Let’s all keep believing in miracles, ok? If you can even imagine… if your crusty heart can wrap around things too majestic for the mind to fully comprehend… then you know that the World Surf League, pronounced dead just hours ago, is alive again and thanks to the Angel Moroni!
Mitt Romney was right! Mitt Romney for President!
So…the WSL was dead, yeah? But then Joel gave us a thrill and what? And how? But if you look at the channel, at the boats, the answer is there.
Three Mormons, in full regalia, bob and pray and bob and adjust their holy undergarments and bob and think about sweet Salt Lake girls who they wanna make lotta babies with and bob and supplicate for us sinners!
Us demanders of entertainment!
And then the World Surf League rises, brushes off the dirt, coughs, and… and… and… lives!
Joel Parkinson, who I characterized as “less successful” in World Surf League’s obituary, was the catalyst for sweet redemption and thus it was written in 1 Nephi 1:20:
But behold, I, Nephi, will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance.
I was wrong, so wrong, and Joseph Smith is scolding me atop a pile of virgins in heaven.
Wait. Do Mormons have virgins in heaven? What do they get again? I can’t remember.
The World Surf League died today during Round 3 Heat 3. It might be missed.
On Monday, one-time boy-band impresario and lifelong con-man World Surf League died at the age of 45 of absolute boredom in the Round 3 Heat 3 matchup between Matt Banting and Jordy Smith in the Tahiti Billabong Pro. Those who knew it best were pretty much satisfied with that ending.
In the late 1990s and early 2000s, however, World Surf League (then called Association of Surfing Professionals) was celebrated, admired and even adored, an affable King Midas of surf with a magnetic personality. It was a walking exercise in irony: The middle-aged, nasal-voiced, balding and 300-plus-pound Queens, New York, native surrounded itself with chiseled, underage surfers.
It didn’t invent surfing, but the ones it formed dominated brands, shattered boardshort records and helped propel the industry toward a multi-billion dollar run, the largest ever at the time. WSL/ASP started Kelly Slater and Andy Irons but followed its two biggest acts with a long tail of less-successful others: O-Town, LFO, Joel Parkinson, Take 5, Mick Fanning, Natural, Aaron Carter, Ace Buchan, Adriano de Souza, Matt Wilkinson, Italo Ferreira, Sebastian Zietz, Kolohe Andino, Wiggolly Dantas, Dusty Payne, Nat Young, Stuart Kennedy, Adam Melling, Alejo Muniz, Ryan Callinan, Bede Durbidge, Timothee Biso.
Etc. etc. etc.
Many who did business with WSL, though, remember it as a financial criminal. In 2008, it was convicted of two counts of conspiracy, one count of money laundering and one count of making false statements during a bankruptcy proceeding. It was sentenced to 300 months in prison, one for every million investigators said it stole in a massive Ponzi scheme involving fake savings accounts and a fake professional surf tour business.
If the league once known as “Big Poppa” to its beloved boys had his way, the story of its legacy would begin and end with its surf success and influence. But its later life was dominated by desperation to prove it was worthy of the credit it gave itself.
It all came undone during Round 3 Heat 3 when Matt Banting and Jordy Smith did not surf leaving Martin Potter and Joe Turpel to blabber about nothing for 35 full minutes.
It might be missed but not for many many many years.
Da Hui is one of our very iconic brands and one that still strikes fear/joy into the heart of men. Or at least this man. I love it!
A few months ago, when I traveled to the east African nation of Djibouti, I brought my black Da Hui baseball cap, given to me as a gift by the wonderful Eddie Rothman, because I was planning to be on a boat most of the time and did not want a sunburned nose.
I wore it with pride, even though I was not on a boat most of the time, and loved when those Djiboutians scattered into the shadows as I walked down the street.
Emirates Airlines lost my luggage on my return and I didn’t get the bag for days. When it finally did arrive it was torn open and inside a clear garbage bag. Just one thing was missing. My black Da Hui baseball cap.
I can only assume a Pakistani baggage handler is terrorizing his Emirati masters with it this very day and it brings me some relief. Emiratis are the world’s biggest dough-balls and need Black Short justice.
In any case, Da Hui is now making wax and just watch this advertisement. Watch the entire thing. High octane Pipeline, throaty rock n roll and the end. Eddie’s unmistakable growl:
Remember, when you need to stick it, Da Hui wax…. Let’s go.
All the ad agencies on Madison Avenue could not craft a message so winkingly amazing, so on point, so lean, so anti-hip yet effortlessly cool, so… so… delightful.
It is the best ever surf ad and I dare you to disagree.
There are days in the pro surfing game when nothing of note happens. When everything hums beehive perfect, the telecast is good, the commentators are in form, there are no technical glitches, but absent is any form of drama.
Today, very near the southern tip of Tahiti, on Tahiti-iti, in three-to-four-foot waves under gloomy skies, six hours of heats were processed without surprise.
Low heat totals. Fickle sets. A channel empty but for photographers and filmers and caddies obligated by friendship or employers to record a dozen forgettable heats.
You can imagine the early-morning interiors of the home-stays around Teahupoo, still but for the guest who would be fidgeting and grinning hideously as he crept out of the house to surf for his life in three-foot waves.
Results were par.
Filipe Toledo disappeared with a last place in an odd heat where he appeared determined to conjure a reputation-changing six-footer out of nowhere.
The tenuous world number one Matt Wilkinson beat the almost-forty-year-old wildcard Hira Teriinatoofa with a switchblade layback.
Dusty Payne armlocked Conner Coffin in a tight, last-minute win that made Conner bare his teeth in frustration.
Alex Ribiero cocked a six-point heat total to bomb the reigning world champion Adriano de Souza out of the event. “Yeah…um…the waves were… tricky,” said the perpetually diplomatic de Souza.
Joel Parkinson stilled thoughts of retirement when he snorted Jack Freestone off the reef.
Watch the post show here! (Game on tomoz and the next day too!)
Did you get your MMA fill last night with Conner vs. Nate? No? Good! Let's get ready for an international rumble!
Do you like mixed martial arts? Does the sight of blood streaming down a cauliflower ear’d man send you into fits of ecstasy? Did you watch Conner McGregor vs. Nate Diaz last night? I didn’t but read that it is already being considered one of the greatest fights of all time. Do you want to know another good fight though? California’s west vs. Australia’s east. Gentlemen tap gloves.
Every coastal nation has a best coast, north, south, east or west. One coast trumps the other. In France, the west coast is better than the south Mediterranean coast. In Panama the east Caribbean coast is better than the west Pacific. In the United States’ California west is better than the urbane Eastern Seaboard. And in Australia the urbane east coast is better than its wild wild west. But when California is pitted against Australia’s Gold, Sunshine, Sydney coast which wins? Which is best of all?
Australia’s east coast features one very fine town and that town is Sydney. Some will say Byron Bay or Nambucca Heads or Forster (pronounced “Foster”) are equally fine but they are wrong. And Sydney is dreamy. There is shopping, dining, delicious models and surf. Australia’s east coast also features the Gold Coast and while Surfers Paradise is both a grammatical and architectural travesty the surf is amazing. There are waves for every desire.
California features three very fine towns, Los Angeles and San Francisco and San Diego. Los Angeles may be perfect. It has everything including the film industry and all the actresses who come for it. Everything except good surf but good surf is easily accessible via automobile. San Francisco is called the Paris of the west and it, too, has everything except attractive women and sunlight. San Diego has everything except an IQ.
Australia’s east coast has Snapper Rocks. California has Trestles. Australia’s east coast has Nicole Kidman. California has her too.
Australia’s east coast has beer. California has wine country. Australia’s east coast has Splendour in the Grass. California has Coachella. Australia’s east coast has that harsh, unfiltered east coast light. The sort that makes a man feel bad about his past and not dreamy. The same sort as New York City. California has golden light filtered in that way that all light is filtered on west coasts. The past is forgotten. Only the future exists.
And, therefore, California is better than Australia’s east coast. California might be better than anywhere else on earth.