Mystery: C. Anderson in surf snuff film?

Is Dave Rastovich in it too?

Yesterday, I posted a fun li’l story about keywords you use to arrive at BeachGrit. One of my favorites, so very strange, was “Taylor Steele Tite Fuck Watch.” I could not even begin to fathom what it meant and it was funny but also mysterious.

Today, though, I see that surf film’s elder statesmen has a new one coming out starring Dave Rastovich and Craig Anderson titled This Time Tomorrow. Apparently they track one swell around the globe, surfing etc. etc. Normal surf fare.

Or is it?

Taylor Steele’s Tite Fuck Watch has been haunting me because I feel someone out there knows something that I don’t. Some big and heavy secret. They knew that Derek and I hawk our keyword searches and so they dropped a gentle hint? Some delectable morsel? Is this new film the “tite fuck watch”? Does a different film come out later?

If anyone has any information please share. Or drop another hint in the keyword search. Derek and I are watching.

Also, has any surf film been rated anything higher than PG-13 you think? Do you know of a dirty surf picture?

Taylor Steele’s tite fuck watch!

And other funny keyword searches that land you right here!

The end of the year is a bummer on the Internet. Twelve months ago I didn’t notice because your BeachGrit had just been birthed, traffic was slow and Derek and I were just trying to figure things out. Today, almost 2016, we are experts. People are generally too busy, it seems, with family and friends and drinking egg nog to go online and poke around. That’s what the office is for and nobody is at the office! So traffic slows and news dries up. Did you ever wonder why the majors like CNN, ESPN etc. turn to listicles in late December? Year in reviews? It is because you ain’t looking! You eating the turkey or drinking the champagne! Thusly, content is regurgitated and things are put on hold until January 3-ish.

But lists and year in reviews don’t feel fun right now so here, reprised, are the keywords that turn you on to BeachGrit!

My best pal Derek Rielly wrote the first of these not two months ago, saying:

Your electronic movements, however, are beautiful to watch.

For those unfamiliar with Google Analytics, it’s an application that tracks website traffic. More than that, it allows publishers to see how many readers are on the site, what country they’re from, the electronic device they’re accessing your site from, what story they’re reading, where they came from and where they go after you.

And, tellingly, what keyword searches got ‘em there….

Oh how funny! We laugh all the time and you can read those HERE but there is a new batch!

Like, Yao Ming! He totally is against the shark fin and I vaguely recall writing about it but so long ago and not in depth! Is that you Chinese government? Monitoring? If yes we love! We make our shirts in you!

Screen Shot 2015-10-21 at 7.39.05 am Has anyone gotten laid while surfing? Do you think it is actually practically possible?

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Who doesn’t love sugar mama stories? This, to me, points directly at our beloved Rory Parker. He has written enough of these to necessitate a whole search category. I wonder if he is a star in sugar mama circles. Do they have sugar mama conventions? Will Rory be the keynote speaker?

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He totally is but why Google? Why not just let the man be? If you really want to be shocked, though, Google “occy karaoke.” The man is a wizard behind the mic. And by “wizard” I mean you will jab a fork into your ears.

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But that is just rude. I don’t feel that is the kind of brand we sell here. Maybe head on over to The Surfer’s Journal?

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Complex. A new fetish arising out of Utah? Why so conservative? Why just the lines? How did the bikini become lost? And even though it is, in fact, lost still just the lines? Such restraint!

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But best. Do you think surf film’s gran-daddy has a very strange kink on the side? Or in the front?

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What does that mean? Who are you BeachGrit consumer? I don’t quite know but I love!



Just in: “Lazy Pigs” vs Lunada Bay Locals!

The proper way of dealing with aggression is with more aggression…

It must be a slow news day, because the LA Times just ran a new piece on Lunada Bay. Nothing new in it, really. Rehashing of old stories, empty promises from PV pigs, same ol’ same old.

Fun stuff from the new PV police chief, Jeff Kepley.

“I’m not so naive to believe that we can solve this instantly or overnight,” Kepley said. “It took 50 years to get here. Hopefully, it won’t take that long to resolve, but I think it’s very important to get the word out as aggressively and enthusiastically as we can that the status quo is going to be mixed up around here.”

Pretty standard lazy pig bullshit.

A half-wit would point out that stationing a cop on the bluff during swell would instantly solve any problems, but it’s unfair to expect that type of high level mental gymnastics from a person who willingly sought a career in law enforcement. Especially one in Palos Verdes, an affluenza-addled shithole that plays elite-level NIMBY.

It’s a little over two years from the day I destroyed my shoulder bodysurfing small Pipe, found myself bored as hell and out of my mind on painkillers. I don’t do well with downtime, post surgery healing, then physical therapy, meant I was in for a lot of it.

Chris Taloa’s brother (I think it was his brother) had run into some trouble trying to surf Lunada and and Chris was very upset about it. Won Ton is a classic character, and has long been one of my personal heroes, thanks to his unreal stand-up bodyboard ability.

Bit of a tangent, but I think it’s very funny that, thanks to Catch Surf, we’re in the midst of a stand-up boogie renaissance, while calling it surfing. It is not. Doesn’t make it any less cool or fun, but we should call a spade a spade.

I hit up Chris via social media and offered to help him with his campaign. Living thousands of miles away I didn’t really have a dog in the fight, but I grew up in the shadow of PV, dealt with some of those fuckers growing up, and, perhaps most importantly, didn’t have anything better to do.

Personally, I’m of the opinion that the proper way of dealing with aggression is with more aggression. The wave would be a long ruined clusterfuck on every swell if people did the right thing and bashed the fuck out of anyone who tried to tell them where they can, or cannot, surf. Turning the other cheek just gets you hit twice, and while the meek may inherit the earth it’ll only be because it fills their mouths and chokes their screams.

Chris wanted to mob the spot, so I tossed a post up on reddit to see if I could drum up some interest. It struck a nerve, people were very upset, and I realized the story had legs. Was it likely that a bunch of surfers would actually have the balls to stand up for themselves, face down a group of sad sack spoiled middle aged babies? Of course not.

Transworld Surf had recently been murdered via corporate transfer and the only paid writing work I could find was pumping out shorts for The Inertia. It was easy money, pandering ain’t difficult, and I thought they’d be a great spot for rousing the rabble. Ctrl+V’ed the post into a word doc and sent it over to Alex Haro as a freebie.

The response rattled Weisberg.

“Within a few minutes, my inbox filled up with hate mail, and I was honestly worried about what might happen there. The piece was pretty incendiary, and a LOT of people read it. I just wanted everyone to be safe. There was a lot of anger coursing through our inboxes, comments, Facebook pages, etc…”

He did a hard edit, after it had been posted, and moved to distance himself from the hoopla.

“The manner in which this message was originally delivered was exceptionally incendiary and intent on creating animosity in the local surf community, and, after more careful review, the tone has since been edited to reflect a more respectful attitude. Posts intended to inspire aggression, ill will, or worse, violence, will not be condoned. “

Absolutely fucking lovely.

At the time I was pretty pissed, it was a real soft-cock move, and I vaguely remember calling Zach and giving him a hard time. Of course, I was sucking down oxycontin like they were Pez, so it may have just been a mumble slur rant. And, really, he had just furthered my aim of drumming up as much drama as possible.

Personally, I’m of the opinion that the proper way of dealing with aggression is with more aggression. The wave would be a long ruined clusterfuck on every swell if people did the right thing and bashed the fuck out of anyone who tried to tell them where they can, or cannot, surf. Turning the other cheek just gets you hit twice, and while the meek may inherit the earth it’ll only be because it fills their mouths and chokes their screams.

I started making phone calls, sending emails, trying to plant the story everywhere I could. There were hundreds behind me, I was merely the face of the movement. Total, utter, complete bullshit. Like a hoary cripple with a malicious eye I lied in every word. It was very fun.

And people bought it.

It’s an amazing thing, how a lie often repeated with a straight face can so quickly become “truth.” I’m hardly a reliable narrator, I obviously had an agenda, but I was still taken at my word.

“Almost immediately after he had posted the notice, threats of violence and even death appeared in his inbox. But Parker was unfazed, buoyed by a belief that localism runs counter to the essence of surfing, which he believes is to have fun, keep fit, and partake of an incredible natural resource.

“This just feels like the right thing to do,” Parker said. “It’s a corny, stupid reason for putting myself out there like this, but it’s the right thing to do… We all share resources. They [Bay Boys] leave The Hill to go shopping. We’re going to climb The Hill to go surfing.”

Click here to read

In the end it all worked as I hoped, and expected. The PV cops showed up in force, news choppers circled the bay, and almost no one showed up. My Dad was there, Taloa paddled out alone, and it seemed like it fizzled.

But the point was never to change anything, it was to create a story that would engage, grow larger every time told. Which it has, rehashed every few months by lazy reporters worldwide.

It created a constant nagging headache for a wealthy enclave and their corrupt running dogs. Puts a smile on my face every time a story appears. I can’t stand rich people, and I really, really, really, fucking hate cops.

Devour: Shipsterns Wipeout Reel!

Those steps! Do you think you could survive Shipsterns hot little mouth?

I like to think that I’m a pretty brave guy, when it comes to the ocean. I’ve spent my entire life playing in it, I can hold my breath for a long time, and I’ve dealt with enough surf-related injuries to know that while I may get hurt, and badly, I’m probably not going to die.

Then shit like this video comes along and reminds me that, in the grand scheme of things, I’m a total pussy.

Yeah, I’ve surfed some big waves, by normal kook standards. But guys nowadays… it’s like they’re having a contest to see how much punishment the human body can withstand.

Like, did you see Will Skudin’s paddle in at Nazare? What the fuck? Did he really think he’d be able to punch through the back?

Kind of related, what the hell is “Red Chargers”?

How have I never heard of this contest?

Why did they choose a name conjures the image of menstruating San Diego sports team?

Buy low: Surf in Morocco today!

Want gorgeous empty waves? Capitalize on world Islamophobia and score!

The Eiffel Tour stood powerfully in view from my Airbnb. It was lit in the Tricolour of blue, white, and red because terrorists had just fired assault rifles into and blew up 130 people for living free. Drinking if they wanted to, rocking and rolling if they wanted to. The Parisian motto Fluctuat nec mergitur that was illuminated beneath translates fittingly to, “She is tossed by the waves, but not sunk.” The attack happened three days earlier yet sirens still pierced the night. Residents not living by #JeSuisEnTerrasse contemplated never going out into public again. The city was in shock. All my friends in Paris knew victims. My current flat mate – infamous trouble magnet Chris Binns – had been trying to get us tickets for that fateful Bataclan concert. For no reason in particular I instead flew to Berlin hours before to do a strike Berghain dawn patrol. It was one of those decisions you don’t give much weight to that by chance saved us from the guns of jihadist militants.

Before it got morbid, we began this journey in Paris alongside Surf Europe’s gem-of-a-bloke Paul Evans to attend the View From A Blue Moon premiere. After scattering Binnsie and I were now reunited in the City of Lights trying to make sense of the close call. When faced to stand before the mirror of life what can you do except keep living? No point in questioning it. Although rattled by the randomness of fate the reality was that nothing had actually happened to us. That didn’t stop The Sydney Herald from writing about what almost was. Riveting Aussie non-news.

We had to get out of Paris. Belgium was under siege and there was still talk of closing the French borders. Confusion was in the air and there was swell on the way. Decisions had to be made. Being in Europe everywhere is a stones throw away. That’s true anywhere, but especially advantageous in central Europe. Binnsie had his own demons to deal with having just survived a serious head-on collision in the South of France days prior to almost attending the slaughter. His second home of Bali was now on the agenda and a session with a Shaman would be his first appointment. I’d narrowed my choices down to the familiar – Hossegor – or the more exotic – Morocco. The decision was simple; as I’d now be travelling alone… take the unknown every time! A flight into Casablanca was booked that departed in 8-hours. Enough time to pack my Rimowa, sleep a few hours, and sip an espresso avec croissant sur la terrasse.

The North African country of Morocco is 99% Muslim. Who, for fear mongering racists, are on the shit list right now. Any man pairing a beard with Islamic clothing or woman in hijab risks being mistaken for a radical in certain parts of the world. It’s dangerous thinking to lump a small percentage of wacko terrorists to an entire religion. Trump is making headlines for making Hitler-esque claims and continuing his transition to demagogue. The entire situation only seems to be escalating. Shockingly the further he infuriates the rest of the world the stronger his polling gets and the more guns American’s stockpile. It is indeed a strange land.

Thankfully I don’t think like that as I was the only tourist boarding a full flight to Mohammed V Airport from Charles de Gaulle. Much of the tourism to Muslim countries has dropped off since the attacks. Security was increased, but barring Moroccan’s differing outlook on personal space it was a smooth flight. They even clap when the plane lands like in the old days. So cute!

When bouncing around Europe without an itinerary it’s a blessing to travel “carry-on only” light and leave the board coffin at home, but bring everything else. Having a wetsuit, fins, and a leash assures easy access to anyone’s leftovers. In 14 days of mostly hedonistic behavior around Europe I visited 9 major cities in 4 countries. Only one of which was surfed in. Board fees and coffin stress would have been astronomical.

Casablanca sounds like the sexiest place. This is a lie. It’s hard to find a drink and there are too many men everywhere. A mean tajine can be found in the right restaurant though and the Hannan II Mosque is a structure of beauty. The final destination was the wave rich coastal city of Agadir, so I hopped on the first train to Marrakech which lay somewhere in the middle. The intention was a quick breeze through the market there before continuing on, but I was forced to get a hotel near (not in) the prestigious La Mamounia as terror threats meant no short-term luggage storage anywhere. The night was spent in the madness that is the medina and Jemaa-el Fnaa. There were monkeys and snake charmers and mint tea and dates and magicians and thieves and no tourists because they were all scared of Muslims. I was Indiana Jones!

Upon leaving my petit taxi was hit by another, which happens often here. For a population of mostly sober people they drive like absolute maniacs and commonly kill one another. Once in Agadir I rented a car and was now in control of navigating around these psychos. A murdered out Benz passed me doing no less than 170 km/hr on my way north to the dry surf town of Taghazout. I would later have to grease a cop for doing 65 in a 60. Typical gringo tax.

My home was now Sunshine Surf Morocco headed up by the legendary Reda. He’s a killer local surfer that knows all the spots and when the slabs get psycho he pulls out the sponge. Sometimes he flies around the world competing in world championships. Be nice to the boogies because they might save your life one day. There’s more to this region than the Sipping Jetstreams spots and Dane’s cover. Reda made sure we were on them. The first morning we surfed an epic little beachy when a massive caravan of camels strolled through. “That’s a million dollars worth of camel,” informed Reda. Who knew those humped creatures fetched such a sum?

Over the course of the swell we surfed constantly on every type of wave, spear fished our dinner, drank local beers, and OD’d on couscous. The locals are a passionate bunch: overly conservative while changing into wetsuits (so cute!), but aggressive enough to get a massive desalination plant development shutdown that threatened the future of their most iconic wave.

While exploring the Muslim culture there was never a moment of intimidation or fear. I propose that anyone unwilling to open their borders or hearts to those of a different background should book a flight into Morocco – solo and preferably unarmed – to absorb the culture, and gaze upon their perfect waves… but not be allowed to surf them.