Young man attacked in Florida wearing his new Christmas present!
And let the lawsuits begin! Shark repellent magnetic technology’s PowerBalance moment! First, let us read the tale of brave Florida surfer Zack Davis and his fight against a watery beast in The Mirror shall we?
Zack Davis, 16, was surfing in Florida, US, when he was attacked by a Blacktip shark.
The schoolboy, who had never been attacked by a shark before, says he was wearing a new shark repellent armband Christmas present for the first time when he was attacked.
The attack left him with gashes across his arm which required almost 50 stitches.
His mother has been left outraged and is seeking a refund from the maker of the anti-shark device.

The local CBS12 channel reports the teenager ended up in hospital with a large jaws bite on his arm.

Zack says he was wearing a new band with magnetic technology that advertises it repels sharks away from swimmers.

“I got this for Christmas,” Zack said.
The green plastic band that looks like a watch with no face “is a shark band and it was supposed to keep sharks away and the first time I wore it, and I go surfing a lot, but the first time I wore it- I get bit. “
“Zack’s mum, who is shaken by all this says she hopes to at least get her $80 back for the Shark Banz that the family say didn’t work.

The armband maker has been approached for comment but has yet to respond.
An outraged mom, a bloody mess, a Christmas present gone horribly awry! And do you recall how surf brand Modom incorporated Sharkbanz tech into very expensive leashes ($180 in the U.S. $250 in Australia)? Do you recall how our friend’s at Stab jumped in with both feet, thrilling at the product and pushing it through parent company Surfstitch? Oh read a wonderful piece of investigative journalism from the dearly departed Rory Parker here!
Now that the wheels are all the way and spectacularly off… read this sentence again… “the first time I wore it, and I go surfing a lot, but the first time I wore it- I get bit.” What will happen? Of course lawyers are circling the Davis family, promising forever riches. But will Modom pull the leash? Will Stab issue an apology? Will they disappear the embarrassing post?
Let’s wait and see!
But while we’re waiting have you ever seen a cooler post-attack look than Zack Davis’s?
So long Sharkbanz… Hello fame!
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"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.
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.
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.
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
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.
“Bunker77Â 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?
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.
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.
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.
