I own GoPro. And Quiksilver.

You should probably get involved too if you like money and/or want more money.

Deciding to take my own advice, late Friday night, I bought GoPro. I cracked into my piggy bank, opened a Fidelity.com account, transferred money and then placed my order. 5 shares for $50.04 each. Fidelity.com warned me, with a red popup screen, that this was a bad idea. The markets were, of course, closed for the weekend and who knows what weirdness Nicholas “Nick” Woodman could get up to between Saturday and Sunday and who knows how his self-described “mad” behavior would crash the stock price.

But I am as bold as I am handsome and overrode my digital broker’s concern and placed it anyway. “What kind of investor should I be?” I wondered whilst sipping a Moscow Mule. “Should I be quiet and let my money do the talking or should I model myself off famed activist shareholder T. Boone Pickens and bark orders up the chain?”

By the time Monday’s opening bell clanged, I was decided. I would be like T. Boone Pickens and make very many demands. I know people who work at GoPro, you see, and some are as smart as they are beautiful but most are dull. They need me to guide them into a financially rich future. Especially since my position, three hours in to the trading day, is already down 5.57%.

The first order of business, then, Nick Woodman is to fire everyone who works out of your San Mateo office. I have never met anyone from the Bay Area who knew a damned thing about style and we are in the style biz. It’s how we are going to crush China. So that also means no more overly washed True Religion jeans for you either. Or way accessorized “action sports” kits.

Yes it’s time to buckle up and make some real money. By the time I’m done you will officially be able to change your business cards from “Mad Billionaire” to “Mad Millionaire.” The “Touched Trillionaire.” Alliteration has a ring.

P.S. I also own Quiksilver. 40 shares at $1.62 each. As is, for now, boys. The suit wetsuit is a work of art.

Julian Wilson Audi
…Julian Wilson is an extremely engaged consumer of cars. His ride here is as captivating as a teen girl with a naked navel between trousers belted very low and a t-shirt cut very short.

Why Surfers are Driving Audis

Can Julian Wilson, Mick Fanning, Taj Burrow and Josh Kerr really be wrong?

In the good old days, there were no Audis. Surfers drove ugly long-snouted station wagons and those fat maggots called Kombis. Every surf trip was a pain-in-the-ass that kinked the spine and drained the wallet in gas money.

That was back when the surfer was damned, persecuted, ostracised; when he was wild and deadly. When we were radicals and self-proclaimed wave-dancing outlaws, however fatuous.

Our fascination with being hard-core changed sometime in the nineties when the money spigot got turned on. Pro surfers became millionaires. Whomever happened to fall into the surf clothes game early drowned in his dividends.

The rest of us on the periphery soaked a little in it, too. Shapers made some cash if they were smart enough to market ’emselves. Even the toy-collecting graphic designers who enslaved ’emselves to brands were scooping up six-figures.

And so, naturally, our car of choice changed.

Who wants to be broken down on the side of the road or driving a car that sounds like it has asthma or swallowed by a cabin of grey plastics and cheap digital clocks pressed into the dash when we could be embraced by the finest in German engineering?

No, it ain’t Mercedes (median age of owners, 55) or BMWs, (a garish kind of teutonic Subaru).

Audi. Don’t the name just ring? Cars so graceful and beautiful they make our dreary lives seem richer. Luxury in simplicity.

Ask Julian Wilson, whom I see patrolling the streets of Bondi in a black A1 (with co-pilot Jimmy Lees) or Josh Kerr, rolling through Baja in a Q5, or even Mick Fanning, in his nut-brown A4.

Josh Kerr and his S-line series Q5.
Josh Kerr and his S-line series Q5.

Luke Stedman had a S-series wagon; Andy Irons drove a Q7, Bruce drives an A4. Taj Burrow’s three-litre  A6 became legend among his pals as it was handed from one to another, a lifeboat to his carless friends.

The three-timer Mick Fanning and his Audi A4 Avant.
The three-timer Mick Fanning and his Audi A4 Avant.

When Matt Biolos goes surfing at Lowers he doesn’t sling his Couch Potatoes and Rockets in a Dodge; he chooses a sleek black Audi A3 Sportback.

The Audi is an angel that stands in quiet piety among a crowd of grotesque bland.

Gudauskas Brothers Palestine
Pat: "Do you really like me Dane?" Dane: "I guess so." Pat: "Do you like me a whole lot?" Dane: "Look, don't get sloppy on me. I might just slug you one."

Surfing Erases All Guilt!

And therefore, eventually, you turn into a selfish tool. Is true?

After upsetting a number of people with suggestions that they should forget the world and take a horribly selfish and nihilistic approach to things, I felt bad. Had I gone too far? What was I becoming? Where did the person who worked so passionately advocating a better understanding of the mentally ill and disabled go?

(Click here to read)

So much soul searching, and such an existential crisis.

I considered penance in the form of masochism and asceticism… my default settings for life.

I usually exercise far too much, starve myself and get around in ragged clothes. But it wasn’t feasible with my work responsibilities this week, or with having a girl who cares about my well-being.

Nor did it help that I got exceptionally good waves over the weekend in a place that’s never that exceptionally good.  The memories of those sweet autumnal tubes soothed me to sleep. Whereas, if the surf had been shit, I would of spent the night locked in my head chastising myself over my insensitive jests.

Surfing seems to erase all guilt or mitigate the worst of it.

Now I’m not one for equating surfing with having mystical powers. That just seems kind of fraudulent. I kind of see the notion of communing with the sea/ocean as strange. In my experience of angry Western seas, the sea seemed anarchic, brutal and out to get you. This makes it an interesting game of cat and mouse. Perception, I guess.

If not quite as  dark a view as  above, I find the ocean is a giant jigsaw puzzle to solve and I like puzzles. Each wave becomes a game of what you can do and where. I get wrapped up in that game and I forget myself and everything else.

It becomes like that most terrible of clichés: a mild opiate.

And I guess like all good drugs, you eventually turn into a cunt. You start out dabbling, having a good time. You then start relying on it a little too much. You then need it to have a good time. You starting blowing off responsibilities to chase wind-blown slop. Then you get to a point where you just deliberately isolate yourself so that you can wallow in your habit. Unfortunately, for me, my father started me out young.

Hmmm… then again, maybe I’m just a selfish fuckwit; the result of being a firstborn.

But don’t worry BeachGrit readers, karma has caught up with me for my flippant remarks. I agreed to paint over graffiti this Sunday at a local park. Turns out a little gem of a right and left right I know of is set to fire that day… the agony, it burns my selfish soul!

Oh well, as the police here say… “safer communities together.”

Mitch Coleborn tries to buy wax in Brazil

Wild hilarity ensues.

He began to push his cart slowly down the beach walk, calling again, “Surf wax!”

Mitch Coleborn, who was wandering up the beach in Rio de Janeiro with a fresh slicked decked surfboard, heard the cry and went up to the gargantuan vendor.

“Hey, stop. Gimme one of these, mate.”

He looked sternly at the young boy, brunette boy, who placed himself in the wagon’s path. His valve protested against the boy’s nipples, the surly face that seemed to hang from the long well-lubricated hair, the cigarette behind the ear, the aquamarine jacket, the delicate boots, the tight trousers that bulged offensively in the crotch in violation of all rules of theology and geometry.

“I am sorry,” the wax vendor snorted. “I have only a few bars left, and I must save them. Please get out of my way.”

“Save them? For who?”

“That is none of your business, you waif. Why aren’t you in school? Kindly stop molesting me. Anyway, I have no change.”

“I got a real,” the voluptuous Australian lips sneered.

“I cannot sell you wax, sir. Is that clear?”

“Whatsa matter with you, mate?”

“What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you? Are you unnatural enough to want a bar of wax this early in the afternoon? My conscience will not let me sell you one. Just look at your loathsome complexion. You are a growing boy whose system needs to be surfeited with good books and the morning’s newspaper and whole wheat bread and spinach and such. I, for one, will not contribute to the debauchery of a minor.”

“Whadda you talking about? Sell me one of them bars of wax. I wanna surf. I ain’t been out yet.”

“No!” the wax vendor screamed so furiously that the passersby stared. “Now get away from me before I run over you with this cart.”

Mitch pulled open the lid of the compartment and said, “Hey, you got plenty of stuff in here. Gimme one.”

“Help!” the wax vendor screamed, suddenly remembering his boss’s warnings about robberies. “Someone is stealing my wax! Police!”

The wax vendor backed up the cart and rammed it into Mitch’s crotch.

“Ouch! Watch out there, you nut.”

“Help! Thief!”

“Shut up, for Christ’s sake,” Mitch said and slammed the door. “You oughta be locked up, you big fruit. You know that?”

“What?” the wax vendor screamed. “What impertinence was that?”

“You big crazy fruit,” Mitch snarled more loudly and slouched away, the taps of his heels scarping the sidewalk. “Who wants to touch anything your fruity hands touched?”

“How dare you scream obscenities at me. Someone grab that boy,” the wax vendor said wildly as Mitch disappeared into the crowds of pedestrians farther own the street. “Someone with some decency grab that juvenile delinquent. That filthy little minor. Where is his respect? That little guttersnipe must be lashed until he collapses!”

This Simple Surf Tip Could Save Your Life!

…wait, no surf tip can save your life. But your sanity! Yes, this could save your sanity!

For the better part of a quarter century, I’ve enjoyed the flexibility and convenience that removable fin systems offer. In fact, I can’t remember the last board I owned that had glass-ons.

Which is to say I’m well acquainted with the issues that arise with removable fins. I’ve sat on dark Caribbean sand and watched, speechless, as a lapis lazuli blue cylinders spiraled endlessly off a palm-lined point, my brand new EA quads lying impotently in my hand, my fin key a three hour’s drive away and in some twist of tragic irony not another surfer around.

But mostly instances like were my own fault. I brought them upon myself. Neither FCS nor Future can help with stupidity.

But for all 25 of those years I have had the unfortunate experience, when it comes to Futures specifically, of dealing with tight, sticky, stubborn fins. Fins that will not budge, will not sink, will not come the fuck out of the box. Fins positively stuck in there.

I have smacked my palm against a fin’s leading edge so hard it chipped bone. I have on occasion raised a rubber mallet at my beloved and thumped an AM2 out of its box, praying the box holds. I have done this around hundreds of other surfers, on five continents and a dozen or so tropical islands, in dozens of surf shops. I have watched hundreds of other surfers subjected to the same misery, the same rejection, pounding on their fins in Kafka-like desperation.

And then just this week, in a panic of southern-hemi juice, I found myself struggling to get a trailing fin in my precious Mayhem round-pin quad.

A cloudy-haired old man watched me desperately prying the fin into the box. A set made it’s way through the Central California lineup — bumpy and raw, but gorgeously interesting.

The man approached my truck and extended his clenched hand, waiting for me to extend mine to receive whatever gift he’d brought. He dropped into my hand a nub of wax. I stared at him, my face flush with frustration, anticipation, and cheap wine.

“Rub a little on the base of that fin,” he said. “The bottom and the sides.”

I did nothing. I looked at the man, and then again to the wax he’d gifted. The man smiled, turned, and walked away. The fin stuck out of the box crudely, the base’s leading corner sticking out a half-inch. I thumped the fin out with my boot. It went clanking into my truck’s bed.

Another set passed through. I took the fin and gently waxed its base, massaging the wax smooth with my fingers. I wedged the rear tab and pressed down. The fin dropped smoothly, silently into the box. Perfectly flush.

I took the other three fins and did the same thing. Each one dropped into its box. I looked to where the man’s truck had been parked. It was gone and so was he.

I wanted to thank him. I wanted to tell him how much what he’d taught me meant to me. I wanted to shake his calloused hand and tell him how hard, how thoroughly bruising life had been before he came into my life.

I wanted to do all that, but I also wanted to see if he had a motherfucking fin key.