The world's favorite surfer and the world's
favorite lounge singer together at last!
Does anybody not love Mason Ho? Do you not? Of
course you do! You can’t even ironically say that you don’t love
him! And it is pure joy to see long form Mason Ho on the
Occ-Cast!
But wait? Who is this? This thumbs down? This psychopath? This
sexual predator? Police! Police! An unstable one is wandering the
earth! Find him and lock him up! He is not fit to be amongst us! He
is not human!
How could any sane person thumbs this down? Occy spins a magical
web. Such wonderful mannerisms! Such expressiveness! And Mason
there in dappled sunlight and… oh enough of my waxing on.
Just watch!
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Profile: Finn McGill’s Enchanted Life!
By Rory Parker
The family exudes an aura of true love. It's not
something with which I am personally familiar…
The McGill house is like something out of a
dream. Tucked into the back of a jaw dropping piece of
property, perfectly manicured jungle that treads the fine line
between over-landscaped and overgrown, it’s all natural woods and
Polynesian decor. Embracing Hawaiiana within one’s home decor is a
risky business. It can easily become corny. Cookie cutter
Disney-esque tiki bar theme, rather than a natural expression of
the environment. But with an eye, and enough effort, it can be
done.
Situated well back into Pupukea, it’s a quite trek from nearly
everywhere on Oahu. Up a steep set of switchbacks, down a narrow
road that’s easy to miss. The definition of peaceful quietude.
I parked at the base of their driveway, walked up to find
Mike, Finn’s father, a professional
photographer, hard at work adding to his homestead.
Dripping sweat, he offered me a hand covered in paint. Fully dried,
thank goodness.
He did not invent the McTwist.
The house is a work in progress. Certain areas stripped of
paint, sanded. Giving a vibe of never ending improvement. Once a
project is done he’ll no doubt find another. Mike directed me
upstairs, I was greeted by Lindsay, the matriarch. Sweating from a
recent workout, in the process of packing for a trip to the
mainland, Mrs McGill is a tall woman whose genetics most obviously
was contributed to her children’s appearance.
She’d been my contact to wrangle Finn. It’s a role to which
she’s well suited as the proprietor of a Santa Monica based
production house. Also, because Finn is only sixteen, and I feel
awkward cold calling minors.
Finn had been much in demand, finding a spare moment wasn’t
easy. After some back and forth she found the time, pushed it back
at the last minute because Finn wasn’t home. He was in Wahiawa,
picking up a few new Glenn Pang shaped boards. An excusable delay
if there ever was one.
If Finnegan McGill had a spirit animal it would be an adolescent
yellow Labrador Retriever. Blonde haired, freckled, he’s put on a
good three or four inches over the Summer. If his voice is any
indication he’s still got some growing left to do. On the cusp of
deepness, it still delivers the occasional high pitched crack when
he’s excited.
He’s pleased with his new size.
“It just makes my surfing look bigger and more mature. It helps
me out surfing against the big guys. And I’ve got longer arms, so I
can paddle faster.”
Throughout our conversation Finn is amiable and open, seems
genuinely happy to talk. The polar opposite of the stereotypical
home schooled surf phenom. He stutters and stammers a bit, builds
confidence as we go.
I ask him to explain the lineup at Pipe, tell me how to
recognize a good wave. Finn did not luck his way into his first
place finish in the Pipe trials. Did not three to the beach in
slop. He repeatedly found the best waves, true Pipe barrels, and
surfed them with aplomb. His demeanor shifts. He stops being an
eager young man, becomes an expert. Clearly explains what to look
for, how the wave bends and grinds.
He then reminds me that he is very young. Lacking a true grasp
of consequences. “I’ve hit my head out there a few times. But it’s
nothing crazy.”
His result was facilitated by a lack of expectations. Everyone
wants to win, but he really only hoped to make his first heat. The
entire event was a lineup of killers. A solid result at such a
young age, while not without precedent, is hardly required. A solid
showing and early round exit would have been praised. A first place
finish blows minds.
Now ten thousand dollars richer, he plans to save the money.
Possibly put it towards next year’s ‘QS campaign.
A campaign which is, if we’re honest, fraught with danger. That
tour has ruined lives, and unattended teens often fair poorly. Do
lasting damage to both their career, to their life. I ask Finn how
he plans to manage.
“I’m gonna probably travel with some friends and stuff,” he
says.
Hardly a reassuring sentiment, but it’s one his mother, who had
just entered the room, quickly puts to rest.
“He won’t actually be alone. Usually the Billabong team sends
someone, so he’ll be with a coach or one the team managers. Mom and
Dad wont let him do it on his own. Either he’ll be with them, or
he’ll be with us.”
Their respective careers give them the freedom to follow up on
the promise. That and “we have a ton of frequent flier miles.”
The McGill clan as a whole comes across as so loving and
supportive that it nearly seems nefarious. No family is this close,
no one gets along this well. And while I’m sure that’s somewhat
true, everything is always more complicated than it appears on the
surface, they exude an aura of true love and togetherness. It’s not
something with which I am personally familiar, but I recognize that
it exists.
At one point his sister, Dax, enters the room. Dax is eighteen,
very pretty, and a highly talented surfer and skateboarder in her
own right.
In tow are four tiny boys bearing trophies they’d made for Finn.
The Pipe Trials doesn’t provide one. I tell him these are probably
better anyway.
They spend a few minutes fawning over him, wide eyed and beyond
impressed. After they’ve left I ask him about the older kids he
looked up to when he was their age. I then point out that’s he’s
become one of the heroes he once aspired to emulate. I ask if he’s
aware of the fact.
He is not. It had not crossed his mind. But, now that it has, he
looks pleased.
But still humble. Always humble. On the North Shore it’s a
quality that comes second only to talent on the list of what’s
demanded of Pipeline surfers. At least ostensibly. Not everyone
lives up to the ideal. Maybe not even most. But Finn manages to
pull it off.
The last time Finn pooped his pants, or the last time he’ll to
which he’ll admit, he was six years old. He was playing hide and
seek, got excited, didn’t want to leave his hiding place.
Throughout our conversation Finn makes repeated references to
when he “was a kid.” Slightly amusing, as Finn is still far from
fully developed. Slightly frustrating, because this freckled grom
has already earned his way into the Pipeline Masters, a feat which
nearly every surfer on Earth can only dream.
The following day Finn faced Jordy Smith and Keanu Asing in
round one of the main event. The swell was out of the northeast,
the surf well below what anyone would call good.
He caught a few waves, found one very good barrel toward the end
of the heat I was sure would push him into round three. But he was
outpointed by turns, relegated to the repercharge.
Finn didn’t seem bothered.
Why would he be?
He entered the trials hoping to surf twice. Everything after
that has been icing on the cake.
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Billabong: “Hawaii is bullseye!”
By Chas Smith
But what does this mean? Does Billabong want to
invade? To conquer?
For the second day in a row I am very confused
by something Billabong related! Yesterday it was Billabong’s ex-CEO
Matthew Perrin and the “gift” of a $75,000.00 car. I lived in
Australia for a brief moment but it was enough to know that
$75,000.00 car looks like this.
And so Matthew Perrin went and allegedly had affairs and
allegedly got mistresses pregnant and allegedly lost the family
fortune, forcing his ex-wife and children in to alleged
homelessness but…
Maybe wife deserved for buying her husband a car that looks like
this?
Oh I don’t know. Confusing!
And then today I read a story about Billabong sees Hawaii as a
“bullseye” for the brand’s growth.
While the waves made a late appearance at this year’s Pipe
Masters, sponsor Billabong has shown up from Day One — the
Australian apparel brand holds the naming rights to the decades-old
surfing event on Hawaii’s North Shore.
Scott Hargreaves, global vice president of men’s marketing
at Billabong, told Pacific Business News the event is critical for
the brand’s outreach to the Hawaiian market.
“We have key strategic regions around the world that we like
to say that we can own from a surfing industry perspective,” he
said. “And Hawaii is bullseye.”
Billabong has been a part of the iconic surfing event since
2007 and was its owner and operator in conjunction with the
Association of Surfing Professionals before the governing body was
taken over and later renamed World Surf League.
After the WSL acquired the event, Billabong began to operate
as the surfing event’s title sponsor starting in 2014.
“Basically, we don’t have to run the logistics anymore, it
costs us less money, and we still get to leverage and own the event
as a really strong Billabong property,” Hargreaves said.
Hargreaves wouldn’t say how much Billabong pays for the
rights, but said the deal is “in the millions.”
So wait wait wait. Billabong owns Hawaii? Hawaii is “bullseye?”
Forget the grammatical oddity of using “bullseye” as an adjective
for just one moment and ponder. Do you think sugar barons and
bastard explorers who exploited the islands also felt they “owned”
Hawaii and it was their “bullseye?”
Don’t these sound like fighting words? Like old time
imperialism?
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Day one, Pipe Masters: “Slater was
insane!”
By Rory Parker
But overall the day reminded me of a sub-par run at
Hossegor…
It was a glorious day on Oahu. Sunny, but not
hot. Breezy, but not windy. A tiny bite of Autumn in the air. The
type of weather for which you yearn, but only get for a week or two
each trip around the sun.
If only round one of the Pipe Masters had been as good.
Not to say the surf was bad. Laniakea looked great as I drove
past. Pupukea was damn close to firing. It’s usually a fairly soft
wave, every once in a while turns on, gets scary. It wasn’t quite
there, but it had some beef. Some power. Log Cabins looked outright
terrifying. But I’m just straight scared of that wave, ever since I
got cocky, got caught, and hit the bottom so hard I thought I was
going to shit my pants.
Skateboarders call that an ‘oops-poops.’
The swell was swinging in from the North/Northeast, which is
hardly ideal for Pipe. You want some West in it. Failing that, more
North. You definitely don’t want any East. Makes it swing out to
sea, line up to Off the Wall. Weird combination of punchy and
backed-off. Lines up for a race track, but doesn’t pile on the reef
and heave. More Gums than Pipe. More bad than good.
It’s a good thing that the title is already decided, that we’re
not taking the first step toward crowning a world champ in what
amounts to a coin flip.
There were some highlights. I thought Finn McGill, my new
favorite grom, had his heat on lock with a last minute dredger
somewhere around Ain’ts. The judges disagreed, left him a full two
points short of what he needed. Which is far enough off that I
suspect my awe had to do with the angle. People look much deeper
when watching from a hundred yards towards Rockies.
Slater did an insane floater just past Backdoor. Absolutely
terrifying. He had no right to absorb the rebound and ride out.
But overall the day reminded me of a sub-par run at Hossegor.
Good turns, heavy lips. But not the run-and-gun barrel-fest we all
desperately want to see.
Which is why I got bored, decided to play instead of sit on the
bleachers and watch.
I lost interest early, while Medina, Irons, and Igarashi were
getting ready to paddle out. Medina was mobbed by every Brazilian
on the beach. They sure are a vocal bunch.
I stared at Rosie.
Bruce Irons looked like he’d just left the club. Aviator shades,
peroxide blonde hair slicked straight back. Looking gaunt, not fit.
No surprise Igarashi outpointed him at the break Irons once made
his own. I’m hardly one to cast stones regarding a person’s choice
of health regimen, but he truly does not look well. And it’s time,
probably past due, to face the fact that he no longer deserves a
spot based solely on his name and history. It’s unfortunate to see
the once mighty fall, but wildcard spots come dear, and these days
there are far more deserving souls.
I decided to swim from Ehukai toward Gas Chambers, bodysurf the
lefts the Pupukea crowd was leaving unridden. It was the typical
shit show out there. Slim tan girls in micro bottoms, surfing far
better than their ilk did not long ago. Visitors in far over their
heads, getting their first small taste of Hawaiian power. Paddling
for every wave, backing off every drop. Shoulder hopping each
other. Getting in the way. A handful of tiny boys played big-wave
hero, stroking into sets at least quadruple overhead. Middle aged
men on beefy shortboards showed glimpses of former talent.
Slater appeared from nowhere, grabbed the wave of the day,
disappeared.
I had fun, enjoyed a long swim, managed to grab a few worth the
effort. Wished I brought a board with me, but I’m not that much of
a hypocrite. You don’t bring boards to a contest. Mine were at the
rental, Waialua distance away.
I met a few fellow media dorks, complained about our lack of
coddling. The “interview bullpen” is now erected, a five by ten
foot piece of sand with no one around. It’s very obvious that the
WSL doesn’t want to share, and I understand why. But you think
someone would realize, it’s far easier to control the narrative
when you include and corrupt people, rather than leave them to
their own devices.
Worst job of the day goes the employees of Sustainable
Coastlines. Poor fucking kids. I caught two of the girls sneaking
cigarettes in the bushes. I gave a nod and left them to it. They
deserved the moment of peace.
Picking through trash bins, sorting recyclables from
compostables from plain old landfill bound garbage; no one deserves
that. All the receptacles are well labeled, you’d need to be dumb
or lazy to use the wrong one. Unfortunately for the worker bees the
world has no shortage of either.
I cornered one girl during her break, asked if the job was as
bad as I thought. Are they constantly pulling bags of dog shit from
among the cans and bottles?
“I wish,” she said. “We’re used to that. It’s the diapers that
are the worst.”
She was a true believer, eager to talk about the good they’re
doing. I’m not so sure, tend to believe they’re ameliorating damage
done, rather than improving on pre-existing conditions. But she was
cute and kind and I didn’t feel like shitting on her parade. So I
heard her out.
Whatever my feelings regarding efficacy, it’s nice to see that
some people truly care.
Results
Billabong Pipe Masters Round 1 Results:
Heat 1: Julian Wilson (AUS) 15.07, Wiggolly Dantas (BRA) 8.60, Ryan
Callinan (AUS) 8.50
Heat 2: Miguel Pupo (BRA) 11.40, Kolohe Andino (USA) 9.33, Bede
Durbidge (AUS) 5.40
Heat 3: Matt Wilkinson (AUS) 13.34, Frederico Morais (PRT) 13.27,
Nat Young (USA) 12.40
Heat 4: Jordy Smith (ZAF) 12.60, Keanu Asing (HAW) 10.83, Finn
McGill (HAW) 10.50
Heat 5: Gabriel Medina (BRA) 15.10, Kanoa Igarashi (USA) 11.24,
Bruce Irons (HAW) 3.40
Heat 6: John John Florence (HAW) 16.66, Jadson Andre (BRA) 10.27,
Gavin Beschen (HAW) 7.84
Heat 7: Alex Ribeiro (BRA) 11.27, Adriano de Souza (BRA) 10.54,
Conner Coffin (USA) 10.27
Heat 8: Jeremy Flores (FRA) 9.00, Stuart Kennedy (AUS) 9.00, Joel
Parkinson (AUS) 8.77
Heat 9: Filipe Toledo (BRA) 12.34, Josh Kerr (AUS) 12.03, Adam
Melling (AUS) 9.37
Heat 10: Kelly Slater (USA) 12.70, Kai Otton (AUS) 11.90, Caio
Ibelli (BRA) 11.50
Heat 11: Italo Ferreira (BRA) 10.50, Sebastian Zietz (HAW) 10.20,
Jack Freestone (AUS) 9.07
Heat 12: Michel Bourez (PYF) 14.24, Adrian Buchan (AUS) 14.23,
Davey Cathels (AUS) 13.23
Billabong Pipe Masters Round 2 Match-Ups:
Heat 1: Kolohe Andino (USA) vs. Gavin Beschen (HAW)
Heat 2: Adriano de Souza (BRA) vs. Bruce Irons (HAW)
Heat 3: Joel Parkinson (AUS) vs. Finn McGill (HAW)
Heat 4: Sebastian Zietz (HAW) vs. Frederico Morais (PRT)
Heat 5: Adrian Buchan (AUS) vs. Bede Durbidge (AUS)
Heat 6: Caio Ibelli (BRA) vs. Ryan Callinan (AUS)
Heat 7: Josh Kerr (AUS) vs. Adam Melling (AUS)
Heat 8: Stuart Kennedy (AUS) vs. Kai Otton (AUS)
Heat 9: Conner Coffin (USA) vs. Jack Freestone (AUS)
Heat 10: Wiggolly Dantas (BRA) vs. Davey Cathels (AUS)
Heat 11: Nat Young (USA) vs. Jadson Andre (BRA)
Heat 12: Keanu Asing (HAW) vs. Kanoa Igarashi (USA)
Has surf made you partially deaf too? Here's a
cure!
A few years ago, I made pals with a deaf Jew
big-wave surfer. Beautiful guy (for one of them
baby-eating, Palestinians-under-the-jackboot Jews). He was so good
at lip-reading the only giveaway that his ears were bolt-ons was
the tonal honk when he spoke, although it did come across as a
little Occy-esque.
“It’s the best thing to being one with the wave,” he says. “The
energy of the wave engulfs you. The senses are heightened to smell
and taste and being aware of the surrounding. It sounds real corny
but you hear the ocean from the heart. It’s similar to hearing
people who dive in the silence of the depths.Imagine hearing the
thundering set waves, the foamball inside the tube, though your
eyes, through the body.”
Ido says he’ll “never forget the only time I actually heard a
tube at Zicatela (Puerto Escondido) riding at full speed on a thick
seven-six, a brown, dark, sand-sucking cave and the…
kaboom… in my ears just before being spat out into
the light. I had tears of joy. It was so emotional.”
After talking to Ido in Israel
I figured, wouldn’t be such a bad thing to lose the speakers. I,
too, might become poetic. Gifted the keys to the metaphysical.
And then it actually happened.
A few months of cold winds, cold water and my left ear was as
useful as a six-ten gun in Filipe Toledo’s quiver. Full of water.
Wouldn’t come out.
I had it cleaned a couple of times. Fished around with my finger
every minute of every day, retrieving wax, balls of sand, sometimes
blood.
In conversation, I had to narrow my eyes in concentration and
twist my good ear towards whomever was talking to me. Pals would
shout hello and I would’t hear a damn thing. In the water, I my
heart beat loudly in my dud ear and it had that swishing sound you
associate with water footage that hasn’t had the music applied.
I knew ear plugs would stop the problem from getting any worse,
and would even gradually cure it as the water dripped out, but who
wants to accept deafness in the water as a cure for deafness on
land?
And, as someone who’s gonna fight the ravages of ageing all the
way to my hole in the ground, ear plugs are as sexy as hooded
bonnets and ten-foot long fun boards.
Then, I happened to be talking to Tom Carroll for a political
book project (the two-time world champ boycotted South Africa in
the eighties because of the White Devil’s apartheid there), we
were talking about how shitty it is to be deaf, and he suggested I
might wanna look up Surf
Ears, a company he’s involved in.
The difference in these things was you can hear. You sit in the
water, you can talk, there’s no heart-beat, no water swishing
around.
So I get a pair.
They ain’t cheap. Sixty-five dollars in Australia, an
equivalent price elsewhere. I don’t pay, of course. (Review
set!) But after using ’em every day, and then losing ’em in a
carpark somewhere, I tap in my credit card numbers and I buy a new
set.
They’re that good.
I hear. I joke. Pals greet me in the water.
And they look relatively slick given their unsavoury job.