Want to own a house that's the shortest of walks to the Hurley Pro? Buy here!
The Hurley Pro, as you know, is tuning up at the wave called Lowers, which is at the south end of the surf arena called Trestles. Further north is Uppers and even further around is the deep-water wave Cottons. Mostly, it ain’t much but in a big south-south-west swell and a light east wind? Oowee, she can boil.
If you’ve surfed there, you might’ve seen glimpses of the grand Spanish-style mansion called La Casa Pacifica that was owned by the American president Richard Nixon from 1969 until 1980. Located at 4100 Calle Isabella San Clemente, Nixon bought if off the original owner Hamilton H. Cotton’s widow and used it as a presidential hideaway, until he split back to New Jersey.
It’s a helluva spread. Almost six acres of beachfront land. And, today, you can own it for $US69 million which is a full six million dollars less than it was one year ago.
The sprawling 5.45-acre compound occupies an ocean bluff in a gated enclave. While the 37th U.S. president lived there he replaced an existing tennis court with a swimming pool and built a 1,500-foot-long wall to enclose the property.
The California Colonial Revival main house, built in 1926, spans about 9,000 square feet with tile and hardwood flooring, arched doorways and detailed groin-vaulted ceilings. Many of the main rooms open to a center courtyard with a tiled fountain.
Among other features is an ocean-view office used by Nixon and an entertainment pavilion. Including a two-bedroom guesthouse, staff residences and offices, there are about 15,000 square feet of living space, nine bedrooms, nine full bathrooms, a three-quarter bathroom and four powder rooms.
A greenhouse, a pool, a tennis court, formal gardens and expanses of lawn complete the grounds. Views take in Santa Catalina Island, the open water and the coastline.
World leaders to have visited the property have included former Japanese Premier Eisaku Sato, former South Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu and former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev.
Crooner Frank Sinatra, actor John Wayne and the Rev. Billy Graham also made the guest list.
The property was priced at $75 million last year but was taken off the market after three months.
The seller of the oceanfront estate is former Allergan Pharmaceuticals Chief Executive Gavin S. Herbert, who bought the property from Nixon in the 1980s.
The third instalment of JJF’s series, Twelve, dropped today. Like everything featuring Double John, it’s good.
Can’t call this one great. Smacks of filler. Too much about Brazil, too much about Fiji. I’ve seen those waves. Know what happened. And John John doesn’t do a great job shedding light in his voice-overs. Because he’s too well adjusted.
For which his mother deserves some sort of Parent of the Millenium award. Raising three boys on the North Shore without a single one turning into a tweaked out scumbag is damn impressive.
Tolstoy said it. “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
It’s our struggles that make us unique. Interesting. I know what happened, John. Please, tell us how you feel at your worst!
I have been confused why they’ve titled it, Twelve. Only seven segments. Just figured it out. Because they’re filming it over a year. Twelve months. Am I right?
Part three isn’t bad, unless you compare it to parts one and two. They were magnificent, this is merely pretty good. I suppose it’s due to the nature of the format. Film and edit installments as you go, sometimes life slows down. Nothing to be done about that.
I am surprised that John John doesn’t hire a team of bodyguards while he’s in Brazil. Those crowds are terrifying. When he’s signing autographs next to a fenced off crowd of screaming lunatics I half expected a knife to slither out and stab him in the neck. He’s pretty damn famous now. Enough so that you just know he’s gotta have at least one crazed stalker with a shrine in the living room and a plan to shed his blood.
As per usual with most surf clips, I could have done with a fraction of the lifestyle shots. But that’s old, jaded, Rory talking. Teenage Rory would’ve eaten it up with a spoon. It’s the type of stuff that sells the dream. The notion that it’s all fun and games. That near non-stop traveling and competing doesn’t, at least occasionally, turn into a soul crushing grind.
I’m calling this a weak moment in what’s been, thus far, an amazing series. I’m looking forward to number four in October almost as much as I look forward to absolutely anything featuring Mason Ho.
I am not a horse track man, generally. It ain’t that I don’t like the pomp and circumstance, that I don’t like to throw away money, that I don’t like livin on a prayer. It’s just… just… I don’t know. Maybe I should be a horse track man.
Only four-ish days ago I went and sat in the turf club, suited, drinking mojitos, winning some. I can’t bet anything other that for the win because I believe betting for the place or the show is spineless. I only care for winners.
Also, I have no idea how to box or pick exactas or trifectas or etc. because I am not bright.
Do you know what I know, though?
And I had the most wonderful thought while I sat in the turf club, suited, drinking mojitos. What if professional surfing treated itself exactly like horse racing?
What if the bettors could go, before a heat, and look at the surfers standing on sand. Really study their physiques etc. Does Jordy have a little bigger beer belly than yesterday? Does Filipe Toledo have a touch of cowardice in his eye? Kelly. Does Kelly appear motivated or confused?
What if a horn announced the surfers going into the water? A crisp, clear bugle call? And off they paddle! Six at a time, though, not two because we need to box and pick exactas and trifectas etc.
What if there were claiming heats wherein the winning bettor could purchase a surfer for $20,000 or so dollars? Would you claim Brett Simpson? He is very handsome and a wise choice but what would you have him do? Could he sleep inside or would you keep him in the garage with your bicycles?
What if the World Surf League launched a closed circuit TVG style thing wherein people around the globe could sit in smokey rooms and bet the same as those sitting on the beach?
What if when a surfer got hurt, maybe a knee pop or a dislocated shoulder, a vet would attend to him and if the injury was very severe would set up a tent around the surfer’s body and euthanize him or her on the spot?
What if surfers had to wear silks instead of wetsuits and their weights posted in the Surfing Forum alongside their stance and record?
Oh I think this may be the best idea I’ve ever had and could lead directly into the glorious future WSL CEO Paul Speaker prophesied a year and a half ago when he looked at the newsman and said, “For sure. Surfing will be bigger than footall. Duh.”
A hot whisper suggests that the World Surf League is trying to undermine Hurley. Shall we investigate?
As co-proprietor of your beloved BeachGrit it should come as no surprise that rumors come in fast and furious.
Kelly Slater is a chemtrail?
New wavepool for San Clemente?
Sometimes their veracity is worth chasing. Worth spending the time, energy and resources to dig for underlying truths. Mostly it is not and do you want to know why? Because 7 times out of 10 the rumor is true and the other 3 times it is funny!
And lets nibble a fresh one! It has been suggested by a tremendously good, tremendously inside source that Hurley, your second favorite eponymous surf brand after Mayhem, that exactly zero dollars has been spend marketing the upcoming Hurley Pro.
Zero by the World Surf League. Zero, as mandated by the World Surf League, by Hurley.
And I kind of believe it because I have not been served one pop up ad whilst shopping for Christian Louboutin smoking slippers online, I have not seen one print ad (in the Los Angeles Times) and I have not seen one billboard or streetlight signage even in San Clemente.
Furthermore, the same tremendously handsome source has also suggested that the entire contest will be run in the double, or overlapping, heat format.
But why? And the only thing I can imagine is that the WSL is aggravated by Hurley for some reason.
Maybe WSL CEO Paul Speaker thinks it is rude for your third favorite eponymous brand, after Mayhem and Maui and Sons, to simply squat on the mainland USA’s only Championship Tour surf contest without caring about his bigger, fabulous, 24 billion people picture?
Maybe the WSL is trying to flex its muscle and force Hurley’s parent company (Nike) into doing a major spend, becoming title sponsor of the whole deal like it is title sponsor of professional skateboarding’s Street League? Like, an all or nothing kind of play?
Maybe WSL CEO Paul Speaker has Graham Stapelberg in the wings really begging and pleading to be the sponsor and is thus making it very uncomfortable for your fourth favorite eponymous surf brand, after Mayhem, Maui and Sons and Stubbies, to wring any value out?
“Please…” Graham implores WSL CEO Paul Speaker while on his knees “…please my lord. Give me the Trestles contest. If it is mine, if it is the Graham Stapelberg Pro, then nobody will ever slap me again. I will be all-powerful! I will be the Graham Stapelberg Pro!”
Who knows but guess who’s not going to dig any further?
Was not expecting that. Figured I’d never hear from her again. Slowly forget her name and face. She’d eventually be remembered only as that-one-girl-from-Nicaragua.
Turns out she’s been reading your beloved BeachGrit, wants to add her own take on the situation. I get a kick out of the idea. Between her and the wife I’m becoming some sort of writer pimp. Getting together a stable, putting them to work for me. The wife’ll be bottom bitch. Keep the others in line.
Probably not the most lucrative form of flesh-peddling.
“Bitch, where’s my money at?”
“Oh, Daddy! You know I be workin’. Look at all this exposure I got for you!”
“What’s this HuffPo bullshit, ho? You know exposure ain’t gonna pay no fuckin’ bills!”
“I’m sorry, Daddy! It’s just so hard to find paying work.”
“Don’t give me that shit! Now get your ass back out on the street and get submittin’! Don’t make me slap a ho!”
What a life that’d be. A man can only dream.
Anyway, here’s what she sent me. I’m sure some of you will find yet another installment rather tedious, but I think it’s interesting how three people shared the same situation while taking away vastly different experiences.
(I should also probably add, the wife is not a fan of the “for her age” comment. Which, I think, is a fair reaction. Even if it is technically true. She’s got a killer pair of tits for any age, but most especially for someone in her early thirties.)
Rory, how are you and how are things back home? I went on your Facebook a few weeks ago, after I got back from surfing north of Gigante to send you a message saying thanks for letting me tag along on your holiday and to tell you that I think you and (Rory’s Wife) are absolute legends.
Then I came across the beach grit article about the potential threesome with me (which I found hilarious by the way) and then I felt bad because a threesome never in fact happened and then I thought I should explain why and I thought I’d try do it in an article.
The article is below. Feel free to change the ending to include the steamiest of threesome descriptions in history and post online if you feel your readers need answers.
“I went to Gigante for a threesome and all I got was a lousy beach grit tank.”
Sitting at microbrewery in San Juan. Their $4 craft beers burn holes in my backpacker pockets but its oak bar top and range of hops make me feel less like a salty drifter who has been on the road for 8 months and more like a human. Worth every cordoba.
Men’s 50km walk is showing from Rio, my concentration is hooked to the tv, naturally. In the ad break I look around, spot a white middle aged couple to my left- man has tie dye shirt on and is sweating profously, woman has extremely nice breasts for her age, both chain smoking.
I make conversation. Man writes for surf magazine and is free diving enthusiast, woman is lawyer and is passionate about the legalisation of marijuana. Both live in Hawaii, both very cool.
They invite me to a seafood feast and I decline politley. They insist and my body- which has been surviving on pasta and Natura’s prepackaged sauce for the past month accepts.
We have a delightful night and (Rory’s Wife) wants to order more food so she can package it and feed it to stray dogs- fucking legend. I take them to the park where I think the dogs most in need of fish croquttes and lobster are. They invite me to Playa Gigante, (Rory’s Wife) says she needs a spa buddy whilst Rory goes spear fishing. I ain’t got no plans so accept…and pray I ain’t getting catfished.
No spear fishing for Rory but massage, nonetheless for (Rory’s Wife) and myself. We are all getting along like a house on fire, they discover I am a fan of Fleetwood Mac and give me a beach grit tank.
One night I start to feel under the weather- high fever and my body aches, didn’t surf that day because my kook mates working at the surf camp ran their boat battery flat. It must be Zika. Rory and (Rory’s Wife) take me back to the hotel, feed me codeine and put on Rick and Morty- the parents I never had.
I feel better the next day. That night (Rory’s Wife) is wing-manning so hard for Rory she deserves wife of the year award.
Threesome is put on the table.
I have smoked copious amounts of cannabis with my kook mates at surf camp and is no way as drunk as she. I contemplate the offer and she sees it in my blazed eyes. Says offer is there for tomorrow night.
Can I have a threesome with this lovely couple who have nursed me to health and have shared multiple conversations about how using water to clean residual feces is better than paper?
I think about it, perhaps too much and decide no. I roll a consolation joint for them in the morning, say my goodbyes and head north to catch the last days of good swell. I hope they meet a young lass in the Granada and treats them with less kindness so a threesome materialises.
NB: I really like my beach grit tank and where it every day.