Great White Caves Beach
What do you do when you're photographing a pal riding the swell of the decade and a White breaches fifty metres out the back? “We started tooting the horn of the car, and I took off one of the trusted red flannelette shirts and put it on the end of a crutch to let him know,” the photographer Nathan McLaren told Channel Nine. | Photo: Nathan McClaren

Wow: Great White Breaches Near Surfer!

It's official: Great White season opens in Australia!

Australians of a certain age will remember when attacks by Great White were an abstract and paranoid thought. Yeah, they happened, maybe once every dozen years, twenty even, but always in South Australia.

And so you weighed up your options on whether or not you wanted to take the chance.

You want those uncrowded, cold-water reefs in South Oz? Go get ’em. But know there’s Whites. I once interviewed a man nicknamed Sharkbait who’d been attacked twice by Whites. He eventually died in a car crash.

Me? I tended to stick to the more comely trails of  the Gold Coast, Western Australia, Sydney and its surrounds. I can live with bronze whalers, bull sharks and tigers, at a pinch. But Whites? Oowee, they’re such midnight creepers. The first time y’see ’em close up, you’re gone.

Times do change. The weather has gone to hell and, clearly, seventeen years of protecting Great White sharks in Australia has led to a buoyant population.

Ballina and Byron Bay, home to the occasional bull shark sighting, now host families of Whites. This time last year, a Japanese surfer had both legs bitten off and was killed by a Great White at a beach I used to favour.

And Western Australia? Last week, one surfer and one diver were killed within days, and a hundred kilometres of each other, in WA.

Today Australian surfers’ lips popped agape in flabbergast at the front cover of the tabloid newspaper The Daily Telegraph. This photo was taken a couple of hours north of Sydney, at Caves Beach.

Screen Shot 2016-06-08 at 1.37.47 pm

It’s a wonderful photo, of course. Proof of a healthy ecosystem, proof of the ability of surfers to exist in harmony with Great White sharks, and proof, perhaps, that surfing is as cruel to its participants as a lying, brutal, cheating husband is to his wife. The torment. You can never be safe.

The surfer, pictured, and his pal, who shot the photo, glowed in their television performance, however.

From NineMSN.

Co-host Karl Stefanovic asked Mr McClaren if he’d seen sharks fly.

“I have now mate – I’ve had the pleasant experience. I’ve seen other animals fly,” he responded.

“Like the unicorn?” Stefanovic said.

“Yeah, normally see a couple of those on the weekend,” Mr McClaren replied, as the TODAY panel erupted into laughter.

“Hang in there big fella,” he added, as Stefanovic laughed.

A unicorn, for those who don’t swing, is a single, bisexual female who is willing to have sex with an established couple. No strings attached etc.

Watch the exchange here. 

Hi! I'm your champ!
Hi! I'm your champ!

What if…the Italian Ferrari wins it all?

Could a blue collar Brazilian put the WSL out of business?

Let’s play a new game on BeachGrit, shall we? Let’s call it What if… and pose questions that would bore the tears out of normal, healthy people but cause us to ponder deep into the night.

And let’s start with Italo Ferrrrrrrairrrrra! I clicked onto today to see if anyone had left CEO Paul Speaker two roses but also to see if the contest was on.

Nobody did and it wasn’t.

But since I was there I clicked on the rankings button. There, of course, is Wilko, hair cut like Gavin Rossdale’s 1995 Bush ‘do, on top. But Wilko ain’t for real, is he. He doesn’t have the mental make-up to complete a wire-to-wire run. He is fun, he is fruity, he is not a champion.

John John Florence is 3rd and while he has the skill to make a run I, also, don’t believe he possesses the mental fortitude. If Kelly Slater taught us anything it’s that it takes a singular focus to hold the trophy at the end of the year. John John may someday have that. Right now he is satisfied being John John. Much like Dane used to be satisfied being Dane.

SeaBass is 4th and no. Caio is 5th and who? Adriano, Jordy, Kolohe, Gab, Joel, Nat and motherfucking yawn.

Do you know who is 2nd though? Do you?

Italo Ferira!

And he is the sort of champion that this modern tour makes. He is certainly the one who will finish the season on top.

How do you feel about that? Do you feel bravo! The blue collar Brazilian put his head down and crushed the higher priced models!

How does the WSL feel about that? Does it feel shit! Another year with an unmarketable winner!

Or does it feel get Enzo Ferrari on the phone! We have our sponsor for the 2017 season! And while we’re at it let’s order two roses!

Mason Ho Costa Rica
Mason Ho's surfing could illuminate the face of a toy doll.

Just in: Episode 4, License to Chill!

"We're gonna surf! Party! Cruise!" Burger, Mason and Coco go to Costa Rica!

Is License to Chill, the eight-part web series from Mason Ho and co, the nine-hundred dollar rhinestone collar of web clips? Who else’ll hypnotise you for a nine-minute short, two of those as credits?

In this episode, Mason, his sister Coco and his pal Keoni “Cheeseburger” Nozaki visit the Republic of Costa Rica in Central America.

It’s an eccentric palate of Burger’s gags (watch him lavish sunscreen on little Coco, “Chop Chop lotion boy! Sunscreen! Sunscreen sir!”), Mason’s effortless jumps and Coco’s ferocious tour style (she throws fins!).


Which is Surfer and which The Inertia?

Dear Rory: “How can I raise a child?”

The really fucked-up thing about raising a kid? It's a roll of the dice, no matter what you do.

Dear Rory:

My chick and I recently welcomed our first child into the world and we’re rapidly adjusting to parenting. However, one can never have too much sage advice. We all know that Chas and Derek actually have children, rendering them unimaginative and jaded, all too 2014 in the ever-evolving game of parenting in the new millennium.

What we need is the advice of a parenting maverick, a visionary unaffected by parenting literature or experiential knowledge. Given that your ear is to the street on all the current trends in spearfishing, how can we up our parenting game in these early stages of raising an infant?


Daddy Derelict in Daytona

Dear Rory says: Wow, congratulations! You get to raise a child in the twenty first century.

Can’t wait to see what the internet looks like in 13 years. Can’t wait to hear all about the conversations parents are forced to initiate. “This is why you shouldn’t post pictures of your butthole online…” “No, bronyism is not a socially acceptable form of sexuality.” “Anal creampies are pretty advanced for middle school. You should probably save that for college.”

If it’s a boy you can count on walking in on him plugged in to a VR headset while he humps away at a rubber vagina simulacrum. That’ll be fun. Eyes covered, headphones on, you’re gonna have to actually touch him to let him know you’re an audience to his sin. The days of “No! Nothing! I’m just scratching my leg. Close the door!” will be long past.

If it’s a boy you can count on walking in on him plugged in to a VR headset while he humps away at a rubber vagina simulacrum. That’ll be fun.Eyes covered, headphones on, you’re gonna have to actually touch him to let him know you’re an audience to his sin. The days of “No! Nothing! I’m just scratching my leg. Close the door!” will be long past.

Female and you’ll still get to experience the age old joy of meeting some scrawny teen just looking to get up inside your precious baby girl. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. “But we’re in love! You just don’t understand.” Try not to think about changes in sexuality. Don’t focus on the fact that hardcore porn is at our fingertips, exposing a growing generation to new depths of depravity.

I hear there’s a thriving black market for newborns on Craigslist. Some states allow you to legally abandon unwanted children at your local fire station. Not trying to tell you what to do. Just, you know, keep your options open.

But it’s probably too late. Your brain started dumping those feel-good chemicals already. Nature’s way of making sure we don’t murder our offspring. Pretty solid evolutionary response, without it we’d have way more moms taking that long drive off a short pier.

The really fucked-up thing about raising a kid? It’s a roll of the dice, no matter what you do. Abuse the shit out of ’em, they can either turn into meth addicts turning tricks for nickels beneath a freeway overpass, or they overcome adversity and become shining models of productive humanity. Dote and love and support and you either get a try hard success story, or a spoiled worthless hunk of garbage who fails at life because they never learned that trying hard isn’t really enough.

Maybe the kid’ll murder you in bed one night. Show up at school with an arsenal because the genes you passed down are fundamentally flawed.

No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you care, you’re gonna make mistakes. And one day the kid will say, “I fucking hate you, Dad.”

Good times.

But none of this is advice, and that’s what you’re asking for. Here some stuff I’d pass down if I ever (god forbid) put a baby in a lady and had it survive to term.

Teach your kid to be an expert swimmer: Force them into swim lessons, make them waste their Summers in Junior Lifeguards. They’ll hate it, I did. But it’s one of those things where they eventually appreciate it. I eventually did.

Spare them the brainwashing: I swear, I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life unlearning the bullshit I was taught as a child. It’s like you’re lied to from birth until 18 years of age, then you’re expected to understand how the world works. Pretty gnarly trial by fire. Fucking sucks.

Never trust an authority figure: The world is full of petty tyrants. If you let someone determine your path in life you’ll just end up their slave.

Rules aren’t real: Only losers play fairly. Winners don’t get caught cheating.

Never admit to anything: If you’re being questioned it’s because they can’t prove you did it.

Only suckers fight fair: Go hard, go dirty, don’t stop.

Nothing really matters: Nothing you do as a kid counts in the long term. Grades are unimportant, the “permanent record” is utter bullshit.

Always stand up for yourself: No matter what the cost. Going along to get along just makes you a perpetual doormat.

Life hurts: It’s just a series of ups and downs. Never enough good moments. Always too many bad. Just something you’ve gotta deal with. No matter how much the now sucks the future will be better. Eventually. Probably.

There’s no afterlife: You only get one shot at this. Make it count.

Have fun. Better you than me.

Email Dear Rory your personal conundrums at [email protected]. Due to the volume of mail Dear Rory can’t answer all letters personally.

Do we dream the same dream Mr. WSL CEO Paul Speaker? Do we?
Do we dream the same dream Mr. WSL CEO Paul Speaker? Do we?

Rumor: WSL CEO Paul Speaker is a diva!

Or maybe a poet! Or maybe an opera star! Or maybe Beyonce!

Have you heard of celebrity riders? They are the lists of requirements the rich and famous demand from the service class. Some are normal, like water bottles and Butterfinger candy bars.

Others are honorable. Jack Johnston, surfing minstrel, insists that his music venues change all their lightbulbs to the energy saving sort and staff bike valets.

Still others are grandly bizarre. Iggy Pop stipulates that there must be seven dwarves at each of his shows dressed up like the famous Disney Snow White troupe. Katy Perry, a person to wash and cut her vegetables. Eminem, a koi pond. Dustin Diamond, that no person in his presence call him “Screech.”

What about World Surf League CEO Paul Speaker? Rumor has it that he requires two roses to be sitting on his limo/Towncar seat and two more in his hotel rooms.


The hell?

Totally amazing!

It it wonderful that Mr. Speaker has a rider at all, don’t you think? In his mind he must be a powerful lord overseeing a robust and thriving business. Or maybe in his mind he is a precious pop star whose every emotional whim must be catered to immediately.

Or maybe in his mind he is a renaissance painter and needs reminders that life is both beautiful but fragile always by his side.

Or maybe he is a li’l freak?

Do you think his favorite song is Poison’s Every Rose Has its Thorn?

Take my hand, dear Mr. CEO, and look into my eyes…

We both lie silently still in the dead of the night
Although we both lie close together we feel miles apart inside
Was it something I said or something I did?
Did my words not come out right?
Though I tried not to hurt you
Though I tried
But I guess that’s why they say

Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn

Yeah it does