Where your fav writer gets tubed, is served bad
salsa and worries about John John's future.
Yesterday was Saturday. Today is Sunday. The
contest is, once again, on hold. The surf is, once again, very fun.
Just small, by North Shore standards.
Which didn’t keep me from getting one of the better tube slides
of my life yesterday. Surfed another out of the way patch. Was
explaining the spot to a friend.
“You want to take off behind the section, do your bottom turn,
then wait for it to hit the shallow spot inside, bend toward you
and grow.”
Always easier said than done. Always run the risk of running
your mouth about your supposed knowledge, then getting totally
skunked and looking like Mr Big Mouth Barney 5000.
So I was gratified when I found a gem of a nugget mid-session.
Set the line, only a minor tuck to fit, saw that lip well out in
front. Shamelessly no-claim claimed when I got spat out. Not that I
actually got spat out. But I’m a normal human, it was
plenty good to give me a memory I’ll hang onto for a while.
The sun reappeared this morning.
Stereotypical idyllic Hawaii weather. Trades are barely blowing,
mobs are currently making their way up H2. Course set to clog the
roads, litter the beaches with buffoonery. Spray-on sunscreen
hanging in the air, filling your nose and torturing your taste
buds. How hard it is to rub stuff on your ass? Not very.
Happy Hour at Luibueno’s is still a scene. Enjoyed a good
margarita and some okay tacos. Solid by Oahu standards. Sub par by
mine.
Their salsa is garbage. Fucking pitiful. Shameful tomato
blah.
“We’ve got spicier if you want it,” the waitress said.
“I do want. I do.”
She handed me a bottle of Tapatio. I struggled to resist
throwing it back in her face. Not her fault, she’s just works
there.
They pack you in tight. I kept elbowing the guy sitting behind
me in the spine. Sorry, buddy. Sorry, buddy.
I eavesdropped on their conversation, because I do that. And
because they were speaking very loudly. You had to near shout to
make yourself heard. Still, though, they were being a bit over the
top. Which is how I know all about the boards they ordered, their
sponsors, plans for filming.
Thing is, I don’t know who the fuck they were. Didn’t look
familiar at all.
It reminded me of the assholes in LA who’d have loud
conversations in the lineup about how much they were making on real
estate deals. Show off type shit. Look how big I am.
Probably should dial it back a bit. Doesn’t fly too well in a
place that puts a strange premium on humility. Don’t make big body,
dude.
Signs for John John are everywhere. Outside Haleiwa Joe’s. Spray
painted across the barriers outside the skatepark. Nailed to
telephone poles and soaped onto car windows.
Poor kid. That shit would put me in a panic. He’s done amazing
things, sure to have a long awesome career.
But the problem with accomplishments, there comes a moment you
have to go, “Okay, what next?”
The answer is difficult enough when you’re a typical
slob. But how the fuck do you improve when you’re already on
top?
The king of Pipe recreates his favourite North
Shore waves at "big-wave" contest in Oregon!
Growing up on the Oregon coast I pointed my
little nose toward the sea rather than the mountain. I was cold and
miserable enough and the technicolor dream of California and Hawaii
fired my imagination. Oh I went to the hills, to Hoodoo and
Willamette Pass and even Mt. Bachelor a handful of times a
season and loved but surf had my heart even though the water was
near freezing and angry sharks swirled underneath my frozen solid
feets.
When I was in the ocean, amongst the waves, I could at least
pretend that I was tropical. I was at least doing the same thing
that bronzed Australians and even more bronzed Hawaiians were
doing.
And I remember like some great tragedy the day that Hawaiian
legend Gerry Lopez left Oahu’s North Shore and moved to Bend,
Oregon.
“BEND?” I thought. “Why did Gerry Lopez go crazy? What made the
poor man lose his mind?”
For those who don’t know, Mr. Lopez is one of the most stylish
surfers of all time and Pipeline was his playground. I could not
fathom what would make someone move from the warm to the cold. From
the sand to the snow. From Hawaii to Oregon.
And then, years later, I snowboarded in powder for the first
time and it all made perfect sense. It all clicked.
I crossed paths with Gerry a few years ago. I was waiting on a
helicopter out of Bald Face and he had just arrived. The man
belongs in both worlds equally and, oddly both world’s belong to
each other. And, thus, his surf event at Mt. Bachelor, the Big Wave
Challenge, makes perfect sense too. Lopez uses “a series of
huge sweeping banked corners, quarter pipes and spines that are
shaped into wave-like features for a flowing course bringing the
surf to the mountain.”
Runs are meant to approximate Lopez’ old favourites Pipe,
Sunset, Ala Moana and Rocky Point. “Remember,” says Lopez, “that
Style factors heavily into your score, so style-it wherever you
can. The judges are looking at your whole ride, how what you do
fits into the course and the flow you maintain. Ride it like a
wave. And most of all make sure you have fun.”
Watch!
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Ain't a soul alive who can touch Filipe in waves
two-feet and under (see clip one). Four feet and under and he's top
three (clip two). And a little twin-fin fever in clip
three.
Tell me this ain't the world's greatest surfer in
sub-three foot waves…
Do you, like me, swoon when the aprés-heat interviewer
Rosie Hodge pronounces Filipe Toledo’s first name
Phillip? The brave little magician with eyes a soft
clubhouse green meets brazen corn-fed beauty, she with the
broad South African vowels and hair that flashes like warped gold
who towers over her subjects, projecting a comely blend of
intimidation and sex appeal.
Oh, but we’ll forgive Rosie anything.
I like the name Phil. It’s gritty, it’s colourful, full of
self-mockery and cock-happiness.
Filipe sounds like the gay dancer in a Mariah Carey troupe who,
inexplicably, falls in love with his master.
So let’s use.
Phillip Toledo’s influence on the world tour has been
radically understated. We all remember how he made
Julian Wilson look slow in the final at Snapper in
2015and, shortly after, danced a ring around
Bede Durbidge in Brazil. Two wins from four events.
Later, letting it rain holy terror in Portugal.
And it was only a blown groin in his semi-final against Matt
Wilkinson that ended an expected win, and title run, this year. (It
also propelled Wilko into unlikely world title contention).
In waves of three-feet and less, y’can’t get near the kid. Too
fast, too light, too practised. And, so, the game is lifted. Boards
are surfed lighter. Waves are surfed faster. Airs are higher, and
hucked harder.
“Filipe’s technically superior,” says the surf coach and
sorta-former-world number-one Brad Gerlach. “And he’s not thinking.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. And that’s fucking
awesome.”
Watch these three shorts and tell me he ain’t unbeatable
waist-high and under.
(Perfect tens)
(on the twin screw)
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Poopies spent some time as an amateur gigolo during his
early days on the North Shore. Banging a lady they called Auntie
Gnar Gnar in exchange for access to her car. I've always been
surprised that doesn't happen more often. The area gets flooded
with attractive, and broke, young men every year. A sufficiently
predatory lady would have no problem keeping herself packed to the
gills with trim young pecker.
Rory Parker reports from the set of Who is JOB at
Pipe!
Day two of the Pipe waiting period broke to
another stretch of overcast skies and light drizzle. The steady but
barely noticeable rain backed off around mid-day. Not necessarily a
good thing. General moistness, lacking wind, is a recipe for muggy
sweaty days. You can take a dip to cool off, but nothing really
dries. Damp towels, wet boardshorts. It’s not very comfortable.
But the surf was fun! Not competition worthy, but nearly there.
Holding off was a very good call. Great job Mr Perrow! Yes, the
guys out at Pipe(ish) were killing it. Blasting fins, burying
rails, putting on a killer show. But it wasn’t barrelling, and
that’s what we want to see.
Not that it’d really make a difference if the Pipe Invitational
were run in small surf. Nothing on the heat sheet barrel slayers.
Maybe might hand ’em an advantage. Put through the better contest
surfers. Set us up for some spoiler heats. Everyone loves
those.
But that’s just conjecture.
I started my day with a great little session at another tucked
away piece of reef. So many semi-secret spots on the North Shore.
Yeah, the Haleiwa to V-land stretch is all the rage, but if you
know what you’re doing you can find solitude. Shallow solitude, but
you’ve gotta pay to play and it’s worth donating a piece of
yourself to the reef if it means you don’t need to paddle battle
with the mix of Town clowns and tourists that poke their heads out
whenever it’s less than intimidating.
People watching at Ehukai is always a grand time. Monkeys at the
zoo. I don’t know what goes on in other peoples’ heads. I can
barely understand what goes on in mine. Older gent doing his
crossword puzzle was not enjoying my cigarette. Complaining within
ear shot, careful not to make eye contact. “Cough cough cough.”
It’s the end of the world!
A grown man fighting with his mother. “Mom! No one else wants to
leave! If you want to make a scene we’ll make a fucking scene!”
Middle aged fellow with a brand new Arakawa gun, double leash
plugs and all, extreme stretching on the water’s edge before splay
leg paddling into chest high peaks.
And the women! Oh, the women! Tan and supple and gorgeous.
Pretending to take a dip, squatting in waist-deep water for a
minute. Getting back out with hair still dry.
We all know you’re peeing, honey. And while I’m not really into
that, for you I’d give it a shot.
At around 2:30 I got a message from Derek. He’d lined up JOB for
an interview at 4:30. Meet him at Pipe. Can do!
I told him he was responsible for everyone riding boogieboards
again, now he’s gonna ruin night surfing too.
I like Jamie O’Brien. Truly. Tons of people like to talk shit
online about the guy, but hes on a fun trip. Doing his gig, making
some money. Not hurting anyone. And he’s always a good interview.
Or almost always.
To be fair, it’s awkward talking about yourself when you’re
surrounded by people, in the middle of doing something. It’s
important to establish a rapport before an interview. Make some
chit chat, make them comfortable. Nearly impossible when their
attention is divided.
Also, I really wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t be, in the short time I
had. Jamie wasn’t engaged. Probably my fault. Definitely my fault.
When the questions are along the lines of:
If someone put a gun to your head and said they’d pull the
trigger if you didn’t fuck an animal, what animal would you
fuck?
…you’re gonna get a “no comment.” Unless the subject is either
drunk or comfortable. Jamie was neither.
I did learn a few interesting things. He’s in the process of
making the pilot for a longer form of Who is JOB. Bigger budget, trying to
get on TV. I’m on board with that.
I pitched him an idea for the new season. He didn’t seem to like
it.
He was once in talks with picking up a Wavestorm sponsorship.
They offered him a single free board. So he ended up on Catch
Surf.
He has a girlfriend of two years, which explains his reticence
when it came to exploring his sex life.
He eventually foisted me off on Poopies. I have a hard time
calling a grown man “Poopies.” I’m not a friend, not in on the
joke. It seems disrespectful.
Guess not, though. I had a very pleasant chat with Mr Poops.
He’s much more intelligent then you’d expect. Kind of a weirdo, in
a pleasant makes-the-world-better-by-existing way. Seemed pretty
stoked on life, bouncing back and forth between San Diego and Oahu.
Earning enough to enjoy life outside the struggle.
Poopies was far more receptive to my questions. He’d fuck a cat,
maybe a fish. He also seemed interested in my pitch. The general
idea is hidden camera hitchhiker pickup. He’s a semi-famous guy,
enough to get recognized by traveling teens he’d pick up.
Get them in, lock the doors. Start getting weird.
“What’s up guys? You wanna get sucked or fucked?”
Poopies spent some time as an amateur gigolo during his early
days on the North Shore. Banging a lady they called Auntie Gnar
Gnar in exchange for access to her car. I’ve always been surprised
that doesn’t happen more often. The area gets flooded with
attractive, and broke, young men every year. A sufficiently
predatory lady would have no problem keeping herself packed to the
gills with trim young pecker.
He should build a stable, I told him. Find the transplant kids
whose North Shore dream has turned into a tropical nightmare. Turn
them out, earn a buck.
We talked about his involvement, or lack thereof, in the
planning of Who is JOB. He just does what he’s told. Isn’t
able to put himself in harm’s way willingly. Needs the push, the
peer pressure.
Surprisingly, his worst experience filming was riding a
waterwheel at Pipe.
“Ask him about his Tinder chick,” Jamie told me. “She was
hefty.”
“She was not,” Poopies protested. He made her a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich, then fucked her in the backseat of her rental
car in the parking lot of the Waimea heiau.
As a whole it worked well. Jamie’s reticence followed by
Poopies’s openness. Would have made an excellent podcast. Only
problem, it turns out recording beachfront at Pipe is a terrible
idea. My brand new, kind of expensive, directional mic picked up
almost nothing but the roar of the surf. Garbled words, totally
unintelligible.
But it’d be a few hours before I’d learn how badly I fucked up.
I left the beach in a great mood, headed to Haleiwa for some sun
down drinks at Breakers.
Wasn’t aware it was the night of the Haleiwa Christmas parade.
God damn, how I hate that thing. Fucked with my scene every year I
live in Haleiwa. Never learned to anticipate it. Ended up trapped
on the Town side of Haleiwa, headed up Kam toward the Dole
Plantation. Long way out of my way before I could cut over to
Wilikina and make my way back to where I’m staying.
So I said ‘fuck it’ drove to Walmart, and bought a burner flip
phone. Make my life a little easier for the next two weeks. Gonna
toss the thing in the garbage the moment I’m back on Kauai.
Zach Weisberg, The Inertia's spiritual head, lashes
back!
I almost can’t take it! Tears are streaming
down my cheeks making it difficult to type and so I won’t. I’ll
just let our father who art Venice-adjacent type for me! Did you
see Zach Weisberg, The Inertia’s founder and spiritual
guide, wrote a response to Dane Reynolds in the wee hours? Did you
read it in all of its paternal glory?
Now get ready for part three! And if you like heaping doses of
paternalism mixed with dismissiveness ladled with
passive-aggression and served warm with the emotional
seasoning of a college campus safe space then this will be
your favorite part of all!
Let’s read the best bits from the IKEA desk of Zach
Weisberg!
So if Dane really never wants to work with us again, then
that’s a bummer. It’s a silly and immature way to handle a pretty
reasonable set of criticisms sandwiched between a handful of
inflammatory phrases, but that’s totally his right. I respect
that.
If Dane wants to write The Inertia off altogether because we
support and enable people to share their opinions, that’s his
prerogative.
We appreciate your response, Dane. Even if it is a handful
of middle fingers. We appreciate that you shared some intimate
thoughts around having anxiety in your film. That was definitely a
service for folks who can relate. We like how you surf. We know it
sucks to get negative feedback on something you care about (we can
relate), but sometimes, when interpreted constructively, it can be
really productive. Hopefully, one day in the future when feelings
calm a bit, we can occasionally exchange silly emails again. Maybe
even produce something raw that leaves us vulnerable to criticism
together. But if not, that’s okay, too.
I’m rolling on the floor! Can’t… stop… laughing! My stomach
hurts! I’m choking! I can’t breathe! Someone call 911!
And real quick Zach, if you maybe really want to know why
Dane got mad then it is probably because the offending review
wasn’t criticizing his film. It was criticizing the
man himself, calling him a hypocrite in the harshest possible
terms.
But carry on! Please! It’s gold!
(Read Zach’s entire response
here! It’ll go down in history as the pièce de
résistance of the paternalism mixed with dismissiveness ladled
with passive-aggression and served warm with the emotional
seasoning of a college campus safe space genre!)
