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.