Stay out of the water, says the Reunion-born WSL
surfer Jeremy Flores…
There are few things in life as predictable as shark
attacks on Reunion Island, at least since a 19km marine
reserve was established on the west coast in 2007.
Yesterday, Elio Canestri, 13, was surfing a fun little
left-and-right reef called Les Aigrettes, just around the
corner from Cap Homard on the west coast, with his two buddies
Nicolas and Lucas. The water was clear, so y’can’t blame that, it
was nine am, so it wasn’t dawn or dusk.
Killed, like that. In front of his pals and five other
surfers.
“All these sharks, bro, fuck, it’s the real deal,” says the
Reunion-born WSL surfer Jeremy Flores. “Perfect waves. Sunny day.
Eight kids in the water and the shark attacked in the middle of
everyone. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine how those kids
feel?”
Jeremy’s mom phoned him an hour after the attack. Her friend
lives in front of the break. Saw everything.
“I can’t tell you how many times I surfed that place by myself,”
says Jeremy. “When I heard it was a young kid, thirteen years old,
I started shaking. I could picture myself at the same age, frothing
with all my friends, just trying to get a surf. On Reunion, it’s a
small surfing community, everyone knows each other, and I’ve lost
some really close brothers to shark attacks, but this time, to be a
thirteen-year-old, one of the best surfers on the island, with all
his life in front of him. To die like that, so young, is
terrible.”
Last year, Jeremy flew to Reunion for two weeks to see old
pals and family. The surf pumped. And he didn’t touch his
surfboard.
“It wasn’t worth it to take the risk. It took a long time for
people to realise how bad the situation is. People thought it was
like everywhere in the world. But, right now, we have the world
record for attacks for how many people are here. It’s not like
everywhere in the world.”
Jeremy ain’t down for environmental slaughter, he loves the
ocean, and says he’s “aware that sharks are everywhere and that I
could get attacked. But on Reunion Island, “it’s a 50-50
proposition.”
When the marine reserve was created eight years ago, Jeremy says
it didn’t create a haven for pretty little fish to swish past
amazed snorkelers. Instead, it became a breeding ground for
bullsharks who quickly cleared the reserve of most other life.
“We used to see a lot of reef sharks and turtles,” says Jeremy.
“Now it’s… dead. Bull sharks are very
territorial.”
If these kinds of stories hit your radar, you’ll know that two
months ago, a swimmer a 20-year-old swimmer was bitten on her leg
five metres from shore in southwestern l`Etang-Sale, just south of
St Leu’s dreamy lefts, and died of a cardiac arrest.
In August 2012, Fabien Bujon was surfing St Leu when a
bouldogue went for him. He kicked it. Off came his
foot. He went for its eyes and gills. The shark took his hand off
to the wrist. With his remaining hand Fabian kept ahold of the
beast’s vulnerable gills. He survived. With a limp and an empty
handshake.
A year later a 15-year-old girl was killed while snorkelling
five metres from shore. Only two months before that a honeymooning
surfer was attacked by bull sharks in front his new wife.
In mainland France, popular television shows make jokes that the
country’s Paralympic team is comprised mostly of athletes from
Reunion.
Ironically, the most popular documentary doing the rounds in
France at the moment is Les requins de la colère, a romanticised
take on sharks. It suggests that since the movie
Jaws mankind has a paranoid fear of sharks; that they
aren’t a real danger.
But, y’gotta ask: Is this the end of surfing on Reunion Island?
Will the concerns of well-meaning environmentalists trump those of
a community whose lives are built around the ocean?
Maybe there’s a third way. Three days ago, the local government
announced it had raised enough shekels to net three beaches around
St Gilles. If you saw Modern Collective and Jordy Smith’s
Bending Colours you’ll know it’s most famous wave, a
righthander just around the corner from the town’s marina.
Jeremy says his Dad has been “working his ass off 24 hours a
day” with the local government to make the nets happen. And, he
says, his Dad told him to “stay out of the water until the beaches
are secured.”
It ain’t real PC but you know there’ll be trolls out there
saying the kid was in the sharks lair, that he knew the risks
etc.
But, says Jeremy, “You can’t be mad for a kid wanting to go
surf. If I was that kid, I would’ve gone surfing too. Surfing’s
been prohibited for two years. But it’s all we have on Reunion. The
ocean is all we have. When you take the ocean away, we have
nothing.
“But if I had to stay something, I would say, stay out of the
water. Stay… out… of… the… water. Stay out until the
beaches are secured by nets.”
The Surfer’s Journal, as discussed on this very
website, is a thing of art and I am lucky enough to, at
times, contribute. This past issue, I wrote a story on Raimana Van
Bastolear, the mayor of Teahupo’o. Bon appetit.
Raimana Van Bastolear Doesn’t Own a Boat
Paul Gauguin had it right. It’s the tropics, man. The palm tree,
salmon sunset, rainbow tropics. The slow time, trade wind, warm
coconut scent on a patch hot sand tropics. And the best tropics?
French colonial ones. Paul Gaugin had it oh so right.
But Raimana Van Bastolear has it righter. He is the eminence of
Teahupo’o, arguably Tahiti’s most precious resource. Most surfers
have consumed this mutant wave via magazine spreads and surf
competition webcasts. There its craw gapes like a hungry troll.
There it eats one surfer and sends another to barrel spit’d fame.
It is adorned in Billabong, Red Bull, badly color blocked trucker
hats. Its voice is an ASP commentator using adjectives poorly and
metaphors hyperbolically. In person, though, Teahupo’o is neither
mutant nor surf garbed yokel. It is postcard with soaring green
crags and lavender water. It is a pile of French rot at the end of
a two-lane road and it is perfect.
Nothing, you see, rots better than French. It’s as if French
colonizers, architects, chefs and priests in their wisdom, built a
culture that looks and feels best coming undone. The Tahitians
speak the language with a buttery patois drawl and it sounds more
magnificent than it does on the Left Bank of Paris’s Sienne. They
worship God with many French misspellings in the prayer book and it
becomes raucous southern gospel. They cook the food without
actually cooking it, serving poisson cru bathed in coconut milk for
every meal. They defy Western ambition by driving 40 km. Max. Which
makes Western ambition seem a foolish pastime.
And I sit on a weathered deck hanging over perfectly temperate
water and try to sit back even further. Like, the furthest back
without actually laying down, soaking in the slow time and the
French rot and not caring about anything at all. Especially not
fast internet connections. And even though slow time is one of the
things that makes the tropics oh so right I see Raimana moving in
front of my half-closed eyes, through the postcard, like a bolt.
His cell phone buzzes. His jet ski whines. His many family members,
friends, helpers, employees run this way and that, cooking,
cleaning, sailing, loading, building. Being the eminence of any
place is work but very much more apparent in the oh so right
tropics.
To the uninitiated, the professional surf life is two very
disparate things at once; free and structured. It is the vast
oceanic playground sans the traditional “stick and ball”
rules-based ethos. It is also a business where talents are groomed
according to a specific, painstakingly followed, code. This
happens, of course, every winter on Oahu’s North Shore. Young
charges are sent into homes owned and operated by the surf brands.
There they learn where to paddle out, when to paddle out, what
boardshorts to wear with what t-shirt, who to talk to and when,
etc. Strict guidance is surfing’s manna. The North Shore, however
grand a social experiment as it is, is not the only school. Young
charges get taught at contests, photoshoots, and when they travel
to the middle of the South Pacific. It is, genuinely, a wonder that
eighteen year old boys can even get to a place as remote as
Teahupo’o to begin with. The nearest airport is an hour plus away,
there are no hotels, real restaurants or infrastructure and the
language, however buttery, can be a real barrier to entry. Its
remoteness necessitates a Raimana. He feeds, ferries and looks
after the future of the sport. He also, quietly, provides the best
education they will ever receive, as it relates to surfing one of
the heaviest waves on the planet and living well. And this
combination makes him invaluable.
I watch him while sipping on a lukewarm Hinano but watching
Raimana’s spark I remember that without ambition there would be no
refrigeration. Or colonization. And I hoist myself up to go speak
with him, which is harder than it sounds. Raimana Van Bastolear is
in demand. There is Quiksilver, and all the Quiksilver surfers, in
one of his houses causing trouble and dreaming up schemes. There is
a crew of seventy shooting a Visa commercial in one of his other
houses. It stars Kolohe Andino, apparently, ordering pizza on a
cellphone in a barrel. There is the Point Break production
team, somewhere. There was Giselle Bundchen and a Chanel crew who
just left. And there is the Billabong Pro coming in just five days
and with it badly color blocked trucker hats and Red Bull.
Raimana runs it all and that is why this pile of French rot at
the end of a two-lane road is called Raimana World. When I finally
reach him (my legs feel like they are wading through sweet black
molasses) I assume he is going to bark at me that he is busy
(because he is) and send me back to my virtually laid back
position, warm beer in hand. I don’t necessarily rue this fate but
he does not. He looks at me, eyes smiling, and tells me to meet him
on the dock where we can sit with our feet dangling in the water
because it is cooler then the deck.
Teahupo’o, the wave, can be heard thundering on the reef a
kilometer out to sea and my very first question to him is how he
first came to ride the wave. His face lights up. It is always
light. It is warm like very few faces I have ever come across but
it is both warm and wistful when speaking about that wave.
“Ahhhhhh I used to bodyboard out there in the middle 1990s. One
day I was out there with my brother-in-law Kahea
Hart…brother-in-law…that’s how you call your sister’s husband,
yeah? Yeah. And anyhow he yell at me to go get him his board from
the boat. So I paddle to the boat and get his board and start
paddling it back out to him. He used to ride for MCD. Remember MCD?
Used to be owned by the same guy who had Gotcha? Ha! That guy liked
to party. And I was paddling back out when a huge set came through.
I was in position because it swung wide and the boys were shouting,
‘Go Raimana! Go!” So I went. I paddled into one and got barreled.
That was my first wave surfing out there. It was a two-page spread
in Surfing magazine.”
Every part of this first story is perfect. A young man lost in
bodyboarding’s false glory is perfect. A call to surfing arms is
perfect. More Core Division and its place in fashion’s lore is
perfect. Micheal Tomson is always perfect (he really does like to
party). And getting a two-page spread in a surf magazine on the
first wave ever ridden while standing up is perfect. It is so
perfect that it sounds apocryphal which, in turn, makes it so very
French, Joan du Arc-style French, and it feels just like it
should.
Raimana’s expression does not change during its telling. He is
neither reveling in his own legend nor disappearing behind a cloud
of false modesty. It is as light as Scandinavian summer and as easy
as Sunday morning. I hear a bustling off to my right. Raimana’s
people are loading a boat with either Point Break people
or Visa people. His cell phone buzzes but he ignores it like he
ignores them and keeps his focus straight ahead. I gesture while
asking, “How did you go from a bodyboarder cum surfer du jour to
the man in charge?” and he stays the same amount wistful.
“Soooooo it was back in the day and I was cruising in town and I
saw Pancho Sullivan and Noah Johnston sleeping in their car on the
beach. I went up to them and said, ‘Where are you guys staying?’
and they said, ‘Here in our car.’ and I said, ‘No way. You come and
stay with me in my house.’ They came with me and then went back to
Hawaii and told all of their friends, ‘Hey there is this guy
Raimana and you have to stay with him when you go out and surf
Teahupo’o so then all the boys started staying with me…”
A boat speeds near, cutting the engine right in front of
Raimana. Its driver shouts something in sexy, decrepit French.
Raimana answers in the same patois. The boat driver nods, sparks
the engine and speeds toward a sun sliding lower down the sky.
Watching the boats, here, it is amazing that more of them don’t end
up on the reef. They fly so fast, skirting deadly shelves with
studied abandon. I would, for sure, put all of the boats on the
island on coral outcroppings, if I was left in charge, and it would
be a monument to myself and oceanic incompetence but also a roaring
good time. Raimana watches him go and then turns to me again,
having lost his train of thought.
“…what was I saying again?” I tell him, “About Hawaiian surfers
who flocked to your home but that part I get. Surfers are always
looking for maximum ease and your home on the beach, as close to
the wave as possible, provides maximum ease. You could have fed
them Spam and had them sleep in hammocks and they would have kept
coming. But Visa and Point Break are two different things,
altogether. Those sorts of bastards are demanding…to mention
nothing of Giselle.” Raimana does not struggle to come to terms
with the difference between feral Hawaiian surfers and
international supermodels. He answers both quickly and at once, “I
love to show the world what we Tahitians have. We have so much to
give. There are no paparazzi here. The people respect each other,
pretty much, and respect the stars. No one approaches a famous
person and says, ‘Whoa! Give me blah blah blah.’ They either ask
first or just let people be.”
It could sound like a cliché except it is not. Corporate
interests, which grow in both size and scope, and celebrity guests,
which flock more and Johnny Depp-er are testament to the special
little world Raimana has built on the back of a decayed colonial
system. French hospitality has never been a “thing.” Gauls are
known for superiority complexes, snootiness and a general
dismissiveness of all things non-French. But “French hospitality,”
coming undone in tropical Tahiti, is, again, the dream at its
zenith. It is not that Raimana is overly attentive to the needs and
whims of monied Western interests. It’s, maybe, that he provides
them enough to be happy, in the simplis and no more. Roofs, if they
need. Boats, if they need. Food cooked simply by his family, if
they need. Otherwise people are left alone in a tropical milieu
that will drive the most heartless toward luminescent
adjectives.
Another boat speeds toward Raimana. This time its driver doesn’t
bother speaking. He just contorts his face in a way readily
understandable then speeds off. So French! I ask Raimana if all of
these boats are his and he laughs. “No. I owned a boat for a little
while but then sold it and now I just rent them from the guys.” So
smart! It is a known fact from Papeete to Pittsburgh that boat
ownership is a losing proposition. It is pure ego and Raimana does
not want or need the extra headache. He is smart enough to know
where living well runs over pride and consumption. I ask him what
his big dream is. Does he, for example, want to build a hotel on
this magnificent land and get rich and host Vanity Fair parties? He
laughs again, “No no no. What I would love to do is buy a big piece
of land and build one house, like the Volcom House on the North
Shore, where all the surfers can live together like a family…” The
houses he has now are not quite big enough to host everyone all at
once. Team managers, photographers, surfers and various hoi polloi
scatter between a few houses that are all beautiful and simple but
still scattered. “…and then I’d build one house for corporations or
people who want to come over here and do stuff but that’s all. I
wouldn’t do anything bigger because then you can’t give the people
quality. That’s why people come here. They spend all that money on
plane tickets and rental cars and they come here and just want to
be taken care of. It’s the one time in their lives that they can
get that and that’s what I want to do.”
Again, it sounds cliché but speaking to the Quiksilver team,
currently occupying one of the houses, their experiences at
Teahupo’o are exceptional. They feel safe on an extremely unsafe
wave. They feel cared for even though their own families are
thousands of miles away. Raimana wipes a bead of sweat from his
brow and I ask, “To what end? It is very great to provide such a
wonderful time to foreigners, and also to help prop up the local
economy, but what is in it for you?” And there is that smile again,
that magical tropical smile. “I still want to surf those big waves
at Teahupo’o. I want to do what Laird does. He is 50 and still
playing in the ocean. I want to play in the ocean.”
And with that a third boat driver whips in. There is some minor
emergency somewhere and Raimana is needed. He bows out, politely
and apologetically, and I hop on a vessel heading out toward the
wave. The sun is low now and everything looks ridiculously
beautiful as we skim over turquoise, blue, green velvety water.
Then I see the iconic judges stand bolted to the reef. Then I see
the wave itself, which is jaw-dropping to even the most jaded of
surf journalists. It is not giant Teahupo’o but it is big, solid
and spitting. Koa Rothman and Mikey Wright hoot while hopping out
and joining the rest in a lineup getting ready for the contest. I
ask the photographers and Quiksilver’s legendary Nicholas Dazet,
who remain on the boat, if they have ever surfed it. “Are you
kidding me?” is the consensus. “Anything that is safer when it is
bigger is not to be touched.” I happily sit and drink it all in as
the sun goes very low. It is the tropics, man. The perfect Tahitian
coconut scented tropics.
And when the sun is all the way gone and the stars twinkle
overhead the boat heads back to one of Raimana’s houses. A feast
has already been laid out and cast and crew launch in with reckless
abandon. I sit at a quiet corner table with Raimana and his mom. He
seems exhausted, eating his French bread and poisson cru
slightly hunched over, but he also seems satisfied. The young
charges are safe. The Visa crew, in another house, got the
clips for which they came. It has been a successful day. We make
small talk, surf gossip, laugh and then he excuses himself to go
sort another minor emergency.
Soon the Teahupo’o season will come to a close and Raimana will
have a moment’s peace. He can let the slow time wash over him. He
can dangle his feet in the water and drink lukewarm Hinano and just
be. We are passing through, but at the end of the day, it is
Raimana World. Or as Jay-Z says, “I’m not a businessman. I’m a
business, man.”
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Gimme: Julia Roberts’ $30 million Hanalei
Bay spread!
By Derek Rielly
Two-acres of the primest surf-soaked land in the
world…
Hanalei Bay is a two-mile stretch of white sand beach
with a righthand point in its northern corner that’ll hold
fifteen feet and then some. In the middle of the long crescent of
sand is the beachbreak, Pine Trees, famous for turning two poor
local boys, Andrew and Bruce Irons, into two of the world’s
greatest surfers.
Yesterday it was revealed that the Oscar-winning actor Julia
Roberts has put her Kauai estate, which features an historic
100-year-old house once owned by the sugar baron Peter Fayé, on the
market for the precise figure of $$29,850,000.
An astute investor who has other holdings on Kauai, Ms Julia
bought the swinging crib for $14 million in 2011, five mill less
than the asking price at the time.
She ain’t alone, celeb-wise, on the island. Kung Fu movie star
Chuck Norris, Mark Zuckerberg (Creepbook) and Oakley founder
James Jannard (Thermonuclear!) are all in or around Hanalei. So,
too, are some of the most vocally local surfers in the world. You
heard of the Wolfpak? It was born in Kauai, 2001. (Click here to read!)
What might surprise about the crib is how far it sits back from
the beachfront.
Like, you throw 30-mill at something, you want to be able to see
the ocean from your bed, yeah? According to a history of the estate
(click here), a tidal wave struck the home
in 1957 and shoved it back to the center of the property. The top
of the home remained intact and the cottage was built from the
wreckage while crews were rebuilding the bottom floor.
Right now, and presumably even afterward whomever buys, you can
rent the joint at $1500 a night for the main house and $350 for the
little cottage on the property.
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Revealed: World Surf League demolishes ripe
male bodies!
By Derek Rielly
Male nipples "too bold", too "commercially
difficult…"
Some time ago, the noted Chas Smith wrote, “The
male bosom is a thing of wonder. It is, first, more varied than its
female counterpart. It can be hard as chiseled stone or as soft as
a grandmother’s love. It can be a jungle of wild growth or as
smooth as R. Kelly. Its nipple, never or rarely hidden from sight,
doesn’t hold the fascination to a life-giving teat, but its
openness invites scrutiny.”
More importantly, he wrote that it is a “a window into man’s
soul. The male breast that is voluptuous, for example, hides a
lifetime of torment. Its bearer has cowered in locker rooms,
gymnasiums, trysts. Its bearer shies away from mirrors and warm
summer’s days, carrying an inordinate amount of shame. The male
breast that is Luke Stedman (hollow or chicken) represents all the
mountains in the world. Its bearer has climbed to great heights
with an obvious and visible flaw, though not as obvious and visible
as voluptuousness. Its bearer has become someone despite a giant
warning sign hovering right over his heart. And if he has not
become someone? His poor heart has no protection and thus
forgiveness is expected. The male breast that is Dwayne “The Rock”
Johnston is a victory in genetic lottery. Its bearer has as easy
road. Spring break? Yes, please. Spills in restaurants? Don’t mind
if I simply remove my shirt. But does the easy road properly a man
make? Is the pinnacle of male perfection really just a millstone
that sucks a fragile, half-baked soul to the bottom?”
Finally, he said, “It is amusing. What is the purpose of the
male bosom? Is it an evolutionary mistake? Does it somehow
highlight the existence of a humor-filled creator? Endless
metaphysical discussions swirl around the hirsute
areola. Surfers, and especially professional, bear their
breasts for a living. What do these tits say? What secrets do they
hold?”
Lately, the World Surf League has demolished the ripe male
bodies of professional surfers by eliminating nipples in
photographs; each rider struck down by a flesh-eating disease that
concentrates its virus on the sensitive pigmented brown skin of the
breast and the projecting papilla.
Where are John John Florence’s nipples like attack dogs?
Where are Gabriel’s brave little macaroons?
Where are teenage Filipe’s soft plums, those mysterious,
awesome, indescribably magnificent protuberances?
Is this the desolate cry of equality? Or some dreadful sin-guilt
neurosis?
“Everyone says sex is obscene,” the writer Henry Miller said.
“The only true obscenity is war.”
All that slander about "ecological terrorist"
etc… it ain't true, maybe!
Dirk Ziff, the man who owns the WSL, used to
also own a shale concession in Australia that had potential to do
mass damage to the Great Barrier Reef. We discussed this hot news
last week, pointing to a wonderfully written story by Craig
Braithwaite in The FreeRide Voice. I quietly wondered,
whilst sipping a Stolichnaya and Reed’s Extra Ginger Brew, if Mr.
Ziff was, in fact, an ecological terrorist.
But how rude! How yellow!
Did the Stolichnaya perhaps steal my sense because guess what?
Dirk Ziff sold his stake in that ugly business in August, quietly
doing the Lord’s work and not destroying our earth.
BeachGrit even received exclusive information from a
powerful industry insider (maybe the most powerful!) claiming that
Mr. Ziff sold his stake with “zero gain to himself.”
Those oil and gas holdings were valued at 1.2 billion United
States dollars. Could it be possible, might it be probable, that
Dirk Ziff is, in fact, a saint?
Trust BeachGrit to get to the bottom of this developing
story. Do you know what else pairs particularly well with
Stolichnaya? Grape juice. It is like an irreverent take on fine red
wine.