Kelly Slater with computer
And then there's Kelly Slater, a worldly maven who squeezes himself into a little of each category! | Photo: Morgan Maassen

your guide to: americans

The people of the USA fit into five very neat categories. Cheating Californians to fashionable New Yorkers!

America is a big country. And by America I mean the United States of. No one calls Canada, Mexico or Brazil America. It is a big country, a historically young country, with varied and jaw-dropping geography. It has soaring mountains, tropical coastlines, vast deserts, teeming metropolises and small, backward hamlets. Many people called, Americans, live here. And the bigness and the many-ness and varied-ness might intimidate the non-American but it need not. Americans are simple and can be broken into five categories based upon where they were raised, as well as four outlying categories based on religion and belief.

1. Northeasterners: Northeasterners originally hail from New York or Boston or Philadelphia. They are loud and brash and love to advertise their opinions and do so with jarring accents. They love to complain about the cold and complain about the heat and complain about taxes and complain about their sport’s teams. The men bald early. The women shrink and become round with age. Northeasterners have an ethnic mix of Italian, Irish, Dominican. They work as taxi cab drivers and garbage men. They find pleasure in their sport’s teams. Some of them, in New York, find pleasure in owning the best city in the world and being fashionable and being gay.

2. Southerners: Southerners tried to separate from the rest of America during the Civil War. They loved to own black people. And so they fought the rest of America so they could own black people but they lost and now many black people are Southerners. The white Southerners say, secretly in parlor rooms, “The south will rise again!” And nobody knows what they mean by this. Nobody knows if they mean owing black people will someday become a reality again or something else. They love eating delicate fried foods. They love listening to rap music or zydeco music or country music. They move slowly and are also slow to wrath. Their accents are pleasant and their skin is, often, very good. Clean.

“Southerners tried to separate from the rest of America during the Civil War. They loved to own black people. And so they fought the rest of America so they could own black people but they lost and now many black people are Southerners.”

 

3. Fly-overs: Everyone in the middle. Nobody cares about them but they are the heart of America. They vote in elections. They have small dreams and drive big cars. They work in manufacturing. They are all Germans.

4. Californians: A country unto itself. Californians come from everywhere but once in California become Californians. They are vain. They make movies. The women augment their breasts and the men cheat on the women. They drink fancy cocktails and have an ethnic mix of non-descript white and Mexican. The Mexican cuts the non-descript white’s grass. Some Californians make computers and things and these Californians become very rich

5. Pacific Northwesterners: Pac-Northwesterners are only white. They live in the trees and cut the trees down for work. They listen to loud and angry rock n roll and drink coffee and drink fancy beer. They smoke marijuana and grow marijuana but all this marijuana and beer and coffee does not lighten their moods because it rains on them 325 days a year. They become depressed. They write loud and angry rock n roll songs. They wish that everyone else in America was more eco friendly but they also cut down trees for work. And then they commit suicide. Kurt Cobain is Pacific-Northwesterner.

Outlying categories:

Native Americans, which includes Hawaiians. They are angry. They feel robbed. They act out, aggressively.

Jews are everywhere, or these are the conspiracies that foment. They own Hollywood and fight with the Masons for control of Washington D.C.

Mormons are creepy and genuinely foment conspiracy.

Libertarians own guns and live in the hills and shoot at anything that moves.

 


Judging at the US Open
Is this really how it works? Have the internet commentators been right all along? That the process of judging surfing contests is just a debauched ritual controlled by Men of Power? | Photo: Derek Rielly

CONFESSION: I WAS A JUDGE AT THE US OPEN!

Sex for scores! Cash for priority! Men of power and their cockmongers!

It should be just another bright summer morning in Huntington Beach, California. Golden parcels of light parachute through the roofs and there is no air pollution to clutter the molecules. It is perfect, if you believe in perfection.

But the scene that greets the reporter inside the judging tower resembles Fascist Italy circa 1944. Hello Republic of Salo! 

I have been instructed, if I wish to see the judging process, to appear at the bottom of the stairs leading to the great beachfront structure at seven am. No one is there to meet me. I hear laughing (older men), weeping (very young) and some kind of barking, but by humans. I climb the stairs.

As I enter what I will later learn is called the “Circle of Overscore”, pro surfers wander naked serving food. Two of the four “studs” or “cockmongers” (a young pro chosen for his large penis) fondle each other in front of the judges, which arouses them greatly.

“I give each of these boys one nine-point-five for two turns and a shorebreak tap per heat,” shouts a judge to much approval.

During a search for the “cockmonger” with the firmest buttocks, the Brazilian Felipe Toledo is chosen and is gifted a win in the US Open, which will conclude the following afternoon.

Could it be true? Is this really how it works? Have the internet commentators been right all along? That the process of judging surfing contests is just a debauched ritual controlled by Men of Power?

Oh how I wish!

What I do find are the loveliest and keenest surf fans you could assemble anywhere. A collection of ultimate surf geeks, although all can surf very well, some at pro level, but ready and skilled enough to compute the difference between rides that may vary by 1/100th of a point. Hair splitting as a profession! It is a relentless job that gives no respite and, to the larger surf world, may seem entirely joyless. But these men love it!

“As I enter, pro surfers wander naked serving food. Two of the four “studs” or “cockmongers” (a young pro chosen for his large penis) fondle each other in front of the judges, which arouses them greatly.”

There is Richie Porta, the ASP head judge (although he has two associate head judges, Pritamo Ahrendt and Dave Shipley, that rotate through the Head Judge position at World Tour events). He’s at the US Open more as an overseer and occasional judge than in any super serious role. That’ll come at the contest in Tahiti in a couple of weeks. Of the difference between the US Open qualifier and the World Tour event, he says, “It’s like going from club football to the AFL grand final. The pressure and the nuances at the very top is remarkable. It’s that much more intense it’s not even palpable… Like, last year at Pipe. You’ve gotta have nerves of steel when it’s a game of nines. All the boys are ripping and it’s you deciding, is that nine-two better than that nine-three. At the level of the World Tour it’s that crucial.”

Next is Jeff Klugel the silver-haired former pro surfer who is head judge of the men’s heats here. He roams up and down the panel of five judges, asking the video operator to cue up various rides and says things like, “I like it, I like it. But let’s watch yellow again for a reference, the sections aren’t as critical; blue’s attack looked a little more critical in my mind!”

Rich says, “The coolest thing is, we’re all dyed-in-the-wool surf fans. I love these comparisons.”

Jeff looks at me, bouncing on his feet, and says, “At the highest level, it’s gold! Pure gold!”

The surf is two feet and will shrink toward the shore as the tide comes in. I want to find out how hard, or easy, it is to judge at an ASP event. It ain’t World Tour, I know, but it’s close. And at home my scores reflect, generally, what the judges punch in.

First heat. Mitch Crews versus Charlie Martin. A split peak. Mitch does two little tags, but with style; Maxime Huscenot, three, but with slightly less zing. I give Max a four and Mitch a three-point-eight.

I’m horrified to see the scores come in at seven and five-point-one-seven. Ah, but then I learn. You judge according to the conditions. If you score too low, says Rich Porta, “You’ll compress everything under five. We talk about opening up the scale in bad surf. Say, the surf is good in the morning and the tide comes in and wrecks it in the afternoon, like in France, Portugal or here at HB. We still have to score it out of 10, no matter what. But what would’ve been a four in the morning is now a six.”

Anyway, it’s a game of comparisons, Rich explains, and that it doesn’t matter if your scores are different to the other judges so long as you’re consistent within the heat. The highest score and lowest score is always removed thereby creating a consistent result.

Mitch swings an air. It’s not necessarily that much more difficult than the two safe backhand taps Max has just completed but there is a greater margin for error. I give it a six. It’s a three-point-six-seven.

“Eight years ago that would’ve been an eight-five, now he gets a 3.67,” says Rich. “He didn’t rotate hard, there wasn’t the trajectory in the air. The tour surfers came to us and said judge us on technicality, height and landing. Before it was ‘jump’ and get a score.”

As we get deeper into the first heat, it becomes even more of a game of comparisons. We compare Mitch’s three-six-seven air to his first wave, the five-one-seven (two turns) and three-point left that consisted of one turn.

“It’s crucial to have those smaller waves in the right spaces,” says Rich. “The surfer will come in and say, ‘My air was better than my turn at the pier…were you watching? Surely you guys know that was harder to do!’ So we don’t get flippant with our scores.”

“You’re always comparing it to that first score,” says Dylan Feindt, an American judge.

Jeff, meanwhile, is like a conductor, spinning past the judges mounted on their pedestal chairs and punching scores into their electronic boxes that may or may not be replaced by computer tablets soon.

“Let’s go to the replays!”

The replays on a smallish television controlled by a full-time video guy are brutal. What looked rad in the water is compressed on the screen. It explains a lot about why so many people lose it at home. Rich says that most judges have their scores already in their heads and they generally don’t tweak it too much after any replays on the small television screen.

The heat finishes. “Alright!” hollers Jeff. “One done!

I’m sweating. It’s tough, even one heat, so much concentration my brain aches. As the day move on my scores close in to the paid judges, but occasionally I’ll be blown away by equal scores being given to three re-entries (Brett Simpson) and Felipe Toledo (two airs, including a genuine how-the-hell-did-he-do-that-rote in the shore break).

“When we started everyone surfed the same, you were comparing apples with apples,” says Rich. “Now you’re comparing  apples to oranges to bananas and watermelons. If the surfers were to say, all we want you to score is airs, then that’s what we’d score. But it’s all kinds of surfing and the scores reflect it. If you’re not across the concept it doesn’t make sense.”

As for corruption and being blinded by a personal fav, Rich says: “I don’t care who is out there. My focus is on whether or not it’s a six or a seven or whatever and if the surf is good enough to compete.”

 

 


Tough Times. Surfline Turns to Prostitution.

Ooooh. Ooooooh. Yes. Your frontside reverse is so big. OOOOOOH! OOOOOOOOH! Douse me with spray. YES! YES! YEEEESSSSSSS!

It is no secret that our beloved surf community has fallen on the toughest of economic times. Stocks are down across the board. Jobs are being sacrificed and tear streaks mark the cheeks of those left behind. Even though financial advisors swear better times are near, the current horizon is bleak.

Surfline, surfing’s grandest website, is not content to sit still while the grim reaper (Hollister) comes and takes its weary soul (banner ads). The company has made its name by being futuristic. By applying the principles of science to the cutting-edge world of Internet possibility. Tres modern! But in a shocking twist, Surfline is turning to the world’s oldest profession to re-fill its coffers.

Yes, you and your friends can hire a professional Surfline photographer for a steamy day. He or she will follow you to the beach, post up under a scorching sun and snap, snap, snap away while you bog turns and while your friends get lipped in the head. Great for bachelor parties or just lonely moments when it feels like no one cares. The professional Surfline photographer will then send you a link with your photos and voila! Prostitution (innovative marketing)! And all starting at a mere $100.

Ooooh. Ooooooh. Yes. Your frontside reverse is so big. OOOOOOH! OOOOOOOOH! Douse me with spray. YES! YES! YEEEESSSSSSS!

Being photographed has never felt so sinfully wrong.


Bethany Hamilton does frontside air
Watch this clip and then watch it again (and then, like, ten more times because we will probably get a “Cease and Desist” v v v soon and it will be gone until her movie comes out). See how critical the section is? See the height on that tail? See the style on the landing? | Photo: Aaron Lieber

Stolen clip of world’s hottest surfer. But one-arm!

A girl too! Better than Brett Simpson, Acapulco and Fleetwood Mac! (Scroll to bottom!)

 

CLICK HERE: CRAZIEST 10-SECOND CLIP OF BETHANY HAMILTON AIR

Bethany Hamilton is not known as much for her surfing as for her inspirational story/healthy lifestyle/sunshiney smile. Gooey nuggets upon which the masses feast. Surfers, hardened by abuse from each other, booze and unhealthy sexual relationships, are not typically hungry for that sort of fare and, thus, don’t know/care what is going on in young Bethany’s life.

“Creed McTaggart, surfer du jour, fell out of his chair when he saw it while screaming, ‘What the one-armed fuck!'”

But here is a secret! Bethany Hamilton is, above all, a stone-cold shred. She surfs better than me. She surfs better than you. She surfs better than Brett Simpson. Watch this clip and then watch it again (and then, like, ten more times because we will probably get a “Cease and Desist” v v v soon and it will be gone until her movie comes out). See how critical the section is? See the height on that tail? See the style on the landing? There is absolutely nothing about this clip that makes it good for a girl. It is just plain good. Creed McTaggart, surfer du jour, fell out of his chair when he saw it while screaming, “What the one-armed fuck!”

Yes, this surfer is better than you. And Tiago Pires.

 

 

 


Shane Dorian portrait
Shane Dorian with hands that catch 20-foot waves. | Photo: Morgan Maassen

HOW TO CATCH A 20-FOOTER

Shane Dorian tells you how to get the ride of your life (even if the thought of 20 feet makes you pale to the gills)…

Why would anyone wanna ride a 20-foot wave? Why not? What kinda reason could you make up not to ride the wave of your life?

Oh, you’re scared. That’s the same reason to paddle into a six-foot wave when you’re used to four-foot waves. We’re surfers, right. We all want to get better and push onto the next level. We all want to experience something new and something different. And for those that are into that, maybe you, paddling into a 20-foot wave is about as challenging and exhilarating as it gets.

Wait, what’s that about dying? Yeah, that is the big elephant in the room. But more people die in little waves than big waves. I know, it ain’t much comfort. But when you get in the ocean that’s part of the deal. The bigger it is, the more the chances go up. But, listen: even the craziest big-wave surfer has more of a chance of dying in a car crash en route to wherever than from having the air squeezed out of him.

That said, let me make something clear. The maybe-dying part doesn’t get me off at all. I don’t get some kind of thrill from the surfing-is-deadly thing. I ain’t in a hurry to add martyrdom to my vices. I love to surf, man. It’s something I just dig. Today I was surfing with my kid and it was fun foot and I couldn’t have been happier.

“The maybe-dying part doesn’t get me off at all. I don’t get some kind of thrill from the surfing-is-deadly thing. I ain’t in a hurry to add martyrdom to my vices. I love to surf, man.”

 

Anyway, let’s do this thing. First up, the chances of all the ingredients coming together to actually paddle into a 20-footer at Cloudbreak (Fiji) or Mavericks (California) or Jaws (Maui), Punta de Lobos (Peru) or Belharra (France) is low. Everything has to be right. The waves have to turn on. You can’t be sick, you can’t be out of shape, and your boards have to be ready to go. So you gotta be patient.

Butterflies? Yeah, I get ’em too. Serious butterflies. From the moment I see a potential swell on the map to packing my boards I get butterflies. And if it’s  extraordinary swell, like Jaws or Mavs, I get a genuine fear. But all that nervousness, all that fear, goes away when you get into the lineup. And it should for you, too. If it doesn’t, if you’re hesitating or overcome by nervousness, maybe it just ain’t your day.

But then again maybe you just need a push in the right direction. I calm myself by thinking about what a special day this is; that it may not be like this again for years. I try and get myself into a mental state where I want to push myself.

So what does a 20-foot wave look like? It looks scary as shit. There’s a huge difference between a 15-foot wave and a 20-foot wave. It’s not just a difference of five feet. It’s bigger, it’s thicker, it’s more dangerous (sorry!). There’s a huge separation of people who surf 20-feet and those who surf 15 feet. Twenty feet is where it gets really, really serious.

What kinda skill set you need? Not a lot. You really just need to the balls to paddle in. To ride one well requires some serious skill but just to make it down the face, you don’t have to be a great surfer.

Now let’s paddle in. If you’re in the right spot, whip it around, put your head down and go. You can’t hesitate. Head down and totally commit. Do I hesitate sometimes? Of courses. I hesitate all the time. Sometimes for good reason, sometimes it’s a big mistake, sometimes it’s genuinely out of fear. It’s part of the deal. I’ve looked at a lot of good waves and not gone. My general theory is that there’s no wave worth killing yourself for.

Once you’re at the point of no return, your tail is lifting and your about to drive down the face, everything, all that nervousness disappears. Sure, you’re hyper-aware of making a mistake but, in the moment, you’re focussed and completely in the zone. You think of nothing and, instead, you’re relying on all your past experiences to get you through.

When everything goes right, like at Puerto Escondido recently, it’s like being a super fucking ugly guy and having sex with the hottest super model on the planet. It’s like you pulled off the impossible. Because everythitng in the universe has to align for you to get this ride that you’ll remember for the rest of your life. And there should only be a handful of these in any surfers’ life, waves that you truly remember. That feeling is rare and elusive as hell. It’s a mix of pure elation and accomplishment.

When everything goes wrong, it’s the shittiest feeling. You immediately go from this mode where you’re out there thinking, I’m going to charge, this is going to make my day, Why and I so fucking selfish? Why did I do this? Now I’m at the bottom of the ocean and about to drown. But you won’t drown. This is what you trained for. Remember that. Breath-holding training is important here. If you know you can handle two waves on the head, you  won’t punch that big red panic button lighting up in your head. At least not straight away.

For your first 20-foot paddle experience, and obviously this depends on your ability to travel at a moment’s notice, I’d go to Belharra in France. It’s the outer reef at the port town of St-Jean-de-Luz. There are no rocks, there are channels on both sides and the wave dies out into deep water. And at 20-feet it’s barely breaking. You’ll need a ski to get out there, but I’m guessing you already figured that out.

And here’s something you may not have thought about: the comedown after such a tremendous event. It’s almost like postpartum depression. You have this crazy euphoric moment when it’s happening where you’re on this razor’s edge and you feel like you’ve reached the absolute pinnacle of your life but then…almost in slow motion… it starts to fade as you reach the channel. Even though you just rode the wave of your life and you knew it and felt it while you were riding, it evaporates as you flick off and becomes, immediately, past tense. It’s such an emotional swing! You’re definitely not high forever.