Fat surfer girl

Parker: “It’s the most beautiful day ever!”

So why does Rory want to "tear someone's fucking head off?"

You know those days you wake up feeling nothing but rage? Totally hate the world, everyone in it?

But it’s a gorgeous day and there’s the tail end of a hurricane swell and the wind is great so you paddle out and try to shake off the anger. But you can’t because some fat ass pig of a girl is sitting wide on her wavestorm, yelling “party wave!” and shoulder hopping literally every set that comes in. Then has loud conversations during lulls about how she dropped the restraining order against her baby daddy because even though he “has his problems” and can’t stay out of jail he’s “a good dad.”

So you spend the entire session stewing over that bitch. Wishing you could grab her by a fat fold and hammer her teeth through the back of her head.

So even though it’s overhead, punchy enough to be a challenge, soft enough to push your turns, you spend the entire session stewing over that bitch. Wishing you could grab her by a fat fold and hammer her teeth through the back of her head. But you don’t want to go to jail and you know that life will take care of it for you. Good thing she’s having fun today, because she’s a young single mother with no education living on an island with no opportunities, slave wages, and a cost of living on par with New York City. This is as good as it’s ever gonna get.

Then you go home and want nothing more than to drink yourself stupid but you can’t because your wife hasn’t figured out what’s going on with her liver test results and because she can’t drink you agreed you won’t either. But she’s gone grocery shopping while you were in the water, which is really nice because you’re playing host to a twenty four year old who’s done nothing in the last five days but smoke all your weed, eat ten meals a day, sleep, and you would have lost your mind if you’d come home to an empty fridge after restocking the fridge twice in the last three days.

And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about anything so you try to keep your mouth shut and calm down because all you really want to do is find an excuse to tear someone’s fucking head off.

Just in: The Inertia pivots on drug abuse!

Previously very anti-drug, it now appears the world's third favorite mountain blog is turnt!

One of my most favorite things about political seasons are the new words that enter our vocabulary. Oh it is pure thrill for this linguist and the particular political season we are currently in the middle of is almost too much!

Some of my most beloved words/phrases thus far have been:



Surrogate (an old favorite)



and pivot.

Pivot is being used over and over to denote a change in subtle change in position as opposed to an outright flip-flop.

I think.

In any case, guess what? The Inertia just pivoted on its draconian drug stance!

I think!

You must recall the piece Why I Deeply Respect the Surf Industry for Glorifying Drugs and AlcoholNo? The sarcastic piece written by The Inertia‘s resident self-described “smartass” was very critical of drugs etc. Let’s read the end!

So go ahead. Keep making partying look super rad. It’s our culture! Keep refusing to talk about the consequences of poor decisions. Build more heroes. Watch them die alone, confused, in shock – in a way you wouldn’t wish upon your greatest enemies. Watch their friends and families struggle in plain view on social media. Then work hard to inspire kids to walk the same plank. Brilliant work! It’s art! It’s integrity. It’s surfing! Bravo, surfing. Encore! Encore!

In the off-chance that the powerful point was missed an editor tacked on a note reading:

Sarcasm! Sometimes more effective than earnestness!

But just yesterday the same “smartass” seems to have changed his tune, writing:

Surfing helps me to understand what addicts (interesting, passionate people) go through every day. Forsaking all other opportunities for the thrill of a nice tight line. Giving up everything for one singular focus and obsession. Being a fiend for that toot, a frothing slave for that dopamine rush. And as long as it doesn’t completely consume and destroy you, personal conflict is how we get better at life. 

Being a fiend for that toot!

A fiend for that toot!

Being a fiend for THAT toot!

A fiend for that TOOT!

If I did not know any better I would totally guess that the above words were written by a lifelong drug abuser. An unrepentant derelict living on the absolute fringes of society.

“Hey dealer…gimme some that toot and ummmm that dopamine rush too, muthafucka…”

And if that’s not a pivot I don’t know what is.

Fiends! For that toot!

Get high...
Get high…

Vogue and the cutest surf trip ever!

Leave your crust behind!

As a younger boy I’d get very flustered when non-endemic venues took surf and ran it through their unsalted prisms. “Kooks!” my heart would scream… “that’s not how it feels! That’s not how it looks! Koooooks!”

I was a righteous zealot.

Now, as an older boy, I read these accounts and smile. Our glorious pursuit is so well-loved! The tent is so big! Oh, not The Inertia big, don’t get me wrong. What the hell is going on over there anyhow? But definitely big enough for Vogue.

Two cute friends decide to hop in a Jeep and take the great American surf road trip. Should we read? Of course!

It’s nearly midnight in Topanga Canyon. A layer of sea mist hangs over what would certainly be a starry night. In the amber glow of strung lights, my belly full of wild salmon, grilled vegetables, and strawberry rhubarb pie, I take my place on a pile of pillows next to my travel partner, my college roommate, a former T Magazine camping columnist, a broken-toed ballerina, a Shiba Inu, and a Formosan Mountain dog. The air is thick with salt, bright with sage and eucalyptus. A world champion longboarder—a woman whose surf films I have pored over since high school in order to teach myself the craft—has offered to give us a sound bath. She shimmers bells above our heads, then gently bats a gong. Our chests begin to hum with a subtle vibration, and we are pulled toward a unified energy. Soon there are singing bowls. The Mountain dog curls up beside me and rests its head on my stomach. We buzz together. This is a scene that, seven days prior would have been unimaginable to me. But a lot has happened since then.

Getting here was something of a schnapsidee—the word Germans use to describe a plan hatched under the influence of alcohol. Emilie Hawtin (my travel partner) and I hadn’t really seen each other in years—we’re old colleagues from our college days when we made pocket money as shop girls. We’ve kept peripherally in touch: generous Instagram likes and the occasional email. But over dinner one night and a few drinks, we discovered just how parallel our lives had run: that we had both dedicated our summers to surfing, that amid the perennially image-conscious fashion world we were hungry for the experience of wind in our hair, and, even more surprisingly, had also found ourselves with the same week in August free.

Why not answer that London-ian call of the wild with the most ad hoc of all vacations? The Great American Road Trip. Only ours would have a twist—we’d head to the California coastline in search of the best waves and surfers the Golden State had to offer, a few beautiful scenic views, and more than anything, an excuse to unplug from screens, desks, and good behavior.

And don’t you want to hop along, leaving your crust and jade behind? Just do! Right here! 

Laird Hamilton
"Hamilton, who is fifty-two and bearish, with a freckly tan, grew up on Kauai in a house with no indoor bathroom. At the local pool, he liked to squat down in the shallow end," writes the New Yorker's Dana Goodyear. | Photo: @lairdhamilton.com

Laird: “Bearish with a freckly tan!”

The New Yorker goes extreme underwater training with Laird Hamilton!

There is no other magazine that has the ability to spellbound a reader with even the world’s dullest subjects as The New Yorker.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve started a story about, I don’t know, a hospice nurse, or a mine in Peru or an obscure mathematician, and the 10,000 or so words have flown past.

A house style that allows only small variation means writers pour all their skills into the description of their subject, and to the build-up and release of tension. To compound the magazine’s superiority, there is little in the way of obvious political bias.

So what happens when a staff writer engages an already dazzling subject like Laird Hamilton and his wife Gabrielle Reece? Oh the sparks fly!

Her student complied, lugging the weights toward an underwater staircase, up which a man was sprinting with a huge dumbbell in each hand. The student, jumping, had the sensation of being a deranged pogo-stick rider, likely to drown.

In the September 5, 2016 issue, the writer examines Laird and Gabrielle’s XPT (Extreme Physical Training) that has lured celebrities to their pool for ice-baths, running with weights and soulful saunas.

Read? Yes!

“Hamilton, who is fifty-two and bearish, with a freckly tan, grew up on Kauai in a house with no indoor bathroom. At the local pool, he liked to squat down in the shallow end and then burst up through the water: the active boy’s version of an underwater tea party. To expand his lung capacity, he’d grab a rock and run along the ocean floor, holding his breath for as long as he could. Then he started exercising underwater, wearing a weight vest. One night a decade ago, he had a dream about jumping up and down in the water, breathing rhythmically, as he’d done in childhood. In the morning, he and Reece began to develop the routine, which they call X.P.T.—extreme physical training—and which, after years of testing on friends, they have begun to promote through retreats in Malibu and on Kauai, where they live during the big-wave season. Videos, apps, and books are in the works.”

“Gabrielle Reece snapped on a swim cap and held out a mask to an appropriately trepidatious visitor. “Take two twenty-pound weights and do some jumps,” she said, indicating a section of the pool floor that sloped downward. Her student complied, lugging the weights toward an underwater staircase, up which a man was sprinting with a huge dumbbell in each hand. The student, jumping, had the sensation of being a deranged pogo-stick rider, likely to drown. Piano music flowed through underwater speakers. A mermaid appeared out of the blue-green: Gabrielle Reece, with pointers. (“Try to go straight up and down.”)

In the sauna, which was heated to two hundred and twenty degrees, Randall Wallace (“Braveheart,” “Pearl Harbor”) chatted with Frankie Harrer, an eighteen-year-old professional surfer, about the state of her soul. (Solid.) Neil Strauss, the former rock critic and author of “The Game,” came in. He calls the sauna the “truth barrel”; he and Reece have used it as the location for a podcast about “life optimization.” More friends stopped by. John McEnroe, who had been cycling up the canyon, peeled off his shirt and made a beeline for the ice tub, where he lay palely for several minutes before bolting upright, re-dressing, and calling over his shoulder to Hamilton, “I want to talk to you about the breathing. I have a match next week.”

Read the complete story here! 

The Penis as Satirical Sledgehammer!

A replay of BeachGrit's finest cartoon-penis moments!

(Editor’s note: This story first appeared in December 2014. Given its timeless material, cartoon dicks, water as quasi-ejaculate, I felt it important to bring the story to a new generation of BeachGrit readers. For those who’ve seen it before, enjoy the nostalgia of a re-run.)

As a stay at home husband who suckles from the teat of a successful wife I have certain duties regarding the maintenance of our household. The responsibilities are hardly overwhelming, but I’m not very adept at cleaning, or caring, and our home degenerates, relatively frequently, into a state approaching squalor.

My wife’s approach regarding enforcement of my husbandly duties usually takes the form of a series of passive-aggressive hints over the course of a few days, a tact that is as ineffective as it is emasculating, finally switching into outright demands that I mop the damn floor and do some fucking laundry.

Fair enough, she’s the bread winner, I have ample free time. But I just don’t like cleaning, and no amount of persuasion, in whatever form, is going to change that.

I get a pass when I have writing work. Apparently not so much when I’m creating visual art.

It was a few days ago when the missus strolled into our cozy little two bedroom and surveyed the filth in which we live.

“What the fuck, Rory? I thought you were going to clean?”

“I know, sorry, I was busy working all day.”

“Oh, what did you write?”

“Nothing, I was making art.”

“What do you mean, art?”

“Here you go.”

“This is just a bunch of dicks. You spent eight hours drawing fucking dicks?”

“Well, twelve.  I started last night.”

“This isn’t fucking work.”

“Yes it is, it’s art.”

“How the fuck is this art?”


“See, you know it’s…”

“No, no, give me a second… It’s satire.”

“No it isn’t. It’s just a bunch of dicks and it’s copyright infringement anyway. You can’t use it for anything.”

“No, satire is protected. I’m making a statement.”

“No you fucking aren’t. You’re just drawing dicks. You’re going to get sued.”

“That’d actually be pretty cool, if I got sued for drawing dicks on pro surfers.”

“No, it wouldn’t be fucking cool.”

“No, don’t you see, I’m making a statement about the absurdity of taking surfing so seriously. It’s nothing more than playing in the ocean but it’s been turned into this super serious industry that generates millions of dollars. By putting dicks in their hands I’m illuminating the ridiculous nature of pro surfing as a whole.”

“You’re just making this up as you go along. They’re going to send you a cease and desist.”

“Yeah, but then I get to write about how the ASP is going after me for drawing dicks. Oh!  I could title it, ‘Why is the industry so scared of my cocks?’ That’d be awesome!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re going to get sued.”

“No, look, I’ll just come up with some clever little intro showing how it’s satire and I’ll be fine.”

“Fuck…  I’ve had a long day. Just do what you’re gonna do and let’s talk about something else. And do some fucking laundry tomorrow, okay?”

“I promise I will.”


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