Parker: “I screamed with fear!”

Rory Parker conquers his social anxiety and heads to Jaws!

When Derek asked if I wanted to fly to Maui and cover Pe’ahi every instinct told me to say, “Hell no!”

I’ve been to surf contests before. They take forever, it’s hot as hell. There’s never anywhere comfortable to sit, you’re shoulder to shoulder with a million sweaty gawking strangers. Been there, done that. Much happier watching online. Pants off, cold beer in the fridge, bong hits at the ready. How can you beat that?

Then I realized that I’ve become an utter pussy in my old age. What happened to my spirit of adventure? Sure, it’d be a long day, probably wouldn’t be terribly comfortable. I don’t like crowds, I don’t know even know exactly where Jaws is. The only times I go to Maui are on lame little marriage trips where we eat at the Surfing Goat Dairy and watch the sunset on Haleakala.

I’ve become a spoiled and complacent little bitch. That can’t stand. Went online, booked my flights and rental car. Applied for a media pass via the WSL’s site on a whim. Didn’t expect anything to come of that. Night before the event, don’t imagine many people within the WSL offices like me. But it was worth a shot.

On a side note- fuck Hawaiian Airlines. Just under $400 for an inter-island flight is total fucking extortion. Also, Discount Hawaii Car Rental is the tits. Every other company and reservation service was charging $150 for the day, minimum. Only $50 through DHCR.

Up at 4am the next day. Not a civilized hour. Sucked down a coffee and nicotine enema, tossed a notebook in my backpack, cheated my “no cell phones” rule by stealing the wife’s. Drug my crank tired ass onto my flight and dreaded the day to come.

I was secretly hoping they’d call the event off. I’d be free to spend my day hanging out in Paia, my fave little town in that island. I don’t know what it is abut the place, but it is literally overflowing with super sexy JOJ wanna-be hippy girls. I love it. Made sure to wear my best tie dye shirt. Needed to blend in if I was gonna lure one into my rental and finger-blast her in a beach park parking lot.

They called the event ‘on’ during my layover in Honolulu. So no luck there. I was gonna have to follow through with this shit.

The final half hour flight featured an obnoxious father-daughter couple in the row behind me. Dad reading aloud to his idiot offspring. Her shrieking with joy as he did different voices. Really put me on edge. Children should be seen and not heard. At the very least, keep their fucking voices at an acceptable decibel level.

Flight landed at eight, checked to see the contest was still on. Collected my rental and made my way down the Hana Highway. Still didn’t know exactly where to find the event. Online maps were some help, but I’ve learned over years in Hawaii that they can’t be relied on. Figured I’d just look for the mob and follow everyone down to the cliff’s edge.

It was a solid plan, and worked perfectly. Not much parking, but I was in a rental so I felt free to drive like an asshole. Snaked a spot on the side of the road off a tourist family in a minivan who pulled slightly too far forward before hitting the brakes. I could shoot in head first, mean mug Dad when he gave me a dirty look.

Local entrepreneurs were out in force. $10 for a ride through the former cane fields. Dusty as hell, no shade, a very long walk. Would’ve happily shelled out the dough, if I’d remembered to bring cash. Which I had not.

Because I’m an idiot.

The highway is set back quite a ways from the coast, and the walk fucking sucked. I was stoked I remembered to stop for a bottle of water, immediately started wishing I’d put more food in my body than a hastily choked down Snickers Bar.

Walk and walk and walk and walk. The Jaws Surf Tour van was hauling ass up and down the road, depositing another group of cash carrying citizens with each stop. Blasting their horn to clear pedestrians out of the way. I’d’ve found it amusing, had they not caught me day dreaming and startled the shit out of me.

It was 10am when I finally reached the clifftop. Drenched in sweat, covered in road dust. Elbowed my way through the crowd to get a view. Just enough cell reception to pull up the heat sheet. Is that a Hobgood falling from the sky? Who are all the other little specks? This was not a good idea. Why did I bother?

I could see the WSL point peeking out of the trees on the next point down. Shaded canopies, no double ample seating. And there I was, wallowing in the muck with the common man. I deserve better than this! Don’t they know who I am?

Don’t dwell on it. You’re here to work. Find something to write about.

The first women’s heat hit the water. It is, I think, deserving of its own separate piece. That will be along later. Here I’ll just say, it set the mood for their portion of the event. The pack would dodge sets, race for the shoulder, then chase scraps deep and inside before getting caught by the next one that swung in out of the West. From a few hundred feet up, far far away, the wave looks so easy. The should just paddle deep and backdoor into the barrel on a set. So easy to say. Not so easy to do.

The crowd didn’t care. They were ooh-ing and ah-ing and cheering like mad. I was bored and hot and decided to take a walk. See if I could sneak onto the event site.

Dodging teenagers on motorbikes hammering back and forth down the deep road I crept like a ninja. A drenched in my own bodily fluids, huffing and puffing ninja. Not very stealthy. Not that it mattered. I soon came to the end of the road, two very nice local fellows employed by the WSL to say, “This far, no further.”

Wise planning on the event’s part. Any further and I’d have ended up on the beach. And you can’t let people down there during a swell this size. I know better than to take a dip and end up drowned. Most visitors to these islands do not.

It’s always been my experience, the more intimidating local guys look, the nicer they are. Eight feet tall and covered in face tattoos? Big ol’ friendly hug monster. Figured I might be able to massage my way past. Struck up a conversation.

They’d got the job through one’s father. He used to do security for the Triple Crown. When his son moved to Kauai he got offered employment doing the same at Pe’ahi. “Best job ever,” he said. “I get to sit here all day and be mean.”

Can’t argue with that. Type of thing I would love to do. Yell at tourists, scare children. Good times. The best!

They were friendly and funny and I truly enjoyed meeting them. But they were not letting me past. No way, no how. Sorry buddy, go jostle with the rest of the losers.

I’d nearly resigned myself to the cruel reality of my lack of special treatment when my stolen cell picked up another signal. I’d received an email! From the WSL! My media pass was waiting at the front gate. Dave Prodan is my event contact. Call him if there’s trouble.

Fuck this noise, I’m out of here losers. Things are looking up. I’m gonna go grab a great seat, enjoy the show with the rest of the winners.

A hundred mile walk down a dirt road at noon is no fun. I tried thumbing a ride, but for some reason no one wanted to stop for a sweaty dirty freak of a man. It fucking sucked and I was hating life long before I made it back to my car and cranked the a/c until my body temp dropped ten degrees. A decade in Hawaii and I still haven’t adapted to the heat. I’d blame my weight, but plenty of big local brothers are fat as shit, way fatter than me, and never sweat a drop.

Jammed down the Hana Highway to Oili Road, found the front gate.

“Hey buddy, I’m Rory Parker. Got a media pass waiting for me.”

“No, brah. Sorry, you’re not on the list.”

Son of a bitch.

Called Prodan, let him know the situation.

“Kindly ask them to check again,” he texted me.

Nope. Not on there. Called Dave again. He said he forgot to add me to the list, I was on there now. Which wasn’t possible, as the list was paper attached to a clip board.

I asked the boys at the front gate if they’d radio down for me. Double check. They were happy to oblige. Not trying to be dicks, just doing their jobs.

“Sorry, we’ve had one hundred people say the same as you today.”

I’m sure they did. And I was sure I was fucked. No way was I walking back down that fucking road. I’d probably die of heat stroke if I tried.

They called the head of security, he had no idea who I was. So I gave up. Fairly certain Prodan was just fucking with me, which I wouldn’t hold against him. Lord knows I’ve never been kind to the WSL. I’m sure I’ve made Dave’s job more difficult. If I were in his shoes, this is exactly what I’d do. Screw with Rory, have a good laugh about it later.

I texted Prodan that I was over it. Heading into Paia. Planned to hit a bar and catch the finals on TV. It’d be cool and I’d have beer and all that was sounding pretty damn good.

I was just passing the Haiku cemetery when he called. Said they were sending up some people who’d make sure I got in. Took him at his word, hit a high speed u-turn, got back to the site where they still had no idea what I was talking about. Well played, sir.

Then, lo and behold, they arrived. I was in. And, you know what, it was worth the effort.

I’ve never seen Jaws break first hand. I’m well aware that photos and film never do heavy waves justice. Long lenses flatten things out. Audio recording can’t capture that visceral rumble of huge surf. You can’t taste the salt spray, can’t see how the swell bends and warps and bowls when it hits the reef. It’s a fucking spectacle worthy of any amount of hardship.

I bashed my rental through California grass, hoping to hell I wouldn’t kill the sub-compact piece of shit I was driving. Created a parking spot, ambled down the to the action. Did what I always do when I’m in a public situation that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Found a corner to hide in, perched atop a pile of pallets, and lit a cigarette.

“No smoking on the contest site,” a security guard kindly reminded me.

The new vantage point put me a mile closer to the action. I could see how the the wave bowls when it breaks. If it were a ten foot face it’d be scary as hell. At this size it’s mind boggling. Jaws should not be considered a surfable wave. You cannot appreciate the power, the sheer size of the playing field, the fact that the women were anything but timid, if you weren’t there.

Combo swell approached from different angles. The wind was howling. The chopper pilot put on a show of his own. Flying like a maniac, stopping to refuel, then roaring overhead and dropping straight down the cliff to the water below.

I’m a jaded asshole, I admit that. Not much impresses anymore. But I was in awe. Despite a lifetime in the ocean I’d never seen anything like this. Maui County did the world a service when they purchased the land fronting the break. Pe’ahi is special, it should be kept open.

As I mentioned, I’ll be addressing the women in another piece. But I think they acquitted themselves well. It’s easy to say, and I’ve already seen it online, that they hid on the shoulder, didn’t really try. But that’s bullshit. They fucking charged.

But the men… Sweet tapdancing jesus, the men! They paddled hundreds of yards deeper, took off behind the peak as though it were four feet instead of forty. Billy Kemper’s barrels had me screaming with fear and joy. Seeing sets stack on the horizon and mow their way in towards the reef had me in chicken skin. I honestly can’t believe people can ride these waves. I can’t believe they’d even want to try.

It was an ass kicker of a day, and by 4pm I was ready to drop. But it was worth it. Even though I missed the majority of the event, the final few hours I caught were grand, amazing. Something worth remembering. Plus, I got to eat at the Paia Fish Market. I love that place.

Jaws: Who runs the world? Girls!

A historical day at Maui's most famous wave!

And did you watch the World Surf League big wave event yesterday? And did you witness the wrath of God’s ocean? Amazing! Beautiful! Much ink deserves to be spilled over Billy Kemper’s second in a row win. The kind-hearted man deserves to be hoisted on shoulders and carried around the world, feet never touching the ground!

But the most inspiring portion was the women’s heat. Days after Hillary Clinton defeat threw the world into chaos, Paige Alms, Bianca Valenti, Felicity Palmateer, etc. etc. rose to meet the challenge.


The Associated Press reports:

Competitor Bianca Valenti, who has pushed for women to be included in professional big-wave surf contests, called the day a big step forward for women in the sport.

“It’s the least we can do to speak to the election the other day,” Valenti told The Associated Press in a phone interview before the competition, referring to Hillary Clinton’s defeat by President-elect Donald Trump.

“I watched Hillary’s concession speech and what she was saying – how important it was for women to really stand up now more than ever to break the glass ceiling – and that really resonated a lot,” Valenti added.

More on the event later, but for now I say bravo. Bravo to all!

Revenge: Bums set Purps ablaze!

Kelly Slater's famed energy drink allegedly putting cheap meth out of business! Maybe!

Fire is only good when surrounded by warm rocks, flickering on the biz end of a lighter or showing tourists how “ambiance” is done by dancing on a tiki torch.

It is not good when burning buildings to the ground or forests or Kelly Slater’s Purps and the world’s most stylish magazine What Youth but that’s what happened early this morning! Purps was maybe burned badly and What Youth‘s parking lot charred and a bunch of storage units gone baby gone.

And by bums maybe! Homeless transients who knew that Purps was a better high than their cheap meth! Let’s read about it in the Orange County Register!

NEWPORT BEACH – Three people, including a firefighter, were injured in a massive fire in a storage area in an industrial complex early Friday morning in Newport Beach.

The blaze was reported sometime after 2 a.m. in the 800 block of Production Place, an industrial area on the border of Costa Mesa and Newport Beach, according to Newport Fire officials.

Sixteenth Street was shut between Monrovia and Placentia.

Firefighters from Newport Beach, Costa Mesa, Huntington Beach, and Fountain Valley were on the scene to fight the blaze which was mostly under control around 6 a.m.

One victim was hospitalized with third-degree burns, said Newport Beach Fire Battalion Chief Jeff Boyles. Another was reported to have been treated for smoke inhalation, but it was unclear if they were hospitalized.

The firefighter, while investigating the blaze’s cause, was hurt when a 200-pound beam fell on him, injuring his nexk and back, Boyles said.

The 4-alarm fire, which Boyles said measured about 200 feet by 50 feet, damaged 80 storage unites and several cars in what appeared to have been a parking garage or carport.

Boyles said firefighters were investigating the possibility of there being victims in the burned area.

“(Transients) sometimes live in that area,” he said. Fire investigators were expected to be on the scene most of the morning.

Several people were waiting outside to start an early day of work. They said other workers sometimes work overnight or early shifts.

Ramiro Gonzalez works at a metal refinishing business nearby and was supposed to start work at 5 a.m. but was instead met by police tape.

“They said we wouldn’t be able to get in for a few hours,” he said while watching the large, white clouds of smoke coming from the blaze.

The cause of the fire is not yet known, but investigators have narrowed the origin down to a couple of the storage units, Boyles said.

Many residents were awakened by what sounded like “explosions” and helicopters flying overhead.

Kathy Walls, 69, lives near the scene and said it was about 2:30 a.m. when she heard a succession of blasts.

“It woke me up and kept going. It was very scary because we have so many industrial places, and I’m sure they have materials that are flammable.”

As of 4:15p.m., firefighters were still sifting through d dumping water on the charred area, which Boyles said would still be smoldering at least through tomorrow.

Because the area is still hot, Boyles said it’d be awhile until an estimated cost of the the damage is released.

“There’s no way to know what’s in those units,” Boyles said. “They could all have school work, or they could be Picassos.”

A bunch of Picassos is right. The Picasso of Energy Drink™ Purps!

Kip Dynamite
I woke up super congested this morning. Gnarly sinus headache to boot. Fucking sucks, I really wanted to go dive. Try and kill some fish. But you can't do that shit when your head tubes are jam-packed with mucus. Or you can, but you'll only do it once. Sinus squeezes hurt like a son of a bitch.

Parker: “I got a random surf boner!”

The story of how I wasted the most resilient boner of my life…

Chas is right, I don’t have an iPhone. Don’t have a cell at all. I hate the damn things. Annoying little leashes everyone wraps around their own necks. Don’t need one. Don’t want one. Won’t get one.

That Porsche ad is something else. I love that Chas’s wife is more successful than him. Mine’s more successful than me! Very twenty first century. Very progressive.

Still, I desperately want to lay into it. I’d go hard after anyone else. If it were Zach Weisberg toting the baby junk while Mama Bear basked in the spotlight I think Chas would too. Too bad his whole family is involved. Can’t go after them. There’s definitely a line there, can’t cross it.

I got a random boner while surfing today. Not, like, truly random. There was a very attractive, age appropriate, woman surfing rather well in a nearly non-existent bikini. I just can’t get used to them. I don’t leer or creep, but I do over-appreciate.

Besides, all the hilarious zingers I can think of are too mean. Not playful, just cutting. So I’ll move on.

I got a random boner while surfing today. Not, like, truly random. There was a very attractive, age appropriate, woman surfing rather well in a nearly non-existent bikini. I just can’t get used to them. I don’t leer or creep, but I do over-appreciate.

She was paddling past during a lull and my mind got to wandering and I started thinking about the grand time we could have if I were able to lure her into the marriage bed. Graphic stuff running through the ol’ dome. But no more so than usual.

I’m thirty six years old. The days when I could be stroked into tumescence by a stiff breeze are long gone. And surfing isn’t very boner inducing. Beyond the ages of twelve to nineteen, during which I was basically a walking hard-on, I don’t think I’ve ever really pumped blood into my dick while in the ocean. The water’s always at least slightly cool. You’re exercising, focused on your surroundings. Not much room sexual thought.

Before I knew it I was fully erect, and of course a fun little set swung my way.

Like back in high school, when you would daydream during class. Watching sunlight play across a bit of exposed skin across the room. Full mast, salute the dawn, rock hard. Suddenly it’s your turn to stand at the front of the class and give a presentation.

I’ve always been a proponent of the belt-tuck. Press it straight up against your belly, make sure you don’t do something stupid like raise your arms above your head and flash the entire room.

Can’t do the tuck in board shorts. I’m a product of the nineties, I like ’em baggy and low slung. The tuck’ll put a few solid inches in plain view. Can’t just ignore it either. Clingy wet fabric leaves nothing to the imagination.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of my dick. I’ll happily trot it out in the right circumstances. But it has to be tasteful. Wagging your dong in a stranger’s face is not.

I hoped that paddling would kill it. Laying on your dick and reaching isn’t comfortable. But, for whatever sick reason, it didn’t help. Neither did the little “that’s a sick one” hoot from none other than Ms Gorgeous herself.

I tried to pop into a low crouch. Make it look like I thought it was going to barrel, or whatever. That might have worked, if my baggy trunks hadn’t bloused out, caught my dick at a weird angle, and bent it in half.

Which really fucking hurts. I fell awkwardly, banging my dick against the rail of my board as I went down.

North swell is big and rising and I didn’t want to deal with getting my ass beat by the ocean, so I stuck to the friendly mellow east side. Wasn’t wearing a leash. The swim in to retrieve my board still wasn’t enough to kill my ardor. I had to float in the shallows for a few minutes. Take a few deep breaths, try to distract my mind-wang connection.

And that’s the story of how I wasted the most resilient boner of my life.

Apropos of nothing, it’s pretty cool the WSL is running two female heats tomorrow at Pe’ahi. That’ll be something to see. I’ll even be there in person. BeachGrit’s flying me out. Jet set shit, right there.

Knowing how things go the swell will probably fail to materialize and I’ll be trapped on Maui for the day. But that’s okay. I’ll just head to Paia and get wasted.

Foiled: World Surf League shamed again!

Welcome to BeachGrit...brought to you by Porsche (basically)!

What if everything you did was cut rate? Like, generally pretty lousy? What if your phone was made in Korea and accidentally exploded all the time, your “hotel” when you traveled was just a room in somebody else’s house and your car was maybe 1/3 as good as a Toyota Landcruiser?

Well then you’d be the World Surf League!

Professional surfing’s governing body has worse than average partners. Samsung, Airbnb and Jeep to mostly name them all. It would all be well and good, I suppose, if your beloved BeachGrit didn’t exist to blast a spotlight on their mediocrity.

But we do exist with our bright and shining lights!

First, we all own Apple iPhones (maybe Rory doesn’t but he also lives in Kauai). Sure it is no big thing, obviously, and this is not the Apple iPhone Mens and Womens BeachGrit. We, in fact, bought them but better a purchased phone than a blown off ear, as the old adage goes.

Second, we stay in proper hotels when traveling, or in friend’s extra rooms, but we don’t call the friend’s extra room a “bnb.”

And now we have Porsche instead of Jeep! Or not “we” exactly but my gorgeous and successful wife. But I’m a featured extra! And I chuckle at the dowdy World Surf League in their little Jeep Wranglers while drinking sauvignon blancs from New Zealand instead of Australia. “Those petit bourgeois…” I say to anyone who will listen. “They’re so cute! So… funky!”

Go and see my beyond fabulous l/w ife here.