One healthy motherfucking bicep straight outta
Kauai! Bethany Hamilton! Yes!
Ain’t Tyler Wright just the future of surfing?
Such power! So thighs! Except do you want to know what trumps
thighs? One healthy motherfucking bicep straight outta Kauai.
Bethany Hamilton!
I’ve spent more time with Bethany than would be common. We hung
out at the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, for example. And ummmm
Oceanside. And while her public thing may slightly annoy she is
fierce when Obama is sitting next to her and rages a wave.
Cloudbreak!
I’ve spent more time with Bethany than would be common. We hung
out at the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, for example. And ummmm
Oceanside. And while her public thing may slightly annoy she is
fierce when Obama is sitting next to her and rages a wave.
Can you believe it? Just watch her. Watch her tear the heart out
of the future of surfing with one arm digested in a shark who, if I
recall, got caught by fishermen and hung. I don’t recall because I
never watched Soul Surfer.
In any case, I’m camping in the backyard of a mega
celebrity right now. Channing Tatum is here. Rockin bod but moon
face!
Except do you want to know what trumps backyard mega celebrity
camping? One motherfucking palmaris longus straight outta
Lihue!
I’ve sat far away from everyone watching her on video. Watching
her mock our shared expectations.
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Big Wave Champ Didn’t Surf Cloudbreak!
By Rory Parker
Rory Parker examines the consequences…
Matt Rott’s got an interesting interview with Greg
Long up on Magic Seaweed right now. Focuses on Long’s
decision to play water safety during the recent Cloudbreak bomb day
rather than surf. Very interesting stuff.
Beyond the subject matter, I think it’s damn neat that Rott
paddled out himself that day. I don’t think I would have. I like
big waves, but there’s a limit. I know a thing or two about holding
my breath, if the surf can keep you submerged long enough to turn
out the lights shit’s just too damn real.
Today I paddled out into small slop. Bobbed around the lineup
like a potato for around an hour without catching a wave, took off
on a chest high double up to go in. Tried to do an ollie into the
flats. “Look at me I’m Mason Ho!”
Timed the landing to perfectly hit some oncoming backwash, cased
my entire oafish frame into the deck of my board. Shit hurt.
Buckled my nose. Sebastian Zietz was just inside pushing some
little girl into waves. But he doesn’t know who I am, and I wasn’t
about to introduce myself at that point.
Got me thinking about safety gear. How surfing doesn’t really
have any. Don’t think a leash counts, that’s just there to save
effort. Big-wave vests exist, but they’re for a different
breed.
Gath helmets and nose guards exist, but no one really uses
them.
Timed the landing to perfectly hit some oncoming backwash, cased
my entire oafish frame into the deck of my board. Shit hurt.
Buckled my nose. Sebastian Zietz was just inside pushing some
little girl into waves. But he doesn’t know who I am, and I wasn’t
about to introduce myself at that point.
It’s kind of surprising no one’s tried to market the equivalent
of skate pads for surf. Seems pretty straightforward. Rash guard
with padded elbows and shoulders. Board shorts with the same deal
in the hips. They’d look damn kooky, for sure, but I could imagine
using them at a shallow low tide reef. Like super small Rockies,
when it’s breaking right on the inside ledge and straightening out
puts you in six inches of water.
Most surfers’d be too cool to wear ’em, but I suspect
non-surfing moms around the world would happily part with some
ducats to keep their babies safe.
Even better, throw the same padding in a fullsuit, market it to
beginners. You wouldn’t even have to build the damn things. Just
toss a campaign onto a crowdfunding site then keep the money.
Nothing wrong with separating chumps from their dough. Paying up
front for a product that doesn’t exist is for idiots, people
deserve whatever’s coming to them.
Since my wife won’t let me scam people in the internet the
idea’s free for the taking.
(Here, Greg Long talks to Vice ’bout his Cortes Bank
drowning…)
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How to Catch a 20-foot wave!
By Shane Dorian
Even if the thought of 20 feet makes you pale to
the gills!
Why would anyone wanna ride a 20-foot
wave? Why not? What kinda reason could you make up
not to ride the wave of your life?
Oh, you’re scared. That’s the same reason to paddle into a
six-foot wave when you’re used to four-foot waves. We’re surfers,
right. We all want to get better and push onto the next level. We
all want to experience something new and something different. And
for those that are into that, maybe you, paddling into a 20-foot
wave is about as challenging and exhilarating as it gets.
Wait, what’s that about dying? Yeah, that is the big elephant in
the room. But more people die in little waves than big waves. I
know, it ain’t much comfort. But when you get in the ocean that’s
part of the deal. The bigger it is, the more the chances go up.
But, listen: even the craziest big-wave surfer has more of a chance
of dying in a car crash en route to wherever than from having the
air squeezed out of him.
That said, let me make something clear. The maybe-dying part
doesn’t get me off at all. I don’t get some kind of thrill from the
surfing-is-deadly thing. I ain’t in a hurry to add martyrdom to my
vices. I love to surf, man. It’s something I just dig. Today I was
surfing with my kid and it was fun foot and I couldn’t have been
happier.
“The maybe-dying part doesn’t get me off at all. I don’t get
some kind of thrill from the surfing-is-deadly thing. I ain’t in a
hurry to add martyrdom to my vices. I love to surf, man.”
Anyway, let’s do this thing. First up, the chances of all the
ingredients coming together to actually paddle into a 20-footer at
Cloudbreak (Fiji) or Mavericks (California) or Jaws (Maui), Punta
de Lobos (Peru) or Belharra (France) is low. Everything has to be
right. The waves have to turn on. You can’t be sick, you can’t be
out of shape, and your boards have to be ready to go. So you gotta
be patient.
Butterflies? Yeah, I get ’em too. Serious butterflies. From the
moment I see a potential swell on the map to packing my boards I
get butterflies. And if it’s extraordinary swell, like Jaws
or Mavs, I get a genuine fear. But all that nervousness, all that
fear, goes away when you get into the lineup. And it should for
you, too. If it doesn’t, if you’re hesitating or overcome by
nervousness, maybe it just ain’t your day.
But then again maybe you just need a push in the right
direction. I calm myself by thinking about what a special day this
is; that it may not be like this again for years. I try and get
myself into a mental state where I want to push myself.
So what does a 20-foot wave look like? It looks scary as shit.
There’s a huge difference between a 15-foot wave and a 20-foot
wave. It’s not just a difference of five feet. It’s bigger, it’s
thicker, it’s more dangerous (sorry!). There’s a huge separation of
people who surf 20-feet and those who surf 15 feet. Twenty feet is
where it gets really, really serious.
What kinda skill set you need? Not a lot. You really just need
to the balls to paddle in. To ride one well requires some serious
skill but just to make it down the face, you don’t have to be a
great surfer.
Now let’s paddle in. If you’re in the right spot, whip it
around, put your head down and go. You can’t hesitate. Head down
and totally commit. Do I hesitate sometimes? Of courses. I hesitate
all the time. Sometimes for good reason, sometimes it’s a big
mistake, sometimes it’s genuinely out of fear. It’s part of the
deal. I’ve looked at a lot of good waves and not gone. My general
theory is that there’s no wave worth killing yourself for.
When everything goes right it’s like being a super fucking ugly
guy and having sex with the hottest super model on the planet. It’s
like you pulled off the impossible. Because everythitng in the
universe has to align for you to get this ride that you’ll remember
for the rest of your life. And there should only be a handful of
these in any surfers’ life, waves that you truly remember. That
feeling is rare and elusive as hell. It’s a mix of pure elation and
accomplishment.
Once you’re at the point of no return, your tail is lifting and
your about to drive down the face, everything, all that nervousness
disappears. Sure, you’re hyper-aware of making a mistake but, in
the moment, you’re focussed and completely in the zone. You think
of nothing and, instead, you’re relying on all your past
experiences to get you through.
When everything goes right, like at Puerto Escondido recently,
it’s like being a super fucking ugly guy and having sex with the
hottest super model on the planet. It’s like you pulled off the
impossible. Because everythitng in the universe has to align for
you to get this ride that you’ll remember for the rest of your
life. And there should only be a handful of these in any surfers’
life, waves that you truly remember. That feeling is rare and
elusive as hell. It’s a mix of pure elation and accomplishment.
When everything goes wrong, it’s the shittiest feeling. You
immediately go from this mode where you’re out there thinking, I’m
going to charge, this is going to make my day, Why and I so fucking
selfish? Why did I do this? Now I’m at the bottom of the ocean and
about to drown. But you won’t drown. This is what you trained for.
Remember that. Breath-holding training is important here. If you
know you can handle two waves on the head, you won’t punch
that big red panic button lighting up in your head. At least not
straight away.
For your first 20-foot paddle experience, and obviously this
depends on your ability to travel at a moment’s notice, I’d go to
Belharra in France. It’s the outer reef at the port town of
St-Jean-de-Luz. There are no rocks, there are channels on both
sides and the wave dies out into deep water. And at 20-feet it’s
barely breaking. You’ll need a ski to get out there, but I’m
guessing you already figured that out.
And here’s something you may not have thought about: the
comedown after such a tremendous event. It’s almost like postpartum
depression. You have this crazy euphoric moment when it’s happening
where you’re on this razor’s edge and you feel like you’ve reached
the absolute pinnacle of your life but then…almost in slow
motion… it starts to fade as you reach the channel. Even
though you just rode the wave of your life and you knew it and felt
it while you were riding, it evaporates as you flick off and
becomes, immediately, past tense. It’s such an emotional swing!
You’re definitely not high forever.
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Dear Rory: “Jewelry is for old
ladies!”
By Rory Parker
Men aren't raised to play with hair and make-up,
dress up and pretend to be fancy…
Dear Rory,
I think most BeachGrit readers are aware of Chas’ discerning
taste for fashion and style, but for those of us who aren’t into
having Ellen Degeneres’ hair style or tight pants I was hoping you
might offer a few style tips for surfers. It seems like everyone is
trying to sell surfers some clothing, but few are making much sense
out of it all. We need an impartial arbitrator of style! Sure you
might take a few free tees or throw up a few ads, but I trust
you’ll look past specific brands give general tips
like:
Should I roll the cuff of my pants and show off some ankle?
Is it okay to do this in a work environment?
Earth tones or is brighter better?
Board shorts length? I’m usually a 19” guy myself. That
whole huge baggy thing looked terrible on my scrawny ass.
Is it okay to wear boardshorts everywhere? What about my
wallet cell phone and keys?
Is it time to ditch the short beard and go clean? Are
mustaches still okay?
Best jacket for rainy days that aren’t all that cold (okay
maybe a brand would help)?
Confused Couture Cunt Craves A Confidant
Dear Rory says: Men’s fashion is a mystery to
me.
One of the many advantages to being born male, we aren’t heavily
socialized from a young age to place a high value our appearance.
Sure, there’s the genetic lottery thing going on. Life’s always
easier when you’re easy on the eyes. But we aren’t raised to play
with hair and make-up, dress up and pretend to be fancy.
So long as you’re not ugly, maintain good hygiene, I don’t think
it really matters how you dress. Body language, attitude, they’re
what’s important. No one ever sees the real you, that shit’s
internal. The way you carry yourself projects an image into others’
minds. WHOA!
Maybe nice clothes help some people with that. I don’t know. I
just see a pair of pants that cost as much as a surfboard. Or a
pile of drugs. Or a million other things that mean far more to me
than pants.
I do live by a few fashion rules. Grown men should never wear
hats inside. Sweatpants are a sign of failure. Never have a haircut
that could hamper you in a fight. Jewelry is for old ladies. If you
wear suspenders and a belt simultaneously you’re a fucking idiot.
Bow ties belong on cartoon characters.
But my root advice is this: Cool people don’t care what others
think. They do what they want and everyone loves it.
Some people may disagree, say the clothes make the man.
They’re stupid, and I don’t give two fucks what they say.
Because I’m cool, and they are not.
In answer to your questions:
I live in the tropics, I do not wear long pants. Ever. If I’m in
a cold climate and am forced to put some on I roll my cuffs up so
they don’t drag in the mud.
Color color color! Bright is right! Be a peacock, don’t worry
about matching.
Short shorts are great if you’re a hairless little manboy whose
balls haven’t dropped yet. Otherwise, keep ’em at the knee. I
shouldn’t need underpants to shield innocent eyes from my majestic
man package.
Board shorts everywhere. Ditch the cell phone, get a home line.
Make people communicate via email. Wallet and keys will fit in one
pocket.
I grow a mustache every six months or so. Always expect to look
like Tom Selleck. Instead, about a week in, I find my dad staring
back at me from the mirror. Not the look I’m going for.
Fifty gallon trashbag with head and arm holes cut into it.
Due to the volume of mail, Dear Rory can’t answer letters
personally etc…
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Opinion: “Pools better than surf
travel!”
By Patrick Brewster
The chance of scoring enough waves on vacation to
improve is impossible in the natural world.
Wavepools have gotten a lot of grief in your little
rag (website, whatever) as of late. I find this very
insensitive – dare I say ‘triggering’.
It’s all a numbers game. How many days in a year is your home
break ridable?
One Hundred? Two hundred?
How many days per annum is your region truly good, that is to
say, how many sessions in a year provide the mere opportunity for a
memorable ride? Five? Twenty?
I agree with Rory’s ‘born in darkness’ argument.
There will always be a difference between those raised in a pool
vs. those raised in the sea – but why can’t one master both?
Let’s explore the appeal of a pool using the second-person
‘hypothetical’ structure that your publication frequently
employs:
It feels like economic and oceanic opportunities have become
mutually exclusive for you. Your limbo (New England) is only
ridable 30-40 days per year and that’s only if you’re willing to
ride a longboard for 20 of them. The waves are objectively good for
about six hours every decade.
You’re 23 years old which means you only have a few years left
before you grow a gut and knock someone up – which will spell the
end of your seagoing days. A new ‘real job’ is off to an auspicious
start, but working nine-to-five means that you get to surf exactly
never.
Even if a decent swell rolled through on a weekend, during
daytime, with good wind, and good tides, and well-formed sandbars,
when you had nothing important to do, your arms would be atrophied
from doing nothing but picking up phones and pints of microbrew for
months. They would struggle to pull on your five mil. Duck-diving
your 35 liter board (which you need when paddling through heavy
cream) will feel like benching 250 lbs while being water boarded
with liquid nitrogen. Not that you know where to paddle out anyway,
you have never seen the bars break like this – because they never
have.
Even when the stars align and mercury is in perfect retrograde
you flub a paddle, or your back foot is three inches too far
forward. It seems like never again will a wave live up to the one
from V-Land that you relive every night before you fall asleep.
Maybe the problem is you just aren’t good enough. Some solid
practice, even one week’s worth, could go a long way toward solving
the problem. Thankfully your job differs from indentured servitude
in one small, but significant, way: vacation!
It’s just a question of where to go.
Hawaii? Twenty-four hours sure seems like a lot of
time to spend sitting on a plane when you only have one week
off.
Indonesia/South Pacific? See above, plus you’ve gotten
GI parasites before and have vowed to never get them again.
Central America? Been there. Done that. You’re tired of
hassling drug dealer/gigolo/surf-instructor beach boys for
picturesque but unmakable runners.
Puerto Rico? Too swarmed with dads from New Jersey and
their hotshot sons. Sure its only four hours away, but that shit’s
still America and you’ve got something more exotic on your
mind.
North Africa? A little too exotic, so much so that the
only reasonable places to stay are ‘surf camps’. Being chauffeured
around in a Land Rover and eating on a schedule feels an awful lot
like itinerary; if you wanted that you would take a cruise.
Europe? You like the idea, but still a long way to go.
It’s also a big place and you haven’t the faintest idea where to
look for waves.
In your research you discover that the Azores are only four
hours away. Sure the flight is a little pricey but boards on their
wacky airline fly free. The water’s a bit chilly to be sure but
that keeps the crowds at bay, and is a damn sight warmer than what
you’re used to. Plus you saw a video of Jack Freestone get barreled
there during a QS event- it looked dreamy. There’s an Airbnb for
$30 a night right next to the beach where that barrel happened.
The scorpion crawls onto your back as soon as you book your
ticket.
You’ve made an enormous tactical error by gambling your precious
vacation time on the whims of the springtime Atlantic. You spend a
week watching enormous storm surges crash into rocky shores in a
strange land. This island also carries mutated superbugs and an
unfamiliar strain of flu puts you on your ass for three days. At
night, the wind howls and shakes the house as you lay on a hard cot
and dream of that North Shore wall hitting the west bowl just
so.
Thankfully the beer is cheap and the pastries are fantastic. You
came to surf but now justify airfare by drinking espresso, lurking
in 400-year-old town squares, and sharing geothermal hot baths with
middle-aged Germans.
You return from your trip with a better understanding of
Portugal’s golden age and the woes of the Eurozone, but have softer
shoulders than when you left, and have learned nothing about foot
placement.
You curse the apparel brands, airlines, and travel boards that
would have you believe in surf travel. You curse your parents for
indulging you in such a masochistic activity as a child.
Ultimately though, the fault is yours. How foolish you were to
not consider the same factors that curse home breaks: the winds,
the tides, the swell, the sands of time. Extrapolating, you realize
that the chance of scoring enough good waves in a one-week period
to actually improve is impossible in the natural world.
You make up your mind. Your next vacation will be to
Nland
Surf Park in Texas. It opens soon, you know because
you are on the mailing list.
(Editor’s note: Patrick Brewster is a surfer
from Boston, Massachusetts. This is his first story for
BeachGrit.)
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Jon Pyzel and Matt Biolos by
@theneedforshutterspeed/Step Bros