Got a little under two mill? Buy Owen Wright's
almost beachfront, almost Lennox Heads crib!
Who doesn’t dream of chucking in the big-city
life for an existence punctuated by the morning call of
native birds, a honey-skinned and undemanding gal lolling around on
the futon massaging her clitoral branches, and empty warm-water
beachbreaks? Shelter, Morning of the Earth, they
knew the allure. Come, come, it’s a real-life garden of Eden.
I don’t buy it. I like the city. The noise, the people, the
constant incentive to improve or perish.
But maybe you’re different. Maybe you’ve got a little cash and
you want beachfront (or almost beachfront), you want warm and you
want empty. If this sounds like you, click here to find out about Owen Wright’s
surplus house at 3 Bradman Court, Skennars Head just near Lennox
Head and a short drive from Byron Bay.
Wright, the almost 25 year old, is currently rated 12th in the
world after sitting out most of 2013 with an injury, bought the
joint four years ago (for $1.4 mill) and has been letting it out as
a holiday rental at ‘tween three and five gees a week. The former
world number three (2011) also has a Federation-style house in
Byron Bay that he bought for $975,000 around the same time. The
year after those two purchases he bought a beachfront townhouse at
Thirroul on the NSW South-ish Coast for $600k.
You like this crib? It has a pool that meanders through the main
house, too. Luxury!
Negotiating tip: go in at one-two. BeachGrit
is guessing O is okay with taking a little hit. Y’buy property in
the provinces, you don’t expect to make a killing. Am I right?
Santa Cruz-expat Ira Mowen's odd project about a
once-a-day wave that is, suddenly, in grave peril!
Can you imagine what it’s like to be a surfer living in
Berlin? Yeah, sure, you’ve got all those cultural hits
playing (marvel at the Brandenburg gate, the Reichstag, hunks of
the old Berlin Wall, stroll down the Kurfustendamm, hit the bars
and clubs) but old habits die the hardest.
Ira Mowen drifted into Berlin from the States and had soon
accrued all the attachments necessary for modern hipsterdom (moto,
cute cams, twin fin, mat, journals, Polaroids, long hair parted
delicately in the middle and accessorised with beard etc) but was
missing the most important ingredient, waves to shred.
And then after six years, there it was. The massive wake created
by a poorly designed ship coming back to port, once a day.
Head-high, fast and fat.
“Like a head-high swell hitting 38th, in Capitola in Santa
Cruz,”, says Mowen.
Except it’s real hard to catch. So hard Mowen had a seven-foot,
twin-keel Simmons-style sled built for the joint.
Anyway, the ship that creates the wave is being replaced by a
ship that’s sleeker, faster, with a hull that ain’t got the same
gas-guzzling drag. But sleeker equals no wave. And so Mowen is
making a film (and selling tees, books, framed photos too) about
the experience.
Throw some cash at his Kickstarter (click here) and at least let’s get some pretty
pictures of it before it vanishes…
Chas Smith reads from Welcome to Hawaii Now Go to
Hell. Here, Eddie Rothman slaps Billabong's Graham Stapelberg…
From the author: The extract you’ll hear comes
roughly one-third of the way through the book, if I recall, and was
a dream come true. I had sold the concept to my publisher based on
past North Shore experience. The New York executives sat across the
table and rubbed their eyes in disbelief as I described the ever
beautiful but ever ominous North Shore. I sold the dream/nightmare
and was hoping beyond hope that the 2011 season would live up to
the hype. Eddie going to the Billabong house and having a slap
while I was flying across the Pacific far exceeded even my wildest
hopes. That event sent the tone for my winter of 2011. It was
grandly amazing. Everyone was more tense, more scared, more weird,
more North Shore. Surfers of all stripes were, quite literally,
shaking as they walked down the bike path for their daily surf
check. And then John John won the Triple Crown. It was perfect. It
was so perfect, in fact, that I only needed 24 hrs to tell the
whole story. Fortuna? She loved me that winter. She loved me
lots.”
Opiates, self-loathing and sit-ups. Wait, screw the
sit-ups…
It’s been a rough year. I destroyed
my shoulder bodysurfing Pipe last December, got it rebuilt using a
dead man’s ligaments and assorted screws. Fought through physical
therapy long enough to break my collar bone spearfishing. Sat out
two months of life waiting for it to heal and then copped a bone
infection that put me put for two more. I’ve got this recovery
thing down.
Drugs
Opiates, weed, and booze are your friends. Pop a few Percocet,
hit the bong and drown your sorrows. You won’t heal any faster, but
life will pass in a blissful stupor. One day you’ll wake up hung
over and dope sick because your asshole doctor cut you off from the
gravy train and you don’t know any teenagers to score dope from,
but that’s a worry for tomorrow. Today you’re riding high in the
sky rambling on to your wife about the ASP judging criteria and how
they’re obviously inflating scores to create more tension during
heats.
Self loathing
This one dovetails nicely with the preceding. Spend hours in
front of a mirror, watch your waistline expand and your upper body
shrivel. Gaze in awe as your cock shrinks in increments, as
your shorts cut deeper and deeper into that sagging pile of shit
your call a stomach. You disgusting pile of shit, you should be
ashamed of yourself.
Contemplate suicide
Don’t do it. Offing yourself is for fucking losers and
pussies. But think about how you’d do it, should you ever turn into
such a sad sack piece of shit that you can’t think of any better
option than flipping the off switch and joining the void. Would you
don black face and drive around running stop signs in LA? Swallow
the balance of that bottle of benzos and chase it with half a
bottle of gin? Go old school and kick out a chair while wearing an
extension cord necktie? So many choices, but how to choose?
Alienate your loved ones
Fuck ’em anyway. What do they know about what you’re going
through. You’re the only person who’s ever suffered this much in
the history of humanity. Your wife’s a selfish bitch. Who cares
what she cooks for dinner? Why can’t she just leave you the fuck
alone. Throw a chair at her, call her fat, tell her she’s the
biggest mistake you ever made. If you’ve gotta feel this bad, make
everyone around you share the pain.
Do sit-ups
Nah, fuck that. Play video games. Go online and write racist
messages on youtube. Wallow in your own despair until it fills your
gut and spills out every orifice you have. Call an old lady a
faggot. Fuck this world and everyone in it.
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Is Sterling Spencer's new film Gold the
greatest surf movie ever made? Probably, yes!
In which, among other things, Mark Occhilupo admits
his largest regret.
Gerard Butler stood at the urinal pissing a vigorous
stream. He had been holding it in all the way down the red
carpet, those infernal camera flashes flashing. Through the
interviews. Past empty conversations with drones. Fame was a heavy
burden. Heaviest, maybe, on his bladder.
But, for the moment, he was free and his flow was strong. He
looked to his left and it was empty. And he looked to his right.
There, he saw a handsome young man with a chestnut brown face and
lips as soft as pillows.
“You in the biz?” he asked.
“No, I’m just Sterling,” the young man responded. “Abby’s
brother.”
Gerard squinted his eyes, recognizing certain features shared by
his most recent co-star Abby, or Abigail, Spencer. “I see it,” he
confirmed, before continuing, “Do you know who Rob Lowe is? Damn
it. You look just like Rob Lowe…”
The young man said nothing. Gerard kept looking at him, sighed
his approval, then zipped up and waltzed into the night feeling
like a new man.
Sterling Spencer also left, feeling very good but not because he
had a satisfying micturition. He had, in fact, been unable to
perform while Gerard Butler stared directly into his face. He felt
very good because he was not Rob Lowe. He was, rather, what Rob
Lowe dreamed of being. A professional surfer and he knew he was on
the brink of his own total fame.
Surf has, for the past sixty years, held a unique place in
America’s cultural mythology. It represents vitality, youth, sun,
perfection in a way nothing else quite does. Tom Wolfe wrote it
better, though, in his essay about La Jolla called The Pump House
Gang. “Surf is yip yip yow and the bronzed surfer is a-oooooga
a-oooooga honk honk zow!”
And even though surf is being represented everywhere these days,
from Chanel to Mazda to Visa to the Point Break remake and even
though everyone, including Rob Lowe, wants to be a surfer, surf’s
true stars are unknown outside of the cloister. Kelly Slater would
maybe get a second glance on the street but that is mostly because
he dated Pamela Anderson. And Gisele Bundchen. And Cameron
Diaz.
Sterling was born knowing that even though everyone wants to be
a surfer, to become truly famous, as a surfer, is a very difficult
nut. He knew because his father, Yancy III, is a legend in surf
circles. Sometimes called “The Duke of Gulf” and other times the
“Godfather of East Coast Surfing,” Yancy III brought the sport of
kings to Floridian rednecks. A statue has been erected in his honor
in the town of Pensacola. But outside, Yancy’s legend means
nothing. Initially, Sterling didn’t care. He looked up to his dad
and wanted to be a surfer just like him.
He had the skill and the inimitable style born of great
genetics. He danced on waves. His turns were almost perfect and his
airs were second to none. The people on the beach went crazy
anytime Sterling paddled out. They just couldn’t get enough.
He started competing on the east coast National Scholastic Surf
Association tour when he was very young. The E.C. NSSAs are, in
many regards, more difficult than surfing’s World Championship Tour
where Kelly Slater has won twelve titles, smashing a field of
drunks and heroin addicts. The competition is stiffer in the NSSAs
and the stakes higher. Sterling shrugged off the pressure and
surfed better than anyone, eventually winning four titles in a row.
He was sponsored by surfwear manufacturer Billabong and laughing
all the way to the bank. He was getting paid hundreds of thousands
of dollars to float in the ocean. Then he laughed at Billabong and
traded them in for Rusty.
One night, though, fate intervened in the form of a centaur.
Sterling says it was not dreaming. He says he was wide awake when
he walked outside the family home to the woods. There, a half man,
half horse approached him and said, “You will never be famous.”
Sterling responded, “What? I’m four time NSSA champion. I’m
sponsored by Billabong and someday Rusty.” but the centaur was
unimpressed. He shook his head and said, “No. You will never be
famous.” Sterling decided, then and there, to prove him wrong.
His older sister, Abby, had already taken a more direct route to
fame via Hollywood. She has been lauded for roles in Mad Men, This
Means War, Rectify, Oz the Great and Powerful and alongside Gerard
Butler in Chasing Mavericks. Sterling, though, decided to get
famous as a surfer. He quit competing knowing that anyone outside
of the surf world could not care less about titles and started a
blog showcasing his unique ability, soon winning Surfer Magazine’s
Battle of the Blogs. He became a big swell daredevil, snagging one
of the largest waves ever ridden in the world off the coast of
Alabama. He was interviewed by CNN’s Anderson Cooper. And he just
finished filming his biopic titled “Gold.” James Franco recently
caught a private screening and told Sterling, “I’m speechless. I’ve
never seen anything this good in my entire life.” They subsequently
became best friends.
Fame, real fame, is now within his grasp. Sterling is fairly
nonchalant about it though, saying, “Surfing and being number one
are really easy for me.” The ease can be seen in this film
where a young Sterling finds his Occy. The greatest surf film of
all time? Probably.