He gonna choke you 'til you black out then murder you dead!
When you think of death and destruction and black eyes and cauliflower ears and Conner McGregor and choke outs and broke faces and blood and death and destruction and fear and the octagon and Khabib Nurmagomedov and arm bars and blacking out and human growth hormone and death and destruction and gouged eyes and collapsed tracheas do you think of young Huntington Beach surfer Kanoa Igarashi?
Or cute San Clemente grommet Griffen Colapinto?
I don’t!
I think “young” and “cute!”
But apparently both Kanoa Igarashi and Griffen Colapinto are not young and cute but rather stone cold mixed martial artists. Maybe. The modern surfer puts “training” at the top of his list when going to Oahu’s North Shore and by “training” he means doing some jiu jitsu and sweating a little bit and arm baring a smidge.
And why not, I suppose. The North Shore is a rough place.
Still. I, for one, am happy not to have grown up in the “training” era. I am happy to have gotten by on my wild windmill hammer. My refusal to ever go to the mat. My actually being unhinged.
Who wants to fight a man with a very crooked nose and absolutely nothing to lose?
Like everyone, I was held in a trance by the Dane Reynolds film Chapter 11. Somewhere between a burnt marriage and a greasy kitchen and choosing between maybe cleaning the house or smashing snails on the porch and watching a surf movie, well, what are you going to do?
But running under the cuts and swings of the 31-year-old Reynolds was a soundtrack that was cerebral, frail, brutal and sad. Best soundtrack in a surf movie ever? Yeah, maybe it is.
Based on how much I'd like to share a tent in the wilderness with each man…
John John’s king of 2016, Pipe don’t matter this year. It’s both good and bad. Great to see double-John snag the crown he so deserves, so early in his ‘CT career. But it’s always great to see the title race come down the wire. Gotta make that heat in heavy left hand barrels! Nail biter finish, everything on the line. A year’s worth of effort undone at the last minute.
So power rankings are kind of pointless.
No one else can win, a minor shuffle on the leaderboard affects some seeds next year, but that’s it. Shit’s still important for the guys on the bottom. Poor Callinan is sitting behind Fiorvanti, a three-event only wildcard. But I can’t wrap my head around the whole ‘QS-points-while-on-the-‘CT qualifier deal. I deal in words. Numbers are cold and sterile and I do not like them very much.
Derek tossed out the idea of doing a one-word power ranking thing. Which seemed like a fun challenge. I’ll do it without the use of a thesaurus!
Except…shit… that’s way harder than I expected. Instead, here’s my Top 10 Power Rankings based on how much I’d like to spend an icy winter three-day weekend sharing a tent far into the wilderness with each fella.
John John Florence: John’s from Hawaii, and that should make him relatively comfortable outdoors. But camping isn’t much of a thing on Oahu. Sure, you can drive down to Kahana Bay and pitch a tent next to your car, but campfires aren’t allowed and you’re a stone’s throw from Kam highway. Hardly the great outdoors.
But it doesn’t really matter. I’d promptly build him a throne from gathered twigs, fashion a crown from bits of bark, and spend my days fulfilling his every whim. Not in a sexual way. At least, not unless he was really into it. In that case, who am I to refuse our young emperor?
Adriano de Souza:Hard-working, blue-collar Brazilian man, ADS would be chopping down trees for shelter and trapping varmints for dinner. Conversations would be lacking, but the meaningful glances across the crackling fire would more than make up for the deficit.
Joel Parkinson: Very mature, like camping with your dad. He’d set up shop, immediately put the site in order, crack a beer the moment that was done. Not sober up until the end of the trip, but fill our days with boozy wisdom I’d take to my grave.
Matt Wilkinson: New-fangled, hard-working Wilko would be a drag at first. Quiet and serious. Doing pull-ups from low hanging branches and jogging down the trail each morning. But once the sun sets and the temp drops I’d pull out a bottle of peach schnapps, coax him into a sniff or three, and watch the good times come rolling out.
Julian Wilson:More or less useless while the sun is shining. But that’s okay. Once we’re in the tent, sleeping bags zipped together, running my fingers through his curly blonde locks, I’d be in for a snuggle buddy heaven the likes of which I’ve only dreamt.
Eventually me and Jordy would be caught in a quiet moment, his facade would crack, and everything would come tumbling out. Crying, oversharing, setting free demons best left unsaid. We’d either end up loving each other, or never speak again. Maybe some sick combination of the two.
Gabriel Medina:I’m not sure whether Gabe would be good company or bad. But I do know that it’d get really uncomfortable the first time I catch Charlie peering at us from the bushes.
Jordy Smith:Not really sure about this one. He’d be useful, no doubt. Put his big frame to work chopping wood, help scare off any bears looking to steal your picnic baskets. But eventually we’d be caught in a quiet moment, his facade would crack, and everything would come tumbling out. Crying, oversharing, setting free demons best left unsaid. We’d either end up loving each other, or never speak again. Maybe some sick combination of the two.
Filipe Toledo:Filipe would get homesick his first night, spend hours in tears because he misses his wife and child. But he next morning it’d be out of his system and he’d spend the day cavorting in the wilderness. Climbing trees, poking stuff with a stick. It might get tiresome keeping an eye on him. “No, Filipe! I told you not to eat those berries!”
Kelly Slater: Late-night scary stories about chemtrails and other government conspiracies. Make you shiver with fear and delight. But when you wake in terror, startled and crying out, he’d wrap those arms around you, put that bald dome next to yours, and lull you back into a peaceful slumber.
Kolohe Andino:Three days of utter hell. Bitching about insects, waving his phone in the air and crying there’s no reception. Tempers would flare, he stalk off into the woods. I’d feel bad for yelling, whip up a batch of hot cocoa, try to build a chance to do some solid bonding.
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De Souza, five years ago, almost brought the whole enterprise down. Adriano was to claiming what Toby Keith is to country-western music. You just wanted to cut him out like a cancer so the body could heal. There is nothing inherently wrong with claiming. It’s like bad words. There are no bad words, just bad usage. What Adriano did in the name of “passion,” which in fact meant “throw me an extra .5 for this high-intermediate NSSA end-section reverse” was usage so horrible that it put a cloud over all claiming. A hundred thousand joyous and innovative claims died in utero from 2010 to around 2013. That’s on Adriano. Who, by the way, de-claimed his act a couple years back like the champion he is. | Photo: WSL
BeachGrit: I believe that claiming has become a beautiful art within professional surfing. Jordy, I think, is the master, his Christ the Reedemer or his Humble Butler bow are highlights. Do you have a current favourite?
Warshaw: A claim these days, even a good one, will breeze past me until it hits Twitter, then it maybe gets fun. Better yet, if the claim is worthy you naming it. So like, Jordy’s little from-the-waist bow was worth a smile when it happened live, then a pretty full-throated chortle when I read “Humble Butler.”
Whose are the worst, in your opinion? Do you like it when seven-point rides are claimed, for instance?
De Souza, five years ago, almost brought the whole enterprise down. Adriano was to claiming what Toby Keith is to country-western music. You just wanted to cut him out like a cancer so the body could heal. There is nothing inherently wrong with claiming. It’s like bad words. There are no bad words, just bad usage. What Adriano did in the name of “passion,” which in fact meant “throw me an extra .5 for this high-intermediate NSSA end-section reverse” was usage so horrible that it put a cloud over all claiming. A hundred thousand joyous and innovative claims died in utero from 2010 to around 2013. That’s on Adriano. Who, by the way, de-claimed his act a couple years back like the champion he is.
De Souza, five years ago, almost brought the whole enterprise down. Adriano was to claiming what Toby Keith is to country-western music. You just wanted to cut him out like a cancer so the body could heal.
Someone raised a good point the other day. John John claimed the hell out of his waves at Teahupoo. If Gabriel does it, cruel people on internet forums become apoplectic. Why is it okay for John but not for Gabriel?
The subtle and not-so-subtle forms of racism in surfing — let’s save that for another conversation. John earned the world title this year, no question, no doubt. But for sure, among some JJF supporters, there’s a whiff of Make the WSL Great Again.
The surfer who doesn’t claim an amazing wave – I pity them. You’ve either ridden so many incredible waves that you’re numb to the experience, or your claiming by not claiming which is bullshit. Possibly unhealthy, like holding down a sneeze.
Historically, when did claims begin and who birthed them?
Patient Zero, you’d have to go with either Greg Noll or Ricky Grigg in the late fifties, early sixties. Ricky loved bullfighting and would go to Tijuana to watch the blood and gore, and he picked up this toreador move where you raise both hands up and throw the head back. Very dramatic. Sexy. Two-thirds Manolete, one-third Fay Wray. Greg Noll, meanwhile, was claiming just by wearing black-and-white-striped jailbird trunks. Then he had this move where, after making a huge drop at Sunset or hitting the channel at Pipe, he’d make this whippy little cowboy motion with his right hand, like “Git along little doggies!” It was faster and most subtle than Grigg’s arms-overhead move. And funnier. Ricky claimed first, Noll claimed best.
How do they make you feel as a surfer and as the man who cradles the very culture in his bosom?
The surfer who doesn’t claim an amazing wave – I pity them. You’ve either ridden so many incredible waves that you’re numb to the experience, or your claiming by not claiming which is bullshit. Possibly unhealthy, like holding down a sneeze.
Do you agree, that if used sparingly, Slater for instance (the nose wipe after a nine-plus barrel), they can turn that nine five into a ten? That even judges can sometimes be overwhelmed by a moment.
It’d have an effect, sure. Not at the six or seven point level, but up there in the nines, yeah, I do think the judges are probably, maybe unconsciously, looking for a sign, for permission, to nudge the score. Or maybe it’s almost more like, if the surfer doesn’t claim, the judge will be a little confused and keep the score a half-point lower than if the claim had come as expected.
Have you ever automatically claimed a ride? A barrel? And can you describe your emotional well-being afterwards? Shame?
Again, it’s usage. I have a little clip of myself coming out of a longish but not stupendous barrel in Mexico, right before sunset, and I grab my head with both hands in amazement. For that I am very ashamed. But a couple of other claims of mine, more in the Wayne Bartholomew mode, some minor hand-jive and such, I’m totally good with.
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Surfing is still new to Taiwan, an island of 23 million off the east coast of China. Fewer than 100 people make a living out of surfing.
A high rate of drowning deaths has helped create nationwide trepidation but analysts say the aversion to water has cultural and political roots going back to the island’s tempestuous relationship with China.
Jonathan Spangler, from the Asia Pacific Policy Research Association in the Taiwanese capital, Taipei says: “In the education system here it’s taught that swimming in the ocean is dangerous, don’t go swimming.” | Photo: surfingtaiwan.com
Tired of crowds? Come visit an island where the people are afraid of the water!
It’s the long Thanksgiving weekend in America and if you live here you well know that boredom begins its operational creep around midday Friday. There is only so much day drinking a man can do before sluggishness takes over. Football, eat, drink, shop. Fat.
Gluttony.
Next Thanksgiving I’m going to go on a surf trip. But where? I’m over crowds. I’m so tired of bobbing humanity’s bathtub next to people n shit. So where?
Where?
Maybe the Republic of China also known as sweet Taiwan!
The World Surf League is on standby there right now and of course I am not paying attention because it is a measly 1500, whatever the hell that is.
But I should be!
Because apparently everyone in Taiwan is afraid of the ocean and nobody can swim. Let’s read about it in this morning’s Guardian!
Set against a backdrop of lush green mountains sweeping down to a Pacific ocean swell, the village of Jinzun Harbour reminds some surfers of old-school Hawaii.
It is quite a claim to make about this quiet fishing community, and not just because it has only a nascent surfing scene. This village is in Taiwan, an island nation that for generations has had an unusual fear of the sea.
Yet last week Jinzun came alive as more than 200 surfers arrived to compete in Taiwan’s fifth Open of Surfing, a World Surf League qualifying series event with a $50,000 prize purse.
Riding the waves under grey, stormy skies, international competitors described the surf as world-class, its optimum swells created by seasonal typhoons.
On shore, tent stalls offered mouth-watering fried fish and aboriginal millet wine beside the palm-fringed fishing harbour.
As rain swept down over the mountains on the opening day, barefoot, sun-bleached Californian surfers mingled with bemused locals in raincoats.
Dancers in the traditional dress of the indigenous Amis tribe greeted the competitors with lively songs and a blessing ceremony. The crowd of spectators was small and convivial, with local families bringing their children to enjoy the performance.
The contest concludes on Sunday and is viewed as an excellent warm-up event for the longboard championship in Hainan, China, in December.
Surfing is still new to Taiwan, an island of 23 million off the east coast of China. Fewer than 100 people make a living out of surfing.
A high rate of drowning deaths has helped create nationwide trepidation but analysts say the aversion to water has cultural and political roots going back to the island’s tempestuous relationship with China.
Jonathan Spangler, from the Asia Pacific Policy Research Association in the Taiwanese capital, Taipei says: “In the education system here it’s taught that swimming in the ocean is dangerous, don’t go swimming.”
Dr Francis Hu, head of political science at Tunghai university, Taichung, explains that for decades, post-second world war Taiwan had also restricted access to the coastline for security reasons.
And can you believe this sweet gem? Apparently half of the population can’t swim.
That’s all I need to know. Next year I’ll be eating chow mein instead of that damned turkey. And surfing all by my sweet self.
