Surf fashion: Shred in Lululemon!

Are you looking for some new beach gear? Welcome, honey!

Are you a man? Who totally loves when summer hits so you can go to Starbucks and get all your favorite beachy treats? Like Teavana shaken berry sangria herbal tea? Or iced dulce du leche latte? Do you need dedicated “me time” every week? Maybe a mani-pedi followed by anything Sarah-Jessica Parker? Or a long walk in the park with a little dog? Or SoulCycle n chill?

Well now there is outerwear label for your surf missions!

You may know Lululemon from your wife/girlfriend’s yoga drawer but now the Vancouver-based brand is making trunks and yoga leggings light enough for the muggiest weather Malibu can throw. For you!

Boys’ trip!

Just imagine! An open cabin tucked into the Littlest Dume. Teavana shaken berry sangria herbal tea n chill. Beach towel gossip. OMG. Toes up the nose. Thick rails. Etc.


True to Siss!

Shop here!

Or at The Inertia!

Read: A fun story you won’t otherwise see!

Nobody reads Surf Europe but everyone should! It funny!

Surf Europe might be one of the greatest producers of content these days. France’s ideological breadbasket absolutely crackles with very funny stuff. I think, though, that their web traffic is down near maybe zero. And that’s where your beloved BeachGrit comes soaring in to save the day!

Like Robin Hoods we shine a bright spotlight on the noble but unregarded! We steal from the poor and give to you the middle class! Take, for example, this great story comparing how you drink your coffee to what kind of surfboard you ride.

Take, for example…


Not so long ago, you could buy plastic versions of these that sat atop your cup, at the supermarket for about 2 bucks.

Now they’re glass, with cool wooden and leathery bits, Japanese design influence, but basically the principal is the same as the plastic ones. You can pour it in slower or faster to like, totally control the brew.

If you went and bought one of those kettles with the spout to complete the aesthetic, well, I’m not going to say you’re a victim. I’ll just say this: Getting a single fin is one thing. A good thing. Then getting a retro wetsuit top to go with it is a whole ‘nother matter entirely.

Now that is funny!

Read the rest here! Give that Surf Europe your love!

Death: Kanoa Igarashi gonna kill you!

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?

I hope not Kanoa Igarashi.

Or Griffen Colapinto.

Listen: Chapter 11 Soundtrack!

Best soundtrack for a surf movie, ever? Yes?

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.

Reynolds has always played a sharp hand with his music. Remember when he turned a goofy seventies yacht rock track into the sound of summer five years ago? (Click here if you don’t remember or want to soak in nostalgia.)

In the interests of spreading good music, I’ve made a little YouTube playlist of the songs from Chapter 11.

Hit play, sit back and disappear into your head.

Chapter 11 from Marine Layer on Vimeo.

How would the world champion fare, three days in a tent in the icy wilderness with the noted Rory Parker? | Photo: @liebervision

Parker: “My Top 10 Power Rankings!”

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.