and their team riders. Somebody who isn’t tied to the industry coin.

Rory had his wife’s income to allow him to be unabashed, but you have Google.

I meant to talk to you about this in person three days ago but you are like the Absinthe ferry on that neon green Lost Rock Up. For the last five months I’ve been seeing you down the beach, always on the peak I want to be on but can never get too. Maybe if Mayhem was my foam daddy again I could move like a ghost between peaks, but for now I clunk behind you in the whitewash, never to be formally acquainted.

So what do you think Lewy?

You ready to make your triumphant return?

Can you save us from Neal Korny?

Sincerely,

Jake Tellkamp

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Top 5 Worst Pro Surfers!

By Chas Smith

7 years ago

To take as your date to a New Year's Eve party!

A New Year’s Eve party is a wonderful time, maybe even the most wonderful time of the year. The tuxedos and ball gowns. The champagne and hope. The glittering, sparkling, glorious, unvarnished future. The old acquaintance be forgot. The auld lang syne. It is difficult to have a bad time during New Year’s Eve. Some would even argue impossible but I will say if you take one of these five surfers as your date you’ll wish for an extinction event before the ball drops!

1) Occy: Mark Occilupo is a legend to be sure. An icon of our beloved pastime and would be such a good look on any arm. Except after a certain hour would you like to know what happens to the Occ? Oh I’ll tell you! He turns into an unstoppable karaoke machine! He will sing song after song after song after song and you will finally drag to your bed at 5 am with Don’t Stop Believin’ stuck in your head for all of 2017.

2) Cori Schumacher: A virtual guarantee that you won’t make it until even 10:30 pm. Don’t believe? Listen to this!

3) Mason Ho: I don’t know that there has ever been a man in history so on top of his game. Mason is an incredible surfer in both big waves and small, has the quickest wit, is handsome, funny, well-liked, kind, humble and generous. And his near perfection will throw your doing-the-best-I-can-with-what-I-have into stark relief. Do you want that? Do you want to be Jonah Hill to Mason’s Leo DiCaprio? Exactly.

4) Laird Hamilton: The worst part about new year’s eve is the resolutions. The empty swears to get better. To improve. And in taking Laird you are taking a walking resolution. The party goers would crowd, peppering your plus one with questions. “Should I drink my bulletproof coffee before or after my ice bath?” “Yoga or barre?” “Push-ups on the beach or on the grass?” Ugh!

5) Pottz: I’m sure at one time Martin Potter’s animal magnetism would have been the perfect addition to any ensemble. Today, though, he would narrate your night with the bland monotone of Eeyore. “Yeah the evening is starting off alright. I mean this is one of the nights of the year where you’ve got to be able to make it to the drop and you have to be able to do it in a technical way. You’ve got to manufacture the exit though….” etc. etc. etc. etc.

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Bunker and photographer Art Brewer (left) and Bunker, stills from the movie Bunker77. "Without all those incredible Brewer photos, we wouldn’t even be talking about Bunker Spreckels," says Matt Warshaw. "Bunker in many ways was Art’s muse. He made Art a better photographer, helped bring out the genius. That whole corrupted Golden Boy thing Bunker had going on was powerful enough that Art had to pay attention, had to lift his game, had to shoot more than just guys riding waves. Art and Bunker were very good for each other." | Photo: Art Brewer

Bunker: “A train wreck’s still a train wreck!”

By Derek Rielly

7 years ago

Matt Warshaw dissects the man behind the legend of Bunker Spreckels.

Bunker77 is a documentary, or shrine, built to celebrate the surfer Bunker Spreckels, who died aged 27 after walloping a fifty-mill inheritance in six years. The film was made by fan-boy Takuji Masuda and features animations, talking heads, montages, you know the style.

I’ve always liked the photos and stories that surrounded Adolph Bernard Spreckels III, the great-grandson of German-born sugar baron Claus Spreckels and stepson to the movie star Clarke Gable. Bunker was lucky enough to pal up with the Californian photographer Art Brewer and writer Craig Stecyk just as his star was starting to rise.

Good-looking, dangerous stud with money meets a brilliant young photographer and writer equals…posterity.

Is the film good? The Hollywood Reporter writes:

“Masuda seldom penetrates Spreckels’ dazzling levels of artifice and reinvention in a way that yields much psychological or sociological insight, instead retreating into repetitive waves of oh-gee-wow hagiography.

“Bunker77 is yet another paean to a reckless, instinctive ground-breaking whose own stylistic stance is familiar to the point of cliche.”

It might be heretic to ask, but the review raised a good point. Was Bunker Spreckels the surfer, the man, anything even close to the legend?

Who else dare we ask but Matt Warshaw, custodian of all things surf etc.

BeachGrit: So the movie Bunker77 is doing the rounds. It is a beautifully made film, even if it is cut from the same cloth stylistically as Dogtown, Bustin Down the Door etc, with terrific archival shots and talking head interviews. Watch it and you’re convinced Bunker Spreckels is the “true American rebel” and the “most radical surfer on the North Shore”. Are these posits true?

Warshaw: Bunker came up with the tucked-under rail, which a lot of people who know more than I do about board design claim was the last big important piece of the shortboard revolution to lock into place. He was one of the first guys to ride Backdoor. But “most radical surfer on the North Shore” is way overcooked. 1969 was Bunker’s big push in Hawaii, and on the North Shore that year you got Lopez, BK, Reno, Jock, Hakman, Hamilton, Cabel, Sam Hawk, Jimmy Lucas — it was Murderer’s Row. Bunker was good, but he wasn’t gonna out-radical any of those guys.

How about the “rebel” part?

Well, he sure looked the part. Starts off super pretty, with a touch of fuck-off, then the fuck-off takes over and takes him from pretty to louche. Ends up kinda paunchy, hairline in retreat, but still cool as fuck. Beyond that, I guess you can make a case that surfing was such a powerful force that it led Bunker to torch his life, more or less. People think that’s romantic — chase the dream, light the whole box of matches at once, rather than normalize your trip.

You can roll your eyes and the excess, and the waste, and the pointless OD. But Bunker also followed a surfing path that wasn’t laid out for him. Pro surfing wasn’t a thing hit his peak, and even if it had been he was never going to head in that direction. So he took his big bag of cash, walked away from the family connections and career opportunities, and went full swashbuckler

Sounds like you’re not buying the rebel deal.

I’m not immune to that kind of glamour, or whatever you’d call it. I spent my childhood tagging along after Jay Adams, and I still go pretty swoony over Mickey Dora. Beautiful people full of id and flair and aggression. But if I think about it for more than a few seconds, the ridiculousness comes through. Especially when the rebel in question isn’t rebelling against anything that matters. Jay Adams never actually rebelled, he was just hardcore ADD. Christian Fletcher rebelling against Damien Hardman, when Christian’s getting all the magazine covers? Fuck off. Rebellious and radical and platinum-grade cool, I mean, that’s Ali and Bowie and not many others. Dora, if you insist on putting a surfer in there. But Dora surfed like Miles Davis played trumpet, and if his life choices were questionable — criminal, even — he invented a surf-at-all-costs ethos that the rest of us can relate to, if not emulate. Bunker, to me, comes down to good looks, a decent skill set in the water, huge charisma, and a willingness to blow through stacks of money. I don’t know. Give him points for style, but a train wreck is still a train wreck. I’ll watch like anybody else, and maybe even feel a twinge of jealously. I appreciate cool. But I love being 56 and healthy. “Hope I die before I get old” — Pete Townsend’s been cringing about that since his late 20s.

Starts off super pretty, with a touch of fuck-off, then the fuck-off takes over and takes him from pretty to louche. Ends up kinda paunchy, hairline in retreat, but still cool as fuck.

You ever talk to Art Brewer, Spreckels’ personal photographer, about his time with Bunker?

No, but the stories I believe are epic. And I should add that, without all those incredible Brewer photos, we wouldn’t even be talking about Bunker Spreckels. Bunker in many ways was Art’s muse. He made Art a better photographer, helped bring out the genius. That whole corrupted Golden Boy thing Bunker had going on was powerful enough that Art had to pay attention, had to lift his game, had to shoot more than just guys riding waves. Art and Bunker were very good for each other.

Why lionise a drug-fucked man who was consumed by vanity ? Is it a retro-fashion thing, the way he looks in his fur coats and headbands? The move in surfing towards going straight on thick, no-rockered boards, skill replaced by showiness?

Fashion and showiness, for sure. But I think more. You can roll your eyes and the excess, and the waste, and the pointless OD. But Bunker also followed a surfing path that wasn’t laid out for him. Pro surfing wasn’t a thing when he hit his peak, and even if it had been he was never going to head in that direction. So he took his big bag of cash, walked away from the family connections and career opportunities, and went full swashbuckler —became a Zap Comix surfing cartoon character. Rock-and-rolled it to death. I mean, who knows? Most of us are as boring as we are because we don’t have a choice. Give a person enough money and charm and good looks and maybe it’d be hard not to become Bunker Spreckels.

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Luke Munro pictured here in real time not being afraid of the Internet.

2016: The year print officially died!

By Chas Smith

7 years ago

Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the net!

I remember so many years ago when I was a young pup in the surf game. Green as a Bay Packer. I remember writing my surfing stories and sending them via Netscape to Derek Rielly all the way across the ocean in Australia. Stories about hot up and coming pros like Nathan Webster and Luke Stedman and Luke Munro!

And then I waited.

And waited.

Until three months passed and there, in the mailbox, was my issue of Stab magazine!

Oh I would rush it inside and flip through its pages, re-reading my work and sometimes so much time had flowed by between the writing and the publishing that various subjects were either dead or irrelevant or both.

But still. The thrill!

Yet even in those early years Derek Rielly was not impressed. “Print. Ugh…” he would tell me via fax machine. “It is going away and good riddance.”

But I didn’t believe him. I believed in the tactile quality of a magazine. The way it felt, looked, could be saved and loved.

Magazines forever!

Fast forward to 2016 and Derek Rielly is, officially, right. This is the year that Surfer went quarterly and Stab went bi-curious and the rest folded or faded away completely aside from Surfing which won the print wars by lasting as a monthly-ish the longest of all even though rumors swirl about its future altogether.

The Surfer’s Journal? Oh that has always been a book, each issue to be treasured and passed from generation to generation.

And do you know what? I thought I would be sad. I thought I would miss the feel and look. The saving and loving. But in reality I could not care less. I was sent a very thoughtful care package of surf magazines recently. I flipped through the first one and do you know what it smelled like?

Death and irrelevance.

The rest went straight into the recycling bin and my heart soared. We are now untethered!

We are free!

Luke Munro exists in real time not in some stifled version of three months ago.

Luke Munro forever!

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Rory’s Repeats: “Crack is Awesome!”

By Rory Parker

7 years ago

Come revisit Rory Parker's best stories for BeachGrit!

“I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.”

A great man once said that, and it’s as true today as ever. Drugs and surfing go together like peanut butter and bananas and while we like to pretend we’re a culture of hard-body vegan sun worshippers the truth is that more than a few of our heroes have hoovered enough illicit substances that a simple blood test would earn them a Balinese death sentence.

We acknowledge the hard partying eighties, but the notion that drug use on tour ended the day Kong became Elko is about as realistic as the belief that Volcom’s B-team house is the safest place for a single woman on Oahu’s North Shore.

Now let’s discuss.

Opiates: Oh, opiates, the silver lining to injury’s grey cloud. I should write a love sonnet expounding their merits. They’ll make you feel motivated, euphoric, and popping a 5/325 Norco first thing in the morning will alleviate those early morning aches and pains that are a result of a childhood spent eating shit on your skateboard. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. Soon enough you’ll develop a healthy tolerance, start upping your dose, and end up a bloated waste of space with a clay filled colon.

A little known fact: the proper dose of hydrocodone will give you a semi-numb, rock-hard boner that’ll leave your girl limping.

Mushrooms: Best served with a summer bodysurf, mushrooms are the greatest thing to ever sprout from a pile of shit. Of course, psychedelics aren’t for everyone. If you’re battling personal demons there’s a good chance they’ll bring ’em to the forefront of the ol’ psyche and you’ll spend the rest of the day curled up in a corner reliving that time you asked Kim Peterson to the fifth grade sock hop and she said, “Ew!’ and all her friends laughed at you. Fuck that chick.

But most of the time they’re a blast. Just be sure and avoid the dreaded double dose. Just because they haven’t kicked in yet is no reason to take more. Unless, I guess, you want to experience a hellish polygonal reality that seems profound but is really just empty nonsense.

Weed: Marijuana is great, but I’ve never understood the guys who get lit before surfing. Weed makes me lazy, slow, and fearful, a terrible combination in anything but gutless burgers. It’s great for, literally, everything else though.

Coke: I hear that blow was great back in the eighties, but I’ve never really understood the modern day appeal. It’s a great way to trick yourself into thinking you’re sober enough to drive, and you can use it to lure a certain type of slag back to your house when the bars are closing, but it’s otherwise useless. It’s a once-or-twice-a-year drug, when you’re drunk enough to think a bump is a good idea, only to quickly realize that all it does it cancel out all the good downers you’ve already taken.

Crack: One time when I was in college a guy I knew came over and asked if I wanted to smoke some opium with him.

“Of course,” I replied, soon followed by, “This is fucking awesome!”

I felt so alive! I immediately grabbed my board, drove to the beach and had the best session of my life in overhead closeouts. The next day I asked him if he could hook me up with his opium guy.

“Dude, that wasn’t opium,” he said, “That was crack.”

In summary: Crack is fucking awesome.

Meth: Like coke, I just don’t get the appeal of meth. It burns like a motherfucker, turns you into a sexual degenerate and leads to hours long conversations with skin-picking shitbag losers about nothing at all. But an entire generation of Santa Cruz surfers put it to good use while heaving themselves over the Maverick’s ledge and into the history books, so there’s gotta be something to it.

Alcohol: Booze makes you more clever, more confident, and better looking. It greases the wheels in awkward social situations and lowers your standards enough to make sexual conquests far easier. It also made me fat so I don’t get to drink anymore for a while.

Benzodiazepines: Better known by their brand names, Valium, Xanax, Klonopin and Ativan- benzos are a must have for any international surf trip. A couple of Xanax before boarding is like flipping your mind’s off-switch, making a six-hour coach-bound hell flight feel like a ten minute nap. Beware. Mixing them with alcohol dangerously lowers inhibitions. So, unless you feel like showing the flight attendant your dick, it’s probably best to skip the pre-flight cocktails.

Heroin: A drug dealer I befriended while in Egypt offered me some heroin one night and, well, I didn’t want to be rude.

Heroin is the best thing ever. Better than sex, surfing, or a mother’s love. Dangerously so, in fact. Stay the hell away from heroin. Unless you don’t plan on living much longer, then I say go right ahead. I know that, if I somehow make it into my seventies, I plan on riding that horse straight into the grave.

Hashish: On an somewhat related note, did you know that Egypt has killer hash? The stuff is everywhere and Egyptians are more than happy to share with their visiting American friends. There’s not much better than sucking down a huge spliff and going for a freedive in the Red Sea. I’m not really sure what BeachGrit‘s stance is on the country, because of, you know, the whole Israel thing, but I fucking love the place. Morocco sucks though, nothing but a bunch of underemployed Berber thieves. I don’t get why Chas loves it so much.

LSD: I’ve never taken acid, the opportunity never presented itself. But I recently officiated a wedding and was paid in a couple hits of what is supposedly some super high grade stuff. It’s in a plastic bag, stuck to my fridge with a magnet, calling my name.

In conclusion, drugs are great, and you should take them. Just don’t get caught and for the love of god, don’t try to smuggle them into any third world countries.

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