Lily-livered: “The WSL a den of sissies!”

The World Surf League tattles on BeachGrit!

We have just started the second day of a three day sentence for posting World Surf League videos on our BeachGrit Facebook (follow here!) and what a big bummer. What a sad punishment. We can’t touch our social media, per Facebook police rules. They lock it tight as a drum, meaning all of our wonderful stories go unshared for three whole days. Oh they ding you good for “copyright infringement.”

The unfortunate part is, we were following the very unclear WSL rules as they related to posting content but they changed them, quietly in the middle of the night, and sent Herr Zuckerberg’s henchmen to our doorstep without warning and hauled us into the concentration camp for three whole days.

I am bouncing a pebble off the wall right now and Derek is doing push-ups.

And this ain’t the way we handle our business in the surfs, is it? What happened to a good curse-filled yell? A punch to the teeth? I get that WSL CEO Paul Speaker has never surfed a day in his life but come now. Can’t we at least pretend to understand each other?

My pebble has rolled underneath Derek’s metal cot and I am playing Jailhouse Rock on a homemade harmonica. Derek has stopped doing push-ups and is fashioning a shiv out of a toilet paper roll.

I find litigiousness ugly in almost every circumstance. I find tattling uglier. My first job after university was an ill-begotten turn teaching 5th grade. I was a bad teacher but one thing I am proud of was instilling the ideal “snitches get stitches” into each and every young heart. If a child tattled about anything, the tattler got the punishment. By the end of the year nobody tattled. I either caught the kids being naughty myself or they found solutions that didn’t involve the damned authorities.

Herr Zuckerberg’s henchmen are telling me that Jailhouse Rock is copyrighted and have taken my harmonica away. Derek is doing push-ups again.

It’s not like there are thousands or even hundreds or even tens of surf websites. There are, like, seven so the pansy WSL image folk could have very easily sent out an email saying, “Take the shit down you fuckers…” and we would have complied. They also could have waited for me to wander by and knocked my teeth in. Either would have been preferable to their whiny crybaby tattle.

I have picked up Derek’s shiv and making small improvements. Derek is whistling Happy Birthday because he says the courts just turned over copyright protection on it and it now belongs to the public.

Next time I see the WSL I am going give it stitches.


Boycott: The Hideous Round 5!

Boycott I say! Show the World Surf League who's boss (besides CEO Paul Speaker)!

It has been splashed across this website for almost two years and other websites too. And probably magazines. Etc. The losers’ Round 5 is for total losers and I don’t mean the surfers in Round 5. I mean,  I do. They lost in Round 4. But I really mean the people who watch it.

Round 5 stretches World Surf League Championship Tour events a whole 2 hrs. 2 hrs of maybe pristine swell. 2 hrs of life to watch men who should have skunked off to drink in a lonely corner. What pressure is there in Round 4? I’ll answer for you. None. Which, in turn, makes Round 4 lame too because a “no losers round” is the ultimate losers round!

And it is time to be done with it, with Round 5, or whichever round is gumming up the works. This has been splashed across this website for almost two years and other websites too. But the World Surf League is not listening. CEO Paul Speaker has ABBA playing full volume in his Walkman while he rollerblades around Santa Monica in preparation for rollerblading around the Washington Redskins new stadium.

So let us show them with our numbers! Forward this to all your friends and tell them not to show up for Round 5. No logging in, no favoriting WSL Tweets, no nothing. Being anti-stuff is working for both Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump. It can work for us too!

Boycott Round 5!

P.S. Do you think CEO Paul Speaker subscribes to Google Alerts and has to read every one of these stories because they are the only ones that pop up featuring his name?

dane reynolds sues Quiksilver

Reynolds: “Despair in final moments!”

Is Dane Reynolds thinking about kicking his board at the surfer dropping in? I would be…

Cameras everywhere! All the time. Once we worried, “Big Brother is Watching!” who’d’ve thought the notion would become obsolete?

Now it’s all about little brother, everyone’s taking pictures, posting them online. Not a moment goes undocumented, everything’s a matter of public record.

Which suits me fine, usually.

A few months back I beat up a homeless girl in the dead center of the hustle and bustle of Waikiki, right on Ala Moana Bvd on a gorgeous day jam packed with tourists. She had it coming, but for a minute there I lived in terror of the thought that the scene would end up on youtube, minus the lead in wherein she demanded money, then slapped me in the ear I’d had operated on less than twenty four hours previously.

If you’ve ever been cuffed in an ear that was recently cut off and sewn back on you’ll know, that shit hurts really bad. And I just saw red and went bananas, no conscious thought involved. Still, I was, literally, about three times her size. I know it wouldn’t have looked good.

Potential negative effects for myself aside, I adore the ubiquity of the visual record. Especially when the camera is in the hands of someone with talent.

A few months back I beat up a homeless girl in the dead center of the hustle and bustle of Waikiki, right on Ala Moana Bvd on a gorgeous day jam packed with tourists. She had it coming, but for a minute there I lived in terror of the thought that the scene would end up on youtube, minus the lead in wherein she demanded money, then slapped me in the ear I’d had operated on less than twenty four hours previously.

Such as Les Morales.

Les Morales is a skimboard killer, photographer extraordinaire, owner of the world’s finest head of hair. Currently in Italy chasing cyclists with camera in hand, he’s an honest to god photo pro, in an era when every prosumer stooge is trying to lay claim to the title. He also took the only good picture I have of myself surfing, which earns him a special place in my heart.

Remember when Dane got stuffed at Sandspit a while back? The internet lit up, Derek snagged an interview with the snake himself?

If you look real close you’ll see Les for a split second. That’s his yellow camera, glimpsed for a moment while Mr Reynolds gets stuffed. Les got the shot, and it’s a beaut! And he let us have it! What a mensch!

The look of anguish on Dane’s face, so humanizing. Utter despair in his final moments. Staring straight up at the offender, full knowledge of what’s in store.

Is he thinking about kicking his board at the offender? I would be.

Follow the links below for more Morales brilliance. Hire him, give him money.





Revolution: Quiksilver proudly feminist!

Quiksilver unveils an advertising campaign that champions women's rights!

Advertising has long belonged almost solely to the phallus. The male member. The cock, dick, pecker, prick. Automobiles, lipstick, liquor, fruit, etc. Anything with a long, cylindrical shape. Even things without. And why? Psychologists point to virility, envy, lust, etc. Fine enough, but what about the far more stunning female anatomy? The mons pubis? It has been neglected.


Until the Quiksilver Pro Gold Coast! The world’s greatest surf company is very specifically using it to sell boardshorts!


What may seem simple is a revolution. Screw the sexist male pigs! Screw the damn bastards! Sexualize equally!


My only advice would be maybe to shift the articles around. “the” vee should probably be the actual v. Quiksilver’s boardies are “a” vee. Don’t you think?


Filipe Toledo
Do you really believe it's possible for Filipe to be stopped in three-foot runners? Have you ever seen anything so complete as his ten? Did bubbles of skin form on your arms too? | Photo: WSL

Medina “pole-axed by Stu’s aggression!”

And Filipe soars like condor, day three, Quiksilver Pro…

I left the Farm in the dark, before the first cock crow. I wanted a park, a full day of coverage, an honest day’s work etc etc. Surf writers can work harder than pro surfers any day of the week, despite the fact our jobs are destined to disappear to programmed robots before theirs do. That’s a fact of creative destruction.

The morning was blessedly cool, the surf wearing prettier clothes but still mal-nourished and weak underneath.

The opening heats were bizarrely anodyne, like that person you know who’s just upped the dose of Prozac. They’re talking to you but there’s a blank deadness in their eyes. They’re there, but they’re  not there, if you know what I mean.

Banting apparently had some strategic ace in his corner, telling him, what, go out and surf like a cross between Sally Fitzgibbon and an anorexic Jordy Smith? I’ve surfed with Banting, he’s thin and quick. He should be bringing spice to every turn and beating opponents with turn speed. Slow motion carves are not his strategic forte.

Freestone continued the theme. Was the Xanax being double dipped in the acai bowls? I was happy to see Brother progress because I picked him for a QF finish.

Without warning the conversation in the booth had taken a turn to the metaphysical. Energy is the new buzzword and judges are seen as emotional beings. Concepts I introduced into the mix months ago, if you want to give attribution Ross. It is an advancement on the fiction that there is some kind of objective reality behind throwing a number at a ridden wave based on some criteria. Now the vibe was judges as psychics: I’m sensing a weak aura behind that turn of Freestones. The whole morning had that fuzzy out of focus low vibe feeling.

Truth is, judges make a decision, not consciously, about what is “perfect” surfing. The same way predators pick out prey from the background, using a “search image”. They picked out Dane Reynolds as perfect surfing for a couple of glorious years before they went back to more conservative surfing. By the end of the day judges have banked this years search image. His name is Filipe Toledo and he makes my sadness at no more Dane Reynolds go away better than drink and drugs.

With the conny put on hold I fled south, away from the highrises and merchant capitalism of the surf industrial complex and turned left at the Tweed river. I grabbed a mask and hand spear and followed the tidal push of blue water up a mangrove lined creek. In the cool water, amidst the graceful tumult of underwater life the day snapped back into psychic focus, I bagged a couple small trevally and a flathead and chucked them in the esky. My hedge against artificial intelligence. The surf writer who can’t marry well or engage in opportunistic hunter-gathering has a name. An intern.

By the time I got back to the Bay we were on again. The judging had been comprehensible, the talent gap was obvious but a new gap seemed to be opening up.

A power gap.

While Slater is experimenting with equipment, the Brazilians are experimenting with the body. Making it stronger and faster, more powerful, more weapon-like. Italo looked easily better than Connor Coffin:  faster, more assured. Like a cat playing with a live mouse. That was the only decision of the day that went against the strength of the aura.

I was thinking this might be one of those rare days when round three might be weaker than round two until the De Souza teed off on Mikey Wrights’ nuts.

Then Kolohe put it together. John John was set free by extra volume. Thank Allah he worked that out. It took Jordy Smith years.

Which bought us to the last heat of round three. Stuey Kennedy vs Medina.

I had my Team Stuey t-shirt on. It still had baby sick on it from Stu’s bub. True. No time to leave the pub and race over to James “Taipan” Woods place to watch it there. The pub was packed. The first ride from Stu stunned the crowd of hippies, Euro-trash backpackers, yoga mums in Audis and workadaddies on holiday. A Bondi crowd but better looking.

Holy fucking shiite militia. He’s gunna smash him.

Medina was pole-axed by the aggression, the first turn dominance. Stu was beating him with a baseball bat and there wasn’t a damm thing he could do about it. What to do? Should I try and play objective, like Nick Carroll, or run screaming down the street. I rang Taipan. There were shouts and screams. Unintelligible gibberish.

So I drove back to the Ox to get a read on the local vibe. Darkness was falling, there was a screeching of lorikeets in the Norfolk pines. People were naked in the streets, dancing, falling over drunk, fornicating with their neighbours’ wives behind bushes. A bull-chested man was riding a horse bareback up and down the main street blowing a whistle and chugging tequila from a bottle. It was a carnival atmosphere par excellence. I joined in the celebration for a couple hours and then headed for home.

“Honey, I’m home,” I said quietly to my beloved as I opened the door.

I put the fish in the fridge and turned the computer on while the sound of firecrackers exploded in the distance like  civil war.

PS: The very first wave I saw ridden in a freesurf before the event started was Filipe T. He went bottom to top faster than I’ve ever seen any surfer go. Obvs no sexual drag on his performance. All event he’s cruised, no need for air, a vulgar display of power sufficient. That ten was one gear shift up, you get the feeling there are two or three more. Very bad juju for anyone he comes across. Only Stu Kennedy or Florence look like they could be in a heat with him and not be on the wrong side of a combo.