Huff Post says: Date a surfer!

Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb.

Huffington Post writers love to think about surfing when they are not thinking about founder and inspiration Arianna’s accent and/or changing political position. They write about Laird, Ron Jon, the spirituality of surfing and the deliciously healthy pancakes that surfers eat for breakfast. Quite basically, the Huffington Post is The Inertia. Their most recent, thought stirring pieces are “Yogis and Surfers Are Most Attractive On Online Dating Sites – Here’s Why” followed closely by “15 Reasons You Should Never Date A Surfer.”

The seven reasons you should date a surfer are:

-driven but non-competitive

-live/travel to beautiful places

-great bods

-attack their days


-embrace nature



The fifteen reasons you should not are:

-you come in second

-their idea of dressing up is shirt and pants

-you become a surf widow

-no quality time at the beach

-they are shit bags

-act like forever 16


-incessant talk about Kelly Slater and the WSL (?)




-but at the end you really should date one because they are mellow

Aside from the cliched writing, it is silliness because if you really and truly surf, then you know “surfers” is far too broad a category. For every dreamy Cyrus Sutton there are the way way too many 40+ men who surfs next to me on aged shit surfboards, rotund bellies pushing neoprene to its max, drooling, loudly, about whatever else fills their meaningless lives. And for every 40+ there is the Insta kid standing on Ponce Inlet beach, WaveStorm under arm going on a #hangloose #surfer #surferdude #soultraining #ripping #instagood #instashred #like4like #follow4follow frenzy.

Nothing makes a surfer except surfing. Anyone can do it and its democratic nature makes me happy sometimes (when I’m surfing alone/with Derek Rielly) and angry sometimes (when I can’t paddle fast enough to beat the 40+ for waves). We are a tribe of 1.6 billion and if you want to date one, who knows what’s going to show up at your door!

P.S. The other day a Cadillac honked at me because it thought I was in the way. I was not. I got out of my car and charged up to his window. It was a 75 year old Indian man. I said, “Why the fuck did you honk?” He said, “I did not see what you were trying to do.” I said, “Never honk at me again. Ever.” And then turned and walked away. He tried to mumble something and I charged back up to his window and said, “Do you want me to pull you out of this car and kick your ass?” He was a 75 year old Indian man. He had his 8 year old grandson in the passenger seat. He looked horrified, said, “No” and drove away.

Mellow my motherfucking ass.

Chippa Wilson from drone
Ain't that angle from the cartilaginous remote-control bird something else? Chip, mid-way through air-rev #1. | Photo: Alex Bowden

Wow! Chippa Wilson’s Double Air-Reverse!

From the angle of the remote-control bird… 

Alex Bowden is a 23-year-old filmmaker, atelier and drone operator from Cabarita in New South Wales. Using two of these skills, he snatched from the wind this double air-reverse of his friend, Chris “Chippa” Wilson.

Chippa had sent Alex a message telling him the surf was better than average and that he might like to film with his cartilaginous remote control bird. Alex’s bird of choice is the Drone Phantom, which cost $1200 one year ago and which he has affixed a high-end GoPro ($600) and a viewing screen which he uses to see what the camera is filming, cost $300.

On this day, Alex had made three trips back to his little caravan that he keeps on the property of his parent’s farm to fish for various pieces that were missing from his drone set-up, batteries etc. When he eventually came back and sent his bird into the sky, just two minutes later, this is what occurred.

“There was another photographer on the beach and we looked at each other and went, ‘What?'”

Alex has form on a number of levels. He had a clothing label called Bammf which he only recently shut down, makes short films, snatches the occasional wedding and shoots surfing here and there, mostly on the drone.

“It’s pretty cheap for what it does,” he says. “That’s why I got into it.”

Once, he even flew his drone into the backyard of the Big Brother house in Queensland and dropped one of his Bammf tees there. He used a technique he’d seen a fisherman employ to drop bait a kilometre offshore where a coat hanger is affixed to the bird’s undercarriage and the pilot, back on land, gyrates the drone back and forth to shake loose its cargo. (Click here to watch.)

On the t-shirt was a skull and the words, “Fuck your mum.”

“I hate the show,” says Alex. “It’s degrading to put all those people in a little room and then monitor their behaviour.”

Alex also has concerns with the drone.

“I feel like drones are pushing the barrier of giving civilians too much fucking control,” he says. “I flew a shirt into the Big Brother house, flew around the CBD of Melbourne. Man, you could strap a bomb to those things.”

Wait, relax! He ain’t!

He’s got movies to make (Alex has a degree in filmmaking), music videos (Click here)  and (Click here) and he’s going to stretch that remote-control bird angle to its distant limit.

Jeremy Flores at Rip Curl Pro Bells
Jeremy Flores not-wins at the Rip Curl Pro, Bells Beach. The Madagascan lion tries hard, but conditions too difficult! | Photo: WSL

Just in: What Happened to Surfing’s Great Rebel Tour?

You're looking at it!

How well do you remember 2010? If you’re like me the answer is, due to a probably too heavy indulgence in various illicit substances, “vaguely.”

You may, however, have a dim recollection of something called the “Rebel Tour.”

For a minute it was all anyone was talking about. Slater, the biggest swinging dick around, was on board and singing its praises to anyone who would listen. Lurking in the long grass were Terry Hardy, Slater’s manager, and Mat Tinley, a former boxing promoter and nephew of cable television billionaire, Bill Daniels.

The ASP was blowing it, they said, splitting the broadcast rights among event sponsors was killing its chances at scoring lucrative non endemic sponsors. The tour needed an umbrella owner and a slimmed down schedule. Sixteen surfers over eight events. Only the best riders, only the best waves.

The prize money would increase, exposure would explode. ESPN was going to partner with them and display surfing to the world. Or so the rumors went. For all the interest and attention there was never anything concrete laid out.

Back room discussions were had while public statements were largely sound and fury, signifying nothing. Except for the idea that the Rebel Tour, itself, would own broadcast rights. That was repeatedly made very clear.

It was a perfect time to shake things up. The ASP was hemorrhaging money and the introduction, quickly rescinded, of the mid-tour cutoff had the surfers approaching revolt. Event streams were a hit-or-miss proposition, with feeds constantly failing as sponsors struggled to figure out how to broadcast from remote locations. There was a feeling that pro surfing was on the verge of something big, finally gaining the mainstream stage that the money-makers had been chasing for decades, but that it was being held back by the widespread incompetence of the endemic old guard.

So what happened to the Rebel Tour? The short answer is: you’re looking at it.

Tinley was replaced in his role as media mogul by Paul Speaker and Dirk Ziff was tapped to play the billionaire financier. But Hardy got his wish, and now surfing has a sole proprietor. One which can, at least theoretically, use its position as sole owner of surfing’s competitive imagery to reap a colossal financial windfall.

Of course, there’s always a difference between talking and doing.

Those big TV deals have, as yet, eluded the new bosses, excepting the new arrangement with Globosat, a Brazilian broadcaster. Which could pay off. If any country is possessed of enough patriotic fervor to tune in en masse to its country’s finest being reduced to three-to-the-beaching-it in onshore wind slop it’s those brown-skinned South American dance machines.

As for the rest of it?

If you’re of a cynical bent, like this journalist (and I can finally call myself that since The Australian recently called me one in print, despite my never having actually taken a journalism class) you might say the rhetoric about restructuring the tour was nothing but a bunch of empty politician’s promises, meant only to weaken the resolve of a struggling industry so they could swoop in and take over.

Revealed: Ross Williams made me a cuckold!

Or why I won't be downloading the WSL app… 

“Did you know there is a WSL app?” my girl mockingly said to me as we walked home from work in the pouring rain. Then, mimicking the ad, “Get live updates to your phone.”

I replied somewhat defensively, “Yes, and don’t think that I’m going to get it.”

She just laughed and we walked on stoically in the pouring rain.

I know she wasn’t insinuating that I would get it, but I meant what I said. I won’t be getting the app. I’m sure it is great. It seems to offer me a one-stop-shop for professional surfing at my fingertips… just like the WSL website! It even looks like I can stalk the world’s best… bonus!

But no, not for me.

I admit that I’m slow to embrace new technology. It’s not because I mistrust it. I don’t think that the Government is slyly using it to monitor me (after all, I am the Government), or that it’s the Devil’s work. I’m lazy, and just that if it ain’t going to dramatically improve my life, or it doesn’t interest me or involve my job, then I am not going to engage with it. I like not being chained to a device and I like disappearing. That isn’t why I won’t be getting the app though.

Nor is it my current disdain for the state of the WT that means I won’t be getting the app. Snapper was disappointing and Bells is just Bells: a shitty, fat, cold right. True as that may be, it’s not influencing my decision.

The real reason is that my girl is unemployed, and with her new found enthusiasm for the WT, I get regular updates.

I don’t need an app when I get blow by blow accounts of the action with her own dark, comical analysis thrown in to the reports. I get all the vital information I need: the claim size to quality of wave ratio, the prayer-rate, and how many mentions that chief match-fixer God gets, and what dumb things were said by who. She even does a brilliant Ross Williams impersonation. It is remarkably creepy. Subsequently, it’s banned from the bedroom.

So that is why I won’t be getting the new WSL app. And even though it means that I won’t be able to get any new boards made for some time, I hope that she stays unemployed… at least until after Teahupoo.

But do tell me if the app is worthy as I suspect I won’t be able to successfully sabotage her career chances for much longer.

Joel Parkinson loses to Josh Kerr, round five, at unrecognisable Bells.
Joel Parkinson loses to Josh Kerr, round five, at unrecognisable Bells.

Parko: “That was hideous!”

Watch the unparalleled adventure, competitive drama and athleticism of professional surfing, day seven, Rip Curl Pro!

Now that the heavy door of the Rip Curl Pro has closed behind us for the day, let’s attempt to compose a picture. No, wait, let’s employ the exuberant eloquence of the three-time Bells winner, three-times world champion, Mick Fanning.

“It was horrible, all the waves are six different waves in one. I was trying to figure out where to go. I was losing my mind.”

Kelly Slater, losing to Gabriel Medina said, “The ceiling was pretty low out there.”

Joel Parkinson, 2012’s world champion and also a multiple Bells winner, snapped at the shaper Maurice Cole mid-stairs, “That was hideous.” His 20-minute round elimination round five heat against Josh Kerr was half done and there hadn’t been a wave scored over 0.87.

Josh Kerr volunteered this observation, “It turned into the windsurfing league not the world surfing league.”

Ross Williams, meanwhile, was no victim of bashfulness. “Jadson nearly squeezed a ton of lemonade out of that lemon”

I should fancy that many criticisms will be made today of the Rip Curl Pro, yet today produced a wonderfully dramatic effect. Perhaps a little too fascinating. Earlier today, the WSL released a press release declaring it the “most exciting time in the history of surfing!” (Click here!). 

The press release came despite Snapper being run in two-foot waves and, now, unrecognisable Bells. There’s the possibility that the first four events will be held in the crummiest waves ever seen in pro surfing since 1985 or thereabouts.

But I understand the condition of the world. Slicing the tour back to a manageable 12 surfers and separating men’s and women’s events is too radical. And so we have these unwieldy events, these determined but ultimately doomed spectacles that require one week of waves to cut through the 34 men and 17 women, both with multiple losers rounds.

It’s a bloody muddle. But I like the bitter and I like the sweets.

Tell me you won’t be tuned in tomorrow in the drum-throbbing darkness, fidgeting, waiting for the call.

Mens quarter-final heats: (Editor’s note: Likely winners have been italicised.)

1. Adriano v Gabriel (Brazil v Brazil) 2. Owen v Josh (Australia v Australia) 3. Jordy v Mick (South Africa v Australia) 4. Filipe v Nat (Brazil v USA)

Women’s quarter-final heats: 
1. Sally Fitz v Lakey Peterson (Australia v USA) 2. Carissa v Johanne Defay (Hawaii v France)
3. Stephanie v Tyler (Australia v Australia) 4. Coco Ho v Courtney Conlogue (Hawaii v USA)