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The 20 Best Surfers in the World (Part 4)!

Longtom

by Longtom

The final torrid instalment!

Find out why Jordy Smith needs to learn the true meaning of jihad. Why Gabriel Medina’s backflip was evidence of “tectonic stasis rather than progress”. Why the public is a bitch and how it relates to Dane Reynolds. How Kelly Slater accidentally represents the dark side of capitalism and why John John Florence is the necessary catalyst for a renewed tour.

5. Jordy Smith

According to Ayman Al-Zawahiri, the chief architect of salafi jihadism, America is the most decadent culture in human history, obsessed by the pursuit of wealth and luxury, corrupted by a depth of moral licentiousness never before seen. On pain of beheading I respectfully disagree.

I’m sick to death of writing that Jordy has no ticker. You can imagine a thousand pathways to a world title for Jordy but none of them involve winning a showdown at real Pipe.

I find Americans just about the stoutest and staunchest citizens on Earth. My only beef is when Americans use the word cunt. From puritan mouths it sounds queer and mean. It’s a convict term of endearment and it should remain so. That digression because I’m sick to death of writing that Jordy has no ticker. You can imagine a thousand pathways to a world title for Jordy but none of them involve winning a showdown at real Pipe.

Al-Zawahiri’s other intellectual achievement was the sanctification of what he terms “matrydom operations”, a concept our beloved South African/American could borrow when it comes to hucking the ledge at Pipe. Am I saying Jordy needs a bit of jihad in his soul to stiffen his resolve? I guess I am.

4. Gabs Medina

I know people are going to call me a glass half-empty miserable son of a bitch, even though I’m not. In real life I’m cheerful as a sky full of swallows. But I saw the Medina Rio backflip (what, forgotten already?) as a sign of tectonic stasis rather than progress. Flynn Novak pulled it off around the end of the last Ice Age, way back in 2010. That was the era of Kai Neville and the Kustom Airstrike, if you recall. Boat-load of the best progressive surfers on the planet in Indo with Kai cutting edits from it. Hard to believe they haven’t live streamed one like it yet.

Competitively, it was the last opening for a true progressive vision of the sport to emerge. Dane had effectively welded an avant-garde amalgamation of tail-high aerial surfing to brutal power hacks, Kelly had risen to the challenge, bringing new lines and fresh approaches to old venues. Natural heirs like Julian Wilson, Owen Wright and Jordy Smith were ready to punch through the hole into a radical future.

My heart pains to say that judges faced with radical choice cowardly turned back to the conservatism of traditional Aussie power surfing. Dane quit. The historical opening closed. We got Parkinson, Fanning and De Souza. Parker’s Dead Ball Era. In that context Medina could be the last best hope for a radical recurrence.

3. Dane Reynolds

Seen from the perspective of an omniscient, omnipresent narrator Dane’s career shimmers as the ultimate rock-n-roll swindle. Quit the tour on a high and slit the throat of the Quiksilver fatted calf with the biggest payday in history. One that forced the hand of CEO Andrew Mooney to turn away from “athletes”, make Kelly an offer he couldn’t accept and left a bloodless corpse to be picked apart by the vultures of predatory capitalism.

How to kill a company, by Dane Reynolds. Chapter 11: Redemption. Did you thrill,while watching Ch 11, to realise the wilderness hadn’t been empty save cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon but was in fact a dark night of the soul and Dane was now happy and on the other side?

Did you think, like I, that those good ole Ventucky boys Dane grew up with were reading from the book of Right-On when they proclaimed pro surfing as an aberration, a weeping syphilitic chancre on the flaccid cock of modern surfing?

The public are bitches. They turn on you in a heartbeat. In each of us lives a person who wants to be loved for himself or herself and not for his or her abilities, or even qualities. Value per se, intrinsic. A dangerously anti-instrumental, anti-capital orientation. Therein lies the motivation for Ch 11.

I understand panic attacks at pro surfing contests, having suffered a similar malaise for years. It’s a mark of exquisite taste that a man should feel spiritual and physical death descend at these events. Is it now too much to ask that Dane lets C-Kat bring the weird with the falcons and gives us what we want, what we desire from the WSL but rarely receive: raw, elegant brutality, no insipid 75% compromise, innovation? In short, the best surfing in the world. You’re no huckster Dane, so the question is: Is you is or is you ain’t going to bring the fucking gas money for the rest of the trip?

Sincerely L. Tom.

Chapter 11 from Marine Layer on Vimeo.

2. Kelly Slater

Capitalism is an insatiable bitch, is it not comrades? Despite being a digital entrepreneur and a sub-human redneck wastrel I hate it intensely*, more than Noam Chomsky, more than Naomi Klein, more than Yanis Varoufakis, more than Bernie, more even than all the nude hippies in Morning of the Earth smoking chillums in the cave at Ulus.

In the future, the one percent are going to own everything and milk us dry, charging fees on everything. They’re going to shred us all into tiny atomized monsters fighting each other in a bottom-feeding frenzy for scraps of paper trickling down through the gig economy.

The future is five minutes ago in the USA, five minutes away in Oz. Granted, hating capitalism is a fashionable shape to throw in public, one Kelly Slater loves to strike. He loves to swing for the fences with Monsanto who, after all, did nothing more than democratise GM seeds (true). They took jah’s seed and privatised it for profit, he took jah’s wave and did the same thing, in a process he described as “spiritual”.

Funny what folks find anti-depressive. Dark visions thrill me. When I’m down I love to imagine the smoking ruins of capitalism are nigh and the four horsemen wielding burning Merricks are galloping over the hill ready to storm the hated symbol of corporate oppression: the Slater Wave Tub. The blade falls and the surfing prole hoists the white flag of freedom.

Suited greedheads have been eyeing off surfing since the eighties, the seventies even, but we never imagined the person delivering the Judas kiss would be the greatest surfer of all time. Slater has finally achieved what business has yearned for but never been able to achieve: he’s turned the essence of the surfing experience, riding a wave, into a pure transaction. A wave as good to be sold in the free market for profit.

For that, for feeding what was left alive of surfing to the bitch of capitalism, and on behalf of the surfing prole I say: fuck you very much Kelly. Kelly’s legacy is now set in stone, hitched to the wavepool wagon for good or ill.

In the interim, while history arms itself against the rise of the wave-machines and their “unforeseen consequences”, there is a more pressing issue for Kelly to deal with: one last swing at a Title in 2017. Chances? Depends on Snapper. He can’t afford to be dead in the water after the Aussie Leg.

*Still available for freelance gigs. Special South Pacific and wave-tub rates available now! Call me Kelly!

1. JJF

I love it when a writer handles his subject with a cool, light touch, wields the scalpel so deftly the subject doesn’t even feel the hot sting of the blade. But I love it more when passion for the subject overwhelms them, when they lose restraint and start bludgeoning everything in sight like a viking on an orgiastic rampage. That is character. True Character. Like Dell on Israel, Chas on Yemen and Rory on Costco workers.

As for writers, same for musicians and surfers. When they let loose, when are they completely overcome in the moment is when the real shit happens. That’s why watching JJF in Rio and in the Portugal Final was so viscerally satisfying. There was no holding back. No “mind.”

How’d you like your world champ’s year? This’ll be as popular as a turd in the sangria bowl but I found it a tad… under-cooked. The biggest tour cheerleaders would find it hard to spin a narrative claiming the tour brings out the best in JJF. Low-energy lineups orphan his surfing in a haze of opioid indifference.

He sits there, and he waits, and he sits. As for Fiji, apart from round three did he not underwhelm, slightly but ever so surely? Well-beaten twice in succession in perfect six-to-eight-foot surf by Matt Wilko.

More than Pipe, more than Teahupoo, more than any other reefbreak in the world, CB demands a cerebral approach, a constant thinking and rethinking that just seemed to be beyond JJF. Easily surrendered to Fanning in the J-Bay Final, Slater at Chopes.

What he has is the inverse of what Damien Jurado sang about in Return to Maraqopa: Out there is nowhere but inside is endless-taking up room till you run out of space. He has endless space out there but inside is limited.

An algorithm can’t create now, or ever, the kind of surf which elevates him from the amazing to the sublime. What he did in the chaos of Rio, in Portugal, at Pipeline is a supra-intelligent transcending of chaos.

The tour must be restructured, in format and location, to do justice to the talent or suffer the slow burn of potential greatness dying on the vine. The Slater Era is dead. The JJF Era must proceed in a different biosphere. He is the greatest argument for renewal.

Resolution: Leave the 100 ft wave alone!

Chas Smith

by Chas Smith

Andrew Cotton is looking for it... or is he?

Does the dream of a man surfing a 100 ft wave thrill you to pieces or leave you cold and confused?

It leaves me cold and confused!

Oh I don’t mean to take anything away from brave souls combing nautical charts, calculating wind, fetch, ummmm Fletch, in order to find and conquer the biggest waves on earth but the number 100 just seems so arbitrary.

Like, do you remember when Garrett McNamara claimed that he had done it, done the 100 ft, at Nazaré in 2013 but it maybe turned out that it was 60 something? A little embarrassing.

It is impossible to really measure a wave. Isn’t it?

CNN just did a nice story on the fabulous surfer Andrew Cotton that pushes the 100 ft narrative but it seems that Mr. Cotton might not care so much about the number. Let’s read!

Andrew Cotton is on a perpetual quest, the thirst for which he admits will probably never be truly quenched.

Two years ago, the English plumber was fixing dripping taps — now, as a professional surfer, he is tackling the world’s biggest waves.

His obsession is twofold: To beat the unofficial record size of 100 feet high; and to track down treacherous waves in waters that have never been surfed before. Combining the two is the ideal.
“I think what drives me is the biggest wave,” Cotton says. “That’s the dream isn’t it, in a place where you’re not going to have 50 surfers? That’s exciting.”

If he breaks the record, and in uncharted waters … what next?

“The thing about big-wave surfing is that it’s not like you climb Everest and say, ‘That’s me done’,” he says. “There’s lots more Everests to climb; with surfing you have no idea when the bigger wave will come. I’m searching for the biggest wave, and that search is never ending.”

That sounds like the right attitude. It doesn’t really sound like he cares about “100 ft.” That’s CNN’s trip.

The Top 20 surfers in the world (Part 3)!

Longtom

by Longtom

Joel Parkinson through Albee Layer, Ryan Burch and Filipe Toledo!

Are you new to the BeachGrit Global Power Rankings? It’s a top twenty of the best surfers in the world, including those who chase contests, those who chase clips, boy, girl, binary neutral etc. Read part one (surfers 20 to 15, here) and part two (surfers 14 to ten) here. 

And, now…

9. Joel Parkinson

Thoroughbred racehorse being flogged to go around a track one more time. The argument is the CT produces the best surfing on earth, from the best surfers. I argue the opposite: too often the CT forces the best surfers on earth to down tune their surfing to a level of excellent mediocrity, to make heats.

Joel being exhibit A.

He can rack up two sevens all day long. What about a detailed filmic exploration of Joel doing what he does best? Surfing J-Bay. Working title: Portrait of the Artist as Pointbreak Surfer. Set him up for months, allow total freedom of quiver, allow every minutiae of style and technique to reach it’s fullest flower and fruit. Is that a boring concept? Not as boring as watching the great thoroughbred grinding through the low gears of another year or two on tour for diminishing returns.

8. Albee Layer

Take the Snowdonia wave tub victory, add it to the Peahi Finals, under the lip take-offs to otherworldly tube-riding during the El Nino winter, throw in the recent backside 540 and you get a convincing case for Layer being the best surfer in the world over the last two years.

Put him up against Adriano, imagine any surf from two-foot to twenty and tell me who was the best during 2015. That’s no convenient truth for a sport that relies on the production and global acceptance of a continuous series of more or less agreed upon world champions for it’s credibility. John Florence restores the global balance for now but Albee Layer remains a fly in the ointment.

7. Ryan Burch

Hand on heart, I wouldn’t swap my hand-to-mouth existence, economically useless, taxpayer-subsidised higher education, loving family and surfing life at one of Australias best pointbreaks in the most consistent sub-tropical wave zone on earth for a single day of a competitive pro surfer’s life.

The futility of surfing to a subjective criteria and being judged in an incomprehensible manner would bring me to a homicidal/suicidal fury in weeks, even if I had the talent, which I do not.

But there are paid surfer mocassins I would cut a left nut off to walk a mile in. Mostly Ryan Burch’s. Psychic Migrations shat all over View from a Blue Moon, for feels. That South American light, so Californian, but a California with hollow lefts and no strip malls. A better world. Heaven.

I keep imagining that Burch could be the most influential surfer of a generation and I can’t understand why Burch, best surfer-shaper in the world with daylight second, is shaded by androgynous Aussie millenials like Craig Ando in terms of moving picture and editorial coverage.

Can you?

6. Filipe Toledo

When you have the world on a string, like Toledo had in 2015, with a small/medium wave game that simply erased opponents like irrelevant amateurs then you keep doing what your doing, right? And fill in the missing pieces with the hollow lefts. Which he was on the way to doing.

But last year was mystifying. Take the injury out of the equation and he mostly tried to power surf to victory, with a few rare exceptions. What is that: a failure of will, of strategy, of intelligence in the Toledo camp?

Judges had already lost their marbles for him, no need for him to look backwards and try and meet them halfway back along a path he needed not traverse.

Daddy Toledo, take your boy back to 2015. Follow that template. There’s your Title.

Rory’s Repeats: “Money is Everything!”

Rory Parker

by Rory Parker

Just as likely to ruin your life as make it better.

Money’s a crazy thing. Just as likely to ruin your life as make it better.

I once knew a woman, very advanced alcoholic. Talented artist, but hellbent on drinking herself to death. Thought she was in her late forties/early fifties. Turned out to be early thirties. Wretched, haggard, pathetic.

She got her foot run over by her elderly landlord. Don’t know who was at fault. He was a doddering old man on the verge of dementia. She was a stumbling slurring mess of a human ninety percent of the time. A true gem that remaining ten, though.

She came into work limping. That’s how I learned about her foot. Told me what happened, but she was fine. Foot was just bruised, no big deal. Lots of little bones in there, better go to a doc. But she wouldn’t. Because she was in the US illegally, wanted in her home country for some crime she wouldn’t explain but sounded pretty sordid, and didn’t have insurance anyway. Which was fucked, because she was essentially a full time employee. Real easy for employers to dangle 1099 status, or cash under the table, and make people think it’s to their advantage. Which it almost always is not.

She shambled along drunkenly for weeks, foot never got better. One day I noticed a dirty bandage on it.

What happened? Hurt your foot again?

Not a surprise. Drink that much, as in all day every day, you fuck yourself up. Even us junior alkys in training wake up with mystery injuries.

Nope, still from the car. Foot’s not healing, there’s a little cut on it now.

She peeled off the bandage and exposed horror. Purple green sausage toes, wide open weeping wound. It fucking stank.

You have to go to the hospital.

I can’t. I don’t have any money.

You’re gonna die. Get in my car, we’re going now.

I can’t afford it, Rory.

It doesn’t matter. Get in the fucking car.

I took her to Wahiawa General, closest ER on Oahu. Not ideal, but you deal with what you’re served.

Turned her over to the doctors, sat out front and waited.

An hour later got pulled aside. Fucking gangrene, about to lose her foot. Checking her in now, don’t know when she’ll be free to go.

They discharged her a month later. They saved the foot. The period of forced sobriety knocked a decade off her appearance. Lucid, intelligent. This was a woman I’d never met before. But she was pissed. At me! Huge amounts of hospital debt, no way she could ever pay. Couldn’t exactly understand why she was concerned. When you’re in the country illegally, don’t have a pot to piss in, receive most of your wages under the table, large amounts of debt aren’t exactly a problem. Just don’t pay. What’s gonna happen?

Hit up your landlord’s insurance, I told her. That’s what it’s for. They’ll pay your bills. Maybe even toss you something extra.

She did, and a few weeks later came up to me smiling. The insurance company had paid off. Worryingly quickly, from my point of view. Ever tried to recoup cash from an insurance company? Those fuckers will drag their feet forever over a pittance. So I kinda knew the answer, but asked anyway.

How much’d they pay you?

Ten thousand dollars!

Oh, no.

Ten thousand dollars ain’t nothing, in the larger scheme. Wouldn’t zero out her hospital bills. You can’t do much with ten grand. Not enough to really improve a life. But sure as hell enough to totally ruin one.

Flush with dough she began living large. El Patron tequila and fruit punch became her go-to drink. A stupid choice, made more so by her inclination to buy in mini bottles at the local liquor store. Picked up a crew of addict friends. Like coyotes, those people. Sniff out the weak, drag ’em down as a group.

She was back on the bottle immediately. No surprise. Kind of sad, but what’re you gonna do?

Flush with dough she began living large. El Patron tequila and fruit punch became her go-to drink. A stupid choice, made more so by her inclination to buy in mini bottles at the local liquor store. Picked up a crew of addict friends. Like coyotes, those people. Sniff out the weak, drag ’em down as a group.

Turned out she had a taste for meth, kept in check previously by poverty. Given the choice between booze and crank she went with the former. But now that she was flush it was game on. She stopped coming in to work, when she showed up she’d be hammered. Was always drunk before, totally incapacitated now. Covered a dozen freshly shaped blanks in pink spatters one day. Came in sloppy, ended up slathered in pigment. Somehow managed to transfer it to nearly every surface in the factory.

The money lasted two weeks. Pissed most of it away partying, was robbed of the last couple thousand. Some of her new friends held her captive and forced her to drain her accounts over the course of a few days. She ended up homeless, playing hide and seek with security at the sugar mill where she’d bed down in the bushes at night.

The last time I saw her she was sitting on the ground surrounded by her remaining possessions. What little she had left fit in a few plastic bags. She was bawling her eyes out.

I said hi, talked for a minute. Lied and told her things would get better. Handed her the remainder of a pack of smokes, the fifteen bucks I had in my wallet. Gave her a hug, wished her good luck.

Then said goodbye.

And the writers were fed to the wolves!

Derek Rielly

by Derek Rielly

Is Ari Zeen the new Rory Parker? Hoist your opinion up the ol mast!

“Hello,” writes hardboiled BeachGrit reader Ari Zeen, “I’m a no-one who lives in Huntington Beach, is an English student at CSULB, reads BeachGrit, and this is my submission to be the new Rory Parker. You can pay me in beer. Or tell me to fuck off.”
This is Ari’s story.
Surfing is dead. There is no best thing in surfing. It’s not the sport of kings the candy-asses at a beachfront hotel in Oahu would have the Aleeda-rashguard-wearing, white-bread tourists think.

It’s a hobby.

A hobby of degenerates and losers. Drug addicts and con-artist who would rather get lit than get a job. You want to tell me its plausible to have a job, to have a family, to surf?

Cut scene to a family smiling on the beach while dad pushes his kids into waves at the Huntington Beach pier, mom sits happily on the beach and the son thinks he has a shot on the ‘CT when his father’s only making 55k a year. Fade to black with Electric Light Orchestra’s Do Ya plays in the background, roll credits.

Fuck you.

And good luck grinding it out on the ‘QS.

Surfing is dead. The sport of surfing as a commercial enterprise is dead. But this isn’t a polemic on Capitalism. I don’t think about that shit ever since I plagiarized my poly-sci 101 essay in my second year of college. I didn’t vote in the last election because I was too busy surfing, then getting drunk, doing rails of cocaine with a C-list surf star who lives in Southern California (not Wardo. He’s B-list in my book and I would love to do some snortksies with that guy though), then railing a chick in a shed on a dock in Long Beach where I work.

I’m not bragging. Maybe a little.

I didn’t vote in the last election because I was too busy surfing, then getting drunk, doing rails of cocaine with a C-list surf star who lives in Southern California (not Wardo. He’s B-list in my book and I would love to do some snortksies with that guy though), then railing a chick in a shed on a dock in

Surfing died when we started catering to the metrosexuals in Santa Monica and Newport who rent oceanfront duplexes with their contractor father’s money and surf when it’s “two-feet and firing” on their CI quads because “you just can’t beat the speed of a quad” but hide as soon as a head high close-out detonates on the sand-bar.

But, sometimes, when I’m 12 Coors Banquets deep, and I’ve got an essay due at midnight, I’ll let my mind wander. I’ll drink one more beer, watch an old clip of Tommy Curren in 5’5” x 19’ ¼ or Andy Irons on lost.tv, I’ll let myself dream.

I’ll put in my last lip of Skoal Classic Straight, I’ll pump Telephone Line by ELO so loud it hurts my ears, close my eyes and I’ll remember one beautiful eight-foot pumping, sand-bottomed barrel south of the HB pier.

Just me, slack tide, and dead wind, sun-setting, wall lining up before me, lip feathering and

Oh oh telephone line, give me sign, I’m living in twilight.

But I’ll wake up and I remember where I am. That Adriano de Souza won a title with a stink-bug stance.

Surfing is dead. And it’s not coming back.

Save me Dane Reynolds.