An Open Letter to Lewis Samuels!

A message in a digital bottle for San Francisco’s sultan of surf lit…

Dear Lewis,

First. Please accept my apology for the uncomfortable and public nature of this letter. I am drunk and have been writing Christmas cards all afternoon.

The reason I cast this message in a bottle in hopes that it washes ashore on your screen is because I have a gang of angry and anonymous misfits who are in need of their daily dose of unhinged surf lit.

I fear my unique and often misspelled last name will be tarnished if I do not find a replacement for Rory Parker. You see, the last time I got drunk and emotional and got behind the keys, Derek coaxed me into giving personal stories a whirl. I could tell he was growing bored of me and my WSL analysis so I poured double when nobody ordered a shot. It has inspired others to do the same.

I have let the foul odor of bad writing  into the room.

While we’ve all been singing Rory’s praises, it was you if I recall that actually had your name mentioned on webcast for what you wrote. Something along the lines of Dion Atkinson’s surfing being meat and potatoes without the sour cream? Either way he called you out and your Power Rankings got pulled.

Can you come over and burn sage wisdom?

Not only for fun but to remember what it’s like to make pros squirm. Don’t you want to feel that again?

While we’ve all been singing Rory’s praises, it was you if I recall that actually had your name mentioned on webcast for what you wrote. Something along the lines of Dion Atkinson’s surfing being meat and potatoes without the sour cream? Either way he called you out and your Power Rankings got pulled.

Whatever it was. You rattled him. Probably ruined his life forever. That’s what the wolves of this website want. They want an outspoken hero. Someone that isn’t afraid to call out big brands and their team riders. Somebody who isn’t tied to the industry coin.

Rory had his wife’s income to allow him to be unabashed, but you have Google.

I meant to talk to you about this in person three days ago but you are like the Absinthe ferry on that neon green Lost Rock Up. For the last five months I’ve been seeing you down the beach, always on the peak I want to be on but can never get too. Maybe if Mayhem was my foam daddy again I could move like a ghost between peaks, but for now I clunk behind you in the whitewash, never to be formally acquainted.

So what do you think Lewy?

You ready to make your triumphant return?

Can you save us from Neal Korny?

Sincerely,

Jake Tellkamp