It is a beautiful southern California morning
and I am up early because my 3 year-old daughter is cranky and
wants Figgies and Jammies and cartoons in bed with only mama. I
was, therefore, kicked to the kitchen, literally with her tiny
foot, in order to fetch them.
I did then returned back down to my perch at the
corner of the kitchen’s island that I insisted we cover in zinc so
it would be like a grand Parisian zinc bar. But do you know what
zinc does near the ocean? Like, do you know how zinc is used on a
sailboat? It is used to draw corrosion away from important parts
because salt loves to eat zinc. Thus, our island is a pocked mess.
An eight thousand dollar disaster born out of my cancerous
Francophilia.
Figgies and Jammies are, in any case, the gluten free version of
Fig Newtons but somehow and magically twice as good.
And it is, of course, Father’s Day. Before becoming a
father myself the day would hold no special meaning. I would
call my dad, sure, and we would chat but I chat with him often so
my Father’s Day call always felt artificially forced.
Then I had a daughter.
I was talking about it with Matt Warshaw the other day and he
said, “Having a child will instantly bond you to all other
fathers.” And this is totally and completely true. It is not
magical, not like Figgies and Jammies, but something about the ins
and outs of raising a baby, watching her grow, feeding her, bathing
her, getting kicked by her and receiving the brunt of her cranky
attitude fires strange connections with other men who feed, bathe,
get kicked and field grumpy.
And this is far too sentimental, especially on your third
favorite surf gossip website, but today I would simply like to give
a small nod and knowing wink to BeachGrit‘s dads.
Dark horses and a yellow jersey holder like a
woman's breast!
Do you ever reflect on the brevity of fame, or
of a surfer’s reign as a contender? Was it only a year or
two ago that we still expected Taj Burrow to collect a trophy that
was his to take since 1998? Or Jordy Smith, for whom multiple
crowns awaited? Fanning, the three-timer, now
a part-timer?
If we’re to study the WSL ratings after five events (the tour
comprises 11 events), we find four surfers likely to challenge
for the title, with two very dark horses, whom we’ll discuss in a
moment.
The ratings, after the Fiji Pro, are follows:
Matt Wilkinson (AUS) 32,500 pts
Gabriel Medina (BRA) 24,000 pts
John John Florence (HAW) 23,900 pts
Italo Ferreira (BRA) 20,500 pts
Adriano de Souza (BRA) 20,400 pts
I’m inclined to dismiss the current world champion Adriano De
Souza from contention because I believe judges are human and will
instinctively recoil from another beige world title. As Brad
Gerlach told me during filming for an upcoming Like Bitchin
episode, and I paraphrase here, “Do I admire the
hard work it took for Adriano to win a world title? Yes. Do I want
to watch him surf? No.”
Which leaves us with Wilko, Gabriel, John John and Italo.
Matt Wilkinson was once as soft as a woman’s breasts, his
preparation for events as thorough as a spontaneous uprising by
enraged peasants. This year Wilko, with his peeling nose and little
blue eyes, has become a competitive monster helped, in no
small part, by his coach Glenn Hall. Throw
away Wilko’s two worst results (a ninth and a
twenty-fifth) and he sits on an almost perfect, 1, 1, 2. And yet
his heat average is an unimpressive 13.50. Do world titles come
with under 14 point heat averages? World title odds:
four-to-one.
Gabriel Medina is a beautiful, perfect genius person with
eyebrows that require daily attention. Gabriel surprised no one
when he won the Fiji Pro. His low-rockered Johnny
Cabianca-shaped surfboards support a simple and pleasing approach
that even a non-surfer can understand. Tube, turn, air. Convinced
of his own righteousness (tears!), Gabriel is cowed by no one. Heat
average? 14.71. More than a full-point better than
Wilko’s. World title odds: two-to-one.
John John Florence, with that sulky face and hair that will
redden with age, is the best of all. Never coached but infused with
the history of every great surfer before him, his genetic code
rewritten in the North Shore lineups by a who’s who of modern
surfing. A heat average better than Gabriel. (14.80). An ability, a
likelihood, of winning at Teahupoo, Trestles, Pipe. Surfing that is
lucid, elegant and individual. A world champion, unlike Adriano or
Gabriel, who would alienate no one. World title odds: Even
chance.
Youth has its dreams and, therefore, let’s dream that Italo
Ferriera shows a royal flush in the back half of the season. The
ability to soar is the richest of language and three of the final
six events reward the vocabulary of above-the-lip surfing. And,
still, Italo has the basic structure to fare well at J-Bay,
Teahupoo and Pipe. World Title odds:
six-to-one.
And the dark horses? Oh these are as dark as they come.
Filipe Toledo. Can you imagine it? Out for two events.
Unimpressive in Fiji. Seventeenth in the world. But with a heat
average only 0.7 under that of the yellow jersey holder, I envisage
a three-pack of wins (Trestles, France – if smallish, Portugal) and
surprisingly robust performances at J-Bay and Tahiti. We must
remember, even those famous reefs sometimes fail to gleam. Four
foot Jeffreys? Five foot onshore Teahupoo? World Title odds:
ten-to-one.
Now, Kelly Slater. Do we dare dream? Does Kelly still dream?
What if his mysterious malady disappears? What if the back half of
the season is rich with swell. What if he wins J-Bay, backs it up
with Teahupoo, then France, fights to a semi in Portugal and then
snatches his famous old shotgun and wins Pipe? World title
odds: twenty-to-one.
It is Father's Day (depending on where in the world
you live)! Let the world's most fabulous dad give you some
advice!
When I go drinking I need to have a max
drink number in mind. Usually if I go over that number I regret it.
This is especially useful when you are single.
Hawaii is where I want my kids to grow
up. In Hawaii if you show respect you tend to get it
back.
Marriage is THE most important
decision you will ever make in your life. Don’t take
it lightly. Ninety per cent of your future happiness will
depend on who you choose, and 99% of your future misery, so choose
wisely. Figure out if she is an evil bitch BEFORE you take the
plunge! Hint: you don’t know anyone until you’ve lived with them
for three-to-five years and you share expenses.
As far as ageing goes, my outside ain’t
that pretty these days so I am working on the inside.
I am glad I am a man, as we are totally
exempt from pressure to get plastic surgery “done”.
Hollywood is not for me.
Women? About or from? Oh gosh. I have
learned to hold my tongue.
Fear can equal fun if you allow it to.
Eyebrows. I have not learned much about
eyebrows, fortunately.
Hair is fleeting. And my wife likes my
shaves head, lucky for me.
Friendship is just as important as family
to me.
Money is useful but can cause more
problems than it solves if you are not careful.
I love fashion on women. Lucky for me,
Billabong makes something for all occasions.
I have learned about boats, rent don’t
own, no matter how much dough you got.
Who is not a piece of shit? Your favorite soul man
Jared Mell!
Oh marriage can be such a many splendored
thing! A good husband or good wife is worth her weight and
so much more fun than a good boyfriend or girlfriend. I have,
frankly, never understood the reticence to walk down an aisle. Why?
For what? If you love the one you’re with, really love, then why
not? Being an ex-husband or an ex-wife is far superior, literarily,
to being an ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend should things go
sour.
But you are worried about money? About the money you’ll lose if
you divorce?
Pshaw. You are not a romantic. You are a clanging gong.
But a piece of shit.
But do you know who is a romantic? Who is not a piece of shit?
Your favorite soul man Jared Mell!
I met with Jared so many months ago in a Newport Beach dive bar.
We were supposed to be shooting the very first episode of
Like Bitchin! except a
cameraman never showed. I tried to shoot on my iPhone (sorry WSL x
Samsung…your marketing falls upon deaf ears!) but it was impossibly
dumb.
We talked, anyhow, of many things. Of surfing, shaping, booze,
clothing and women.
Of women!
Jared was with one he loved very much and his eyes sparkled as
he told me her story. She had an exotic name, a beautiful smile, a
fantastic Instagram feed. She was someone, it was clear. And his
eyes sparkled as he told her story!
It involved subterfuge, sexy rendezvous, possible fisticuffs.
The stuff of Shakespeare! As I listened I also hoped that it would
end cinematically. Not in a whimper. Not in a breathless gasp.
And now they are married! Jared Mell took the plunge with his
paramour almost two years ago in Las Vegas, Nevada where all
true love stories begin. You think I joke but that’s where mine
began. They booked a small chapel and were married by Elvis Presley
himself in front of five friends. Elvis’s favorite number was eight
but I imagine there is a way to add the extra three somewhere.
Jared, anyhow, tells me, “We had one friend each and then
happened to run into three more friends out there so that was it.
And then we went to the Beatles Love show that is playing out
there…”
I went to the same with my wife before we got married. If you
are in Las Vegas it is worth catching.
“…and then I had a full on asthma attack in the casino. I was so
happy I couldn’t breathe anymore!”
I laugh and ask him if he thinks marriage is good. He laughs
because his new wife is sitting right next to him and says, “Oh
totally! Marriage is amazing as long as you find that perfect
person and as long as they find you…”
I know his eyes were sparking when he said that. I could feel it
through the iPhone and nothing but nothing could make me happier. A
good husband or good wife is worth more than its weight. If you
don’t believe me go and try it. And if it involves musical theater
divorce and try again!
For preventing the lineups from becoming
overcrowded. Let's eat the children of kooks!
It is a melancholy object to those who surf at
their local breaks or travel so surf far off exotic waves,
when they see the lineups crowded with the bikini
clad female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all
in shitty wetsuits and dropping in willy nilly. These mothers,
instead of being able to scold their charges, are forced to employ
all their time trying to look hot for their helpless infants: who
as they grow up either turn into massive snakes or leave their
dear native country and become massive snakes abroad.
I think it is agreed by all parties that this prodigious number
of kooks in the lineup, or on the backs, or at the heels of
their mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is in the present
deplorable state of surfdom a very great additional grievance;
and, therefore, whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy
method of making these children sound, useful members of the surf
brotherhood, would deserve so well of the public as to have his
statue set up for a preserver of the nation.
My intention is very far from being confined to provide only for
the children clogging lineups; it is of a much greater extent, and
shall take in the whole number of infants at a certain age who are
born of parents in effect as little able to teach them proper surf
etiquette.
I am assured by our Australian surfing family, that a boy or a
girl before twelve years old is no salable commodity; and even when
they come to this age they will not yield above three pounds, or
three pounds and half-a-crown at most on the exchange; which cannot
turn to account either to the parents or kingdom, the charge of
nutriment and rags having been at least four times that value.
I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I
hope will not be liable to the least objection.
I have been assured by a very knowing American of my
acquaintance in Tahiti, that a young healthy child of surfers well
nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome
food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no
doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.
I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that of
the hundred and twenty thousand children already out in the lineup,
twenty thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof only one-fourth
part to be males; which is more than we allow to sheep, black
cattle or swine; and my reason is, that these children are seldom
the fruits of marriage, a circumstance not much regarded by our
savages, therefore one male will be sufficient to serve four
females. That the remaining hundred thousand may, at a year old, be
offered in the sale to the persons of quality and fortune through
the kingdom; always advising the mother to let them suck
plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump and fat
for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertainment
for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind
quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little
pepper or salt will be very good boiled on the fourth day,
especially in winter.
I have reckoned upon a medium that a child just born will weigh
12 pounds, and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, increaseth to
28 pounds.
I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very
proper for the most seasoned, crusty locals, who, as they have
already devoured most of the parents by barking them off waves or
threatening well-being, seem to have the best title to the
children.
Infant’s flesh will be in season throughout the year, but more
plentiful in winter, when the waves are generally best and a little
before and after; for we are told by a grave author, an eminent
French physician, that fish being a prolific diet, there are more
children born in Roman Catholic countries about nine months after
Lent than at any other season; therefore, reckoning a year after
Lent, the markets will be more glutted than usual, because the
number of popish infants is at least three to one in this kingdom:
and therefore it will have one other collateral advantage, by
lessening the number of papists among us.
A very worthy person, a true lover of his lineup, and whose
virtues I highly esteem, was lately pleased in discoursing on this
matter to offer a refinement upon my scheme. He said that many
gentlemen of this kingdom, having of late destroyed their deer, he
conceived that the want of venison might be well supplied by the
bodies of young lads and maidens, not exceeding fourteen years of
age nor under twelve; so great a number of both sexes in every
country being now ready to starve for want of work and service; and
these to be disposed of by their parents, if alive, or otherwise by
their nearest relations. But with due deference to so excellent a
friend and so deserving a patriot, I cannot be altogether in his
sentiments; for as to the males, my American acquaintance assured
me, from frequent experience, that their flesh was generally tough
and lean, like that of our schoolboys by continual exercise, and
their taste disagreeable; and to fatten them would not answer the
charge. Then as to the females, it would, I think, with humble
submission be a loss to the public, because they soon would become
breeders themselves; and besides, it is not improbable that some
scrupulous people might be apt to censure such a practice (although
indeed very unjustly), as a little bordering upon cruelty; which, I
confess, hath always been with me the strongest objection against
any project, however so well intended.
Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about
that vast number of kooks who are aged, diseased, or maimed,
and I have been desired to employ my thoughts what course may be
taken to ease the nation of so grievous an encumbrance. But I am
not in the least pain upon that matter, because it is very well
known that they are every day dying and rotting by cold and famine,
and filth and vermin, as fast as can be reasonably expected. And as
to the young Hurley-clad shredders, they are now in as hopeful a
condition; they cannot get work, and consequently pine away for
want of nourishment, to a degree that if at any time they are
accidentally hired to common labor, they have not strength to
perform it; and thus the country and themselves are happily
delivered from the evils to come.
I have too long digressed, and therefore shall return to my
subject. I think the advantages by the proposal which I have made
are obvious and many, as well as of the highest importance.
For first, as I have already observed, it would greatly lessen
the number of kooks, with whom we are yearly overrun with
especially during the summer months when the water is warm.
Secondly, the kook parents will have something valuable of
their own, which by surf law may be made liable to distress and
help to keep their place in the lineup. If they sacrifice one or
two of their kook children then they can stay.
Thirdly, The constant kook breeders, beside the gain of eight
dollars sterling per annum by the sale of their children, will
be rid of the charge of maintaining them after the first year.
Fourthly, This food would likewise bring great custom to surf
clubs and bars; where the vintners will certainly be so prudent as
to procure the best receipts for dressing it to perfection, and
consequently have their houses frequented by all the fine WSL
stars, who justly value themselves upon their knowledge in good
eating: and a skilfull cook, who understands how to oblige his
guests, will contrive to make it as expensive as they please.
I can think of no one objection, that will possibly be raised
against this proposal, unless it should be urged, that the number
of people will be thereby much lessened in the lineup and surfers
will completely disappear in the future but that is the perfect
outcome, no? And who cares if there are no surfers in the future.
We are a barbarous people. As evil as we are worthless.
I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the
least personal interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary
work, having no other motive than the public good of my surf
brothers, by advancing our trade, providing for infants, relieving
the poor, and giving some pleasure to the crusty local. I have no
children by which I can propose to get a single penny; the youngest
being too skinny and my wife past child-bearing.
The End
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Jon Pyzel and Matt Biolos by
@theneedforshutterspeed/Step Bros