Vicious: Iron fist of the WSL!

"All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent."

Late last night your beloved BeachGrit received an email from the World Surf League, in both Cardiff-by-the-Sea and Bondi bureaus, demanding that cute little videos of Mick Fanning’s surgeon-like attack (a compendium of his 9s!) and the wonderful skills of jetski pilots (cowboys!) be taken down.

And such a shame! Because Mick Fanning’s nines are like a beautiful lullaby if you are having trouble falling asleep. One turn, two turns, three turns snore! But mostly because surfing should not be treated the same as American football. Have you ever been on a film shoot where someone in the field of vision has a New York Giants baseball hat or a Green Bay Packers hoodie? That shit is like crazy radioactive! Gaffers, gofers and line producers will run, as fast as they can, to the fan and ask, then beg, if they could take off the merchandise. If they won’t, and must be in the shot, then all NFL and team logos must be covered with tape or, somehow, shot around. The NFL, you see, is so sue happy and power hungry that they pounce on any infraction of copyright, however tiny or insignificant.

Surfing ain’t the National Football League! It just ain’t and to act like it is a stone-faced multibillion dollar tyranny guts the love. Give us free, World Surf League! Unshackle our hands and we can all soar on wings of John John’s fails! (I think we had to take that down too).

John John Florence, bucked!
John John Florence, bucked!

Showreel: Cowboy ski drivers of the WSL!

John John Florence and Jadson Andre mashed in the soup by a buckaroo pilot!

Wow! What a day of professional surf action. Has beachbreak ever looked so fun? How do you think you would have fared in those conditions and be honest. Would you have scored a tube that could have resembled a respectable score or would you have been scratching around, tilting at imaginary peaks on the horizon?

I certainly would have been the later. Either that or smashing vodka/ginger beers in the competitors’ area before hopping on a ski and giving professional surfers rides back into the lineup. Did you see John John tossed from the ski into a boil of whitewash? The driver scrambling, madly, back into the saddle after losing the grip and splashing in the soup? What possessed John John to slide back onto the sled after the mishap? Because he cray that’s why!

And remember Joel in Rio? That backflip? This might be the greatest time ever in ski driver mismanagement/alcoholism. Bravo WSL! Entertainment par excellence! Will you accept my application? I drink usually starting at 3:00pm but could start earlier if needs be.

Cowboy ski drivers of the WSL from BeachGrit on Vimeo.

Dane Reynolds France
Doesn't your heart just sing a little when you see Dane Reynolds in WSL stripes? Yeah, he didn't land it, but that a heavy man could be so quick on his feet and in the air? Who else would give up a guaranteed nine for a shot at a ten? | Photo: WSL

Joyous: Day one, Quiksilver Pro, France

The miraculous ripe fruit of John John, Dane, Mick and Julian Wilson… 

Surfers don’t ask much of their heroes. We merely ask that they be capable in good waves, unfettered in the air and unscathed of pox.

On the opening day of the Quiksilver Pro, France, held a couple of clicks out of town at the nudist beach Les Cul Nuls, we were served the plump but loose Dane Reynolds, a brutal and arrogant Julian Wilson, the easy brilliance of John John Florence and the world title-bound Mick Fanning.

First, let’s examine Dane Reynolds. Superficially lighthearted but no one does post-tube turns like this, smooth, precise and slightly mocking, without a deep competitiveness.

Julian Wilson stepped back into the ropes for the world title with a brutal, easy win.

John John? You could almost hear his exquisitely bored voice: “That was far too easy.”

And jazz master Mick Fanning? His heat was an exhibition of his own skill.

Heat 1: Brett Simpson (USA) 14.84, Kelly Slater (USA) 14.84, Jadson Andre (BRA) 10.90
Heat 2: Julian Wilson (AUS) 18.80, Miguel Pupo (BRA) 10.83, Aritz Aranburu (ESP) 5.66
Heat 3: Dane Reynolds (USA) 17.00, Sebastian Zietz (HAW) 15.90, Owen Wright (AUS) 8.94
Heat 4: Tomas Hermes (BRA) 11.57, Adam Melling (AUS) 10.97, Filipe Toledo (BRA) 9.93
Heat 5: Adriano de Souza (BRA) 16.00, Caio Ibelli (BRA) 6.37, Keanu Asing (HAW) 4.97
Heat 6: Mick Fanning (AUS) 16.73, Michel Bourez (PYF) 10.73, Maxime Huscenot (FRA) 8.87
Heat 7: Gabriel Medina (BRA) 14.33, Matt Wilkinson (AUS) 6.76, Dusty Payne (HAW) 4.33
Heat 8: John John Florence (HAW) 18.60, Alejo Muniz (BRA), 10.93, Jeremy Flores (FRA) 2.83
Heat 9: Adrian Buchan (AUS) 18.40, Italo Ferreira (BRA) 14.84, Ricardo Christie (NZL) 9.50
Heat 10: Bede Durbidge (AUS) 13.70, Glenn Hall (IRL) 6.43, Nat Young (USA) 4.67
Heat 11: Kolohe Andino (USA) 14.40, Kai Otton (AUS) 11.10, Josh Kerr (AUS) 9.90
Heat 12: C.J. Hobgood (USA) 15.43, Wiggolly Dantas (BRA) 10.73, Joel Parkinson (AUS) 10.50

Heat 1: Filipe Toledo (BRA) vs. Maxime Huscenot (FRA)
Heat 2: Owen Wright (AUS) vs. Caio Ibelli (BRA)
Heat 3: Kelly Slater (USA) vs. Aritz Aranburu (ESP)
Heat 4: Jeremy Flores (FRA) vs. Dusty Payne (HAW)
Heat 5: Italo Ferreira (BRA) vs. Alejo Muniz (BRA)
Heat 6: Nat Young (USA) vs. Ricardo Christie (NZL)
Heat 7: Josh Kerr (AUS) vs. Glenn Hall (IRL)
Heat 8: Wiggolly Dantas (BRA) vs. Michel Bourez (PYF)
Heat 9: Joel Parkinson (AUS) vs. Keanu Asing (HAW)
Heat 10: Kai Otton (AUS) vs. Adam Melling (AUS)
Heat 11: Matt Wilkinson (AUS) vs. Sebastian Zietz (HAW)
Heat 12: Jadson Andre (BRA) vs. Miguel Pupo (BRA)

Johanne Defay

Wow: This is an 8.5 on the women’s WSL tour!

You'll be amazed!

Earlier today, the BeachGrit reader Paddymick posted the same comment over three stories.

It read: “Anyone noticed Johanne Defay scored an 8.5 in round 2 heat 2 of the Cascais Womens Pro by doing one turn, going prone, paddling, standing up again and doing another turn? One wave? And Kelly gets a 4.17 when he lands on his knees and stands up? Check out the analyzer. Its a conspiracy.”

Clearly, this was a subject that interested him greatly. I also wondered, what kind of surfer, unless they are maybe a sponsor or relative of the surfer involved, watches a round two women’s heat in crummy waves? The ultimate surf fan?

I duly investigated the charge and…oowee… if it wasn’t the wildest eight-and-a-piece thrown at a surfer? But no need to hunt to watch this curio! Here it is here!

Wow: This is what an 8.5 looks like on the WSL women’s tour from BeachGrit on Vimeo.

You like?

If you’re interested in judging, click here for WSL head judge Richie Porta’s explanation about Kelly’s 4.17 fail.

And what’s it like to actually judge a WSL event? Click here! 


surf novel

Great unfinished surf novel: Part Four!

One Day in the Life of John Dennis (IV)

10:00 am The Great Debate (pt.1)

John thinks of going up to Forster but isn’t quite sure, wants to have a sniff around Newcastle first. The thought of better surf haunts him. A plus about Forster is Benny S. John’s long time friend Benny and his brother are proper gangsters. Both white as the snow, short, trim with long long brown hair and green eyes. Benny has gold-capped teeth too and just bought a mid-seventies Cadillac in the States and had it shipped out to his home in Tuncurry, just across the river from Forster. He explains all this to Pat. Tells him, “I heard he doesn’t even take it out of the driveway.” Pat asks if he is too paranoid? “Nah. Oh, maybe paranoid but I just think he loves it too much.” Benny and his brother both rip, surfing. Amazing. And they know every break around their area. From Blueys to Bulls Paddock.

“I don’t even know where to go out,” John says. “I don’t want to miss somewhere.” The beach is in view again. The wave looks like it might even have little sections on the corners to punt. The wind isn’t right, though, for air but, “Look at that guy go right there…” He pulls over. Pulls the emergency brake. Gets out of the car. “Ahhhh it feels like a new town.” He stares out to sea. “This is fuckin’ ridiculous right now. The winds will be offshore in Forster. If this was eight foot…that’s when it gets best here at eight foot. Tide’s going out…”

This stretch of sand and water appear a different place than they did just one hour ago. Mereweather floats above the blue bathed in sun. The white buildings look so white! The brick pop red! The blue beach hotel does too! And the green weedy beach grass looks positively Irish. The ocean, groomed by constant offshore breezes, is inviting.

A kid maybe ten or twelve runs by in wetsuit holding board. He has an eyepatch over one eye. It looks to be medically necessary but also still looks like a pirate eyepatch. Black etc. Pat asks, “Does that kid have an eyepatch?” John answers, “What?” And Pat repeats, “An eyepatch.” John looks. “Sick.” Then, “Ah fuck. These conditions with this swell is heavy. Forster is probably the best it’s ever been. I bet it’d be so good. What do you reckon? Should we go hang out with Benny for the day?”

He continues a tortured monologue. “This swell is north east. Don’t get it very often but when we do…. Fuck. Or we could just sit in the house all day.” He pulls out his phone and pecks away with both thumbs. Pat looks from water to light to wave. If John paddles here he’ll shoot it from down the beach and get him in left barrels even though they don’t really need more film of left barrels. Bali equals a left barrel. John speaks up again. “I’ve just messaged the guys in Forster to see what it’s like. They probably won’t write back though. Oh that guy just got belted!” A surfer eats shit. “I wonder what Bosco’s doing?” Bosco is a photographer who might or might not be angry with Him. He didn’t choose one of his photos for a new ad campaign so… He stares at the ocean, arms folded. “Somewhere it’ll be the best it’s ever been.” He stares more. A knot of five surfers bob on the surface. One takes off and doesn’t do much but it still looks fun. Maybe six feet on the sets. “I’m so bad at making decisions. I need Walshy here.” Anthony Walsh is a surfer with ridiculous knack for calling “the spot” and also rock solid, unwavering conviction. He doesn’t dilly-dally or debate. He knows and goes.

He watches another less than spectacular surfer take off and race past a section. “Oh what? You gotta hit that!” There is no word from Benny yet. “It’d be really good up there. Fuck.” Ding ding. His phone and he assumes Benny but it’s not. “Hoy. Yah man. After ten tomorrow? I don’t know…I don’t really want to do it now. It’s kinda almost firing. Forster. I don’t know, I’m thinking about it. Ummmm not here actually. It’s horseshit. Nah. It’s just just too small. It’s three foot. If it was eight foot it’d be good but…I’ve been here for like fifteen minutes…Dave O’leary on the mal…Nothing. Yeah. It’d be bigger probably. Maybe Bluey’s, your spot…Yeah. Where else up there? Everywhere huh? Ohhh shit. Well when can we do this car thing? Tomorrow. Noooo I’m gonna help you out. When are you gonna do it? Today or tomorrow? Ok. Then tomorrow we’ll do it. Ten o’clock. In the arvo? Ok then we’ll do it tomorrow arvo. Ahh perfect. Ok. No it’s alright we’ll just tie the coffin to the roof. Sick, well…ok well, we’ll do it tomorrow arvo then. Alright old boy, I will talk to ya. I don’t know. I’ll be fuckin’ leavin this place though. It’s baaaad. Yeah. Boskie’s down there? Ahhh he hates me these days. Ahh I’ll call Sfennie then. Alright Hoyo, I’ll talk to you soon. Yeah I’m gonna be back. I just messaged the Forster boys and they haven’t got back to me. Yup. I’m up there. See ya, man.”

He looks over at Pat who has his eyes fixed on the lineup still. “Hoyo sounded so gutted cuz he has the kids.” John puts a hand up to shield the sun. Looking. “Ahh what to do. I’m not surfing out there, that’s for sure.” He asks Pat, “Do you want left barrels, cuz that’s pretty much all we’re going to get here.” Pat, spotting another empty peak a little further down the beach asks John why nobody is surfing it. “People are like sheep here. They just follow each other. They’ll just surf where everyone else is.”

Bosco drives by in a white truck. He either doesn’t see John or pretends he doesn’t. “There goes Boskie. So funny that guy.” He follows the truck down the street then turns his head toward the water. “Look at this shit are you kidding me? Ahhhhh…” A left barrel reels, perfectly, across the bank. “Is that Desert Point or…” Desert Point is a famous famous dredging Indonesian left. John tells Pat, “When it is double that size it goes from there…” pointing to a rock outcropping off to the left “…all the way….ahhh it’s so good. These waves can be so good.”

Les, the loved up man who called earlier, pulls in behind the Dae Woo and looks thrilled. Eager, excited. John says, “What’s up Lessy…it’s almost doing it…” Les says, “Yeah, When I drove past this morning it was all time. Like the biggest sets ever.” John doesn’t show his dubiousness. “What, six foot?” Les says, “Yeaaah…” And John breaks in, “Ahh that would be alright…” And Les caveats, “…but it probably only rolls through every two hours.” John asks, “Are you out there?” Now a slightly embarrassed smile crawls over Les’s face, “Yeah.” And Ding Ding. John answers, “Ollie…What’s up? yeah a little bit. Looks like it’s getting a little bigger. Looks four foot on the sets maybe bigger. It’s like a proper nor’east swell. Forster. Stop working and I’ll come grab you.” Ollie is one of John’s longtime friends. Surf is rare for him lately because he works with his dad doing some sort of construction. John doesn’t really know. A gorgeous blonde passes in skin-tight black lycra jogging pants. “Ahhh Johnny, how are you?” Her voice is like honey. John says, “How are you?” At the same time and adds a sheepish, “Good.” After. She powerwalks on. John watches her. Turns to the surf one last time. Opens his drivers door and gets inside. Pat is already there. They back out, decision made, and head through the fresh sunny light home.

The car wheels down the beach road then takes a first right. Around a roundabout and, again, it is at the dreaded intersection where his fate was almost undone. He explains to Pat who has had the same expression on his face for the last fifteen minutes. “I rocked through a stop sign. Like it was a four way stop and they have to stop so I just kept going…” The expression is dispassionate but interested. It takes exactly two minutes and fifty-eight seconds to reach his driveway.