Opinion: Decide the world title at Jaws?

Who would struggle and fail? Who would die?

The hardest part of pumping out a constant flow of words about surfing is coming up with ideas to write about. There are periods when it feels like there’s nothing to say, beyond, “Hey, check out this radical three minute web clip.”

And I can only take serving up so much pablum before I get bored with what I’m doing, and if I’m not enjoying writing there’s really no point. There definitely ain’t much money.

Like, Mick’s getting divorced. Ugh, such a non-story. If it were contentious, if he was whomping on her or she were claiming he brought home the clap after after some filthy top ten group grope-and-poke, then right on, let’s go full media feeding frenzy.

Should the world title be decided at Jaws? Of course not, that’d be a terrible idea. Getting A+ quality swell for big wave events is more difficult than herding cats, and the vast majority of the ‘CT would just struggle and fail. Maybe die, more likely dodge sets and basically waste a million quality waves.

But normal divorces are boring, and kind of sad. Absolute terror if you’re the primary breadwinner.  Or so I assume. I’m not too worried about a divorce in my future, the wife and I have been together since we were kids, got no pre-nup, and I’ve made it very clear I’d expect her to keep me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed.  I feel I am due, nay, am entitled to, half.  If the missus thinks she’d be getting an amicable dissolution she doesn’t know me at all. God bless gender equality.

When it’s slow, and I’m struggling, Derek’ll gift me a little prompt and that’s usually enough to spark some inspirado. Because there’s always something to write about, and a good suggestion is enough to get the words flowing. I don’t think the actual act of writing is that difficult, especially considering the relatively low standard to which the surf media is held.

Like juggling, once you’ve got the knack it’s easy to keep things moving. And once you get me started I’ll happily blather on for hours.

Today’s suggestion was, “Should the world title be decided at Jaws?”

Of course not, that’d be a terrible idea. Getting A+ quality swell for big wave events is more difficult than herding cats, and the vast majority of the ‘CT would just struggle and fail. Maybe die, more likely dodge sets and basically waste a million quality waves.

I’ll admit that watching the beachbreak killer contingent endure white knuckle heats could be entertaining, but not enough to fill 24-ish hours of webcast.

I do think that the tour could benefit from including at least one deep water power wave. Something that requires thick, seven-foot plus, sleds. Holds you down, beats your ass, leaves you wrecked and ruined on the inside gasping for air staring down a looming set.

Sunset is an obvious choice. The spot has a legacy, already got the permits and infrastructure in place. Seeding 44 guys into the HIC Pro would be relatively easy, and it’s a consistent enough wave to count on.

I’ll admit it’s an often boring event, but it manages to produce at a few moments of brilliance every year. And while it doesn’t make for great video it does produce killer stills. And injecting a bit of the ol’ waterman spirit back into the tour would be nice.

Although, man, the word waterman…

Talk about taking a good term and marketing it into the ground. Always something to aspire to be, but not a label you get to bestow on yourself. You know, you spend a lifetime learning to surf, paddle, dive, fish, play in a swirly wet hell that’ll kill you without caring.

Then other people call you a waterman, you downplay your ability, but smile inside because it means you’ve accomplished something. Something that’s kind of narcissistic and comes at a heavy price and doesn’t really make you a better person or more successful at real life, but is still worth feeling proud about. Like owning a big thick cock, if it’s true you don’t need to talk about it.

I blame the SUP crowd.

They’re the ones who emblazoned the term on every epoxy import piece of shit they could get their hands on, silk screened it on t-shirts they flipped for $50 a pop to spare-tired-middle-life-crisis cases looking to sweep their way into a lifestyle that’s slightly less meaningless than however they wasted the last few decades.