Jordy basically safety surfed his way though the
quarters and semis and finals and he was almost rewarded with the
highest gift in the land for so doing. The WSL needs to figure this
out because 75% surfing is going to be a Chinese water torture
death. They have to figure some way to incorporate a reward for
risk. Like gymnastics. Degree of difficulty being factored in
alongside makes and misses. | Photo: WSL
A near perfect score for one hiccup, one
full-buttocked bash and one hiccup…
Whew. The elixir of the people has worn off and
I’ve returned to my comfortably cynical and virtually heartless
position. Hello, again!
And can we discuss Jordy Smith’s nine-point wave in the Hurley
Pro final against the new best surfer in the world Filipe
Toledo?
It was a 9.
A 9.
A 9 for one hiccup, one full-buttocked bash and one hiccup.
9.
And what the hell?
I understand that the judges are under enormous pressure,
generally do very well, being critical is easy etc. etc.
But what the hell?
Jordy basically safety surfed his way though the quarters and
semis and finals and he was almost rewarded with the highest gift
in the land for so doing. The WSL needs to figure this out because
75% surfing is going to be a Chinese water torture death. They have
to figure some way to incorporate a reward for risk. Like
gymnastics. Degree of difficulty being factored in alongside makes
and misses.
Conspiracists might suggest that Jordy’s 9 was the judges
punishing Filipe for storming the tower and shouting swears some
three events ago. They might also suggest that a Jordy Smith
championship is being preordained.
Are you a conspiracist?
Or do you think doing one turn on a head-high wave is worthy of
a 9?
I pulled the covers over my head when the slate
grey sky became too bright to ignore. Its dull glow represented
hard truth. Represented that the last twenty-four hours had not
been but a very bad dream. Had I really put ground parsley on my
yesterday
morning’s poached eggs, smoked Scottish salmon and
hollandaise sauce? Ground parsley? Oh sure the jar said it was
freshly ground along with being organic but still. Jarred ground
parsley. The very height of petit bourgeois. And it was Nick
Carroll of all people, Manly Australia’s Nick Carroll, Lifesaving
Association belonging Nick Carroll who called me out.
“‘Freshly ground parsley'”? Who grinds parsley?”
Simply Organic
is who and they grind it for the petit bourgeois. A terrible
nightmare.
Quarterfinal number three paddled into the Lowers obsidian but I
didn’t care. John John Florence and Jeremy Flores but I didn’t
care. The elites were in their tabernacle drinking hot coffee and
nibbling madeleine but I didn’t care. The people were on the dirt
and the stone, their children gnawing driftwood but I didn’t
care.
I didn’t care and stayed put under the covers trying to find an
episode of Sex in the City on my phone to momentarily drown the
sorrows. When Carrie and Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte’s
punchline-filled debate about soul mates refuses to elicit a smile,
though, I know it is time for me to face my new and uncomfortable
life.
The shower was warm but not all of the Hermès soap in the entire
world could scrub my shame. Nick Carroll for pity’s sake. Nick
Carroll.
Oh sure, when I had first gone down to the Hurley Pro at Lower
Trestles I had received a revelation.
“Forget the small comforts. Forget the elites. Forget the free
Michelob Ultra and chicken caesar salad wraps and shade from tents.
Get thee amongst the people. Be one with them.”
And I had heeded its clarion call, standing shoulder to shoulder
with them in their dirt and filth and the Africanized trash bees. I
brought them pears. I carried their sunburn. But never did I
imagine that the people would become one with me. That their
naturally gauche taste would become my own. Ground parsley. Ground
parsley.
My phone rang and a photographer friend said, “Are you here?
Standing in your spot? John John just beat Jeremy! He’s going to
the semis!” But I didn’t care.
I went downstairs to make breakfast and stood in front of the
cupboards paralyzed. Not being able to trust my instincts anymore.
Not being able to know if caviar on small toasts with a Veuve
Clicquot mimosa is fair or foul. Not even being able to know if I
was pronouncing Veuve Clicquot properly.
My phone rang again and a team manager friend said, “Are you
here? Near the trashcan? Filipe just beat Kanoa! He’s going to the
semis and against John!” But I didn’t care.
What was my life going to look like now? Was I going to
accidentally end up wearing Teva sandals, zip-off travel pants a
The Inertia t-shirt and SPF 50 wide-brimmed hat and not even know?
I buried my face face in my hands.
And didn’t move until my phone rang again. It was a low tier
professional surfer who said, “Are you here? Next to the fat
shirtless man? Jordy beat Ace. Jordy is going to the finals!” But I
didn’t care.
I decided to pour a damned Veuve Clicquot, or however the hell
you say it, and Sunny Delight. Screw it. Just screw it all. I was
going to sit until both bottles were empty then go to the Red
Rooster in Oceanside which came recommended in the BeachGrit
comment section. I’d get onion rings covered in packet gravy and
cheese-whiz and drink Smirnoff and cran-apple juice. I’d…
…my phone rang again and a surf journalist friend said, “Are you
there? On the cobbled stone? I wish I could see it but they moved
the media tent down to Tijuana and President Trump has just Tweeted
that we won’t be let back into the country. Filipe just beat John
John! He’s going to the finals against Jordy!”
And suddenly I cared! Filipe Toldeo! The new Kelly Slater! The
world’s current best and most exciting surfer! I sprinted upstairs,
taking them two at a time, and ripped into my closet without even
thinking, pulling on an old pair of unwashed APC jeans, Turbonegro
t-shirt and rammed my feet into a stinky red pair of Vans smashed
at the heel. I sprinted to the driveway and the wife had taken the
Panamera to Los Angeles for the day so I jumped into five year old
Volkswagen station wagon filled with melted crayons and SeaSnax
wrappers.
I sped as fast as I could north, past Camp Pendleton, past the
immigration control center, past the San Onofre nuclear power plant
and said a silent prayer my surviving surf journalist brothers and
their difficulties. I sped past the Basilone exit knowing that $20
dollar parking would surely be filled. I sped up Cristianitos and,
as if gifted by God, there was a spot available in a dirt patch
next to a dumpster. I parked and sprinted.
Sprinted across the 5 freeway bridge, sprinted down the bike
path, sprinted though the parking lot, sprinted down the trail and
sprinted through the reeds.
I was back! The Hurley Pro at Lower Trestles! And the dirt and
the cobbled stone and the sand were filled. Completely filled with
all manner of men and women, boys and girls. Old, young. Fresh,
haggard. Rich, poor. Surf industry, mechanics, yogis, teachers and
landscape engineers. Brazilian and non.
The tents stood empty. Completely abandoned.
“What happened?” I asked a large man with a barbed wire tattoo
and a Brazilian flag tied around his neck. “Is it over?”
He looked at me, smiling, and said, “You wouldn’t even believe.
Silvana Lima won! And then… Filipe! Filipe Toledo! The judges tried
to steal from his pants but God didn’t let them! Nós somos um!”
It made me sad, for a moment, that the current most exciting
surfing in the world was almost robbed blind by the judges but then
I looked around at the melange of humanity, threw my head back to
the sun, which had broken though and was shining full and bright
and shouted from my heart, “I am people! We are all people!”
Hurley Pro Final Results:
1 -Filipe Toledo (BRA) 15.67
2 – Jordy Smith (ZAF) 9.80
Hurley Pro Semifinal Results:
SF 1: Jordy Smith (ZAF) 14.33 def. Adrian Buchan (AUS) 10.17
SF 2: Filipe Toledo (BRA) 14.90 def. John John Florence (HAW)
12.66
Hurley Pro Remaining Quarterfinal Results:
QF 3: John John Florence (HAW) 14.84 def. Jeremy Flores (FRA)
13.80
QF 4: Filipe Toledo (BRA) 15.26 def. Kanoa Igarashi (USA) 11.10
Swatch Pro Final Results:
1 -Silvana Lima (BRA) 17.60
2 – Keely Andrew (AUS) 10.93
Swatch Pro Semifinal Results:
SF 1: Silvana Lima (BRA) 16.90 def. Lakey Peterson (USA) 15.60
SF 2: Keely Andrew (AUS) 13.43 def. Courtney Conlogue (USA)
13.17
2017 WSL Men’s Jeep Leaderboard (After Hurley Pro at
Trestles):
1 – Jordy Smith (ZAF) 45,850 pts
2 – John John Florence (HAW) 43,400 pts
3 – Julian Wilson (AUS) 37,200 pts
4 – Matt Wilkinson (AUS) 36,450 pts
5 – Owen Wright (AUS) 35,850 pts
Rare swell brings pro's to your beach. Do you join
them like man or flee like baby?
Three weeks ago, the New York, Jersey region got blown a
kiss from tropical depression 10, born from the Nor’easter
family. This occurrence is very different from its naughty cousins
(hurricanes) born in Cape Verde, tantrum-ing through the Caribbean
and pumping long period, semi-closed out lines to the north
east.
TD 10, as it’s baptized by the science guys, plays nicer.
It sits benign, off the coast of New York harbor, gently pushing
lines of east-south0-east groundswell with trimmed north (west)
offshore winds. After a summer of knee-high pain barely remedied by
5’6” fishes, New York and Jersey surfers have a legitimate reason
to wax their 6’3”s.
But what if there is a Candyman crawling across the Cross Bronx
Expressway salivating, rubbing his palms, waiting to scoop up all
your sweets? In this case, our specter takes the form of the
Volcom_east team. It’s fingers personified in the form of Mitch
Coleborn, Chippa Wilson and Balaram Stack.
As a local, you know what specific jetty will be working (angle,
buoy reading, wind etc.). Sunrise hours spent inspecting jetties,
groynes and sandbars, compiling secrets over years, are easily
diluted and given up to Volcom via a simple phone call to a local
surf shop owner.
Can’t blame him. If Gordon Ramsey called your kitchen and asked
for your recipe to tuna tar tar, you’d sing faster than a star
witness gifted a million-dollar reward and the promise of
protection from the FBI.
Now, this is a quiz.
So let’s place you in the scene.
You wake up at 5:30 am Sunday. Walk up to a jetty you know will
be firing. You expect to find Christmas morning in September. You
do, but only to discover other kids unwrapping your gifts. You
watch them. Taking off deeper than you ever could, slicing lips
with precision. A cadre of filmers, drones and cheerleaders litter
the sand and lineup hooting and yewww-ing every move like it’s
Super Bowl Sunday.
And a kind of bile sits in your throat. Just when you thought
last week’s three hooks in the pocket were timed perfectly you are
reminded where you sit on the surf-timeline-evolution chart. In
context, somewhere around enlarged forehead and dragging knuckles
.
While there is no shame in “respected, capable local” there is a
sobering effect knowing you can be over run at your home spot.
The next step.
A decision.
Get into the ring and take a chance sparring with nobility and a
good possibility of getting boxed out or head to the kiddie pool
(still a tantalizing three-to-four foot ) where there is still some
sense of perverted pride in saying you’re the best 40 something
among soft toppers, 10-year-olds and very old studs wearing hats
and sunglasses?
Well?
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The dreamy, easy, sand bottom rights of Arugam Bay. |
Photo: Morgan Maassen
Don't veer too far away from the popular Sri Lankan
point…
List the ways a surfer can be disappeared and
you don’t, as rule, include death by ancient reptile. But, at the
picturesque righthand point Arugam Bay in Sri Lanka, a wave popular
with beginners and small-wave shredders, you may now include the
crocodile.
A journalist for the Financial Times as well as a newly
annointed surfer, Paul McClean, was staying at a nearby surf
camp, and had gone to the toilet and then went to wash his hands in
a lagoon “known to be crawling with crocodiles,” reports London’s
The Sun.
Fawas Lafeer, owner of Safa Surf School, located up the
coast from where the incident happened, said: “A local fisherman
witnessed a man being dragged into a river, set back from the
beach, by a crocodile. The fisherman was on the opposite side of
the river and downstream of the incident location.”
He added:“This is the first known crocodile attack in Sri
Lanka. Both tourists and locals surf at Elephant Rock, which is a
beautiful secluded beach and very safe.
“Crocodiles in Sri Lanka live only in the fresh, back waters
of the jungle. It is almost unheard of for them to come close to
the beach. The salt water actually turns them blind.
“Local search and rescue teams are working alongside the
police and British Embassy in attempt to locate the man’s
body.”
Meanwhile, a Scottish tourist, who wishes to remain
anonymous, said: “A British tourist was at a surf spot called
Elephant rock.
“There’s a lagoon right next to the sea. He went to the
toilet next to the lagoon and was grabbed by a crocodile.
“There are lots in the lagoon. People last saw his arms in
the air in the water and then was grabbed under. Horrible.
The body of Mr McClean, who was twenty five, is yet to be
recovered.
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When the curtin lifts on a Filipe Toledo heat, the
crowd lifts, it moves eyes from telephones and it peers intently at
the ocean, for to miss one second might be to miss one of the Great
Moments in professional surfing.
A day of revelation on the cobbled stones with the
people.
I peeked at my Rolex before the sun came up and
it said, “Get thee to the people.” Not literally of course, though
I do think Rolex would do well incorporating some Marxist design
elements. I sprung out of bed, unfettered by a hangover only having
had three Trust Me vodka and organic
strawberry lemonades the night before.
Completely refreshed, I took the stairs two at a time toward the
kitchen to quickly make a coffee and head out the door. To the
Trestle. To you.
But while the grounds were steeping I became hungry and set
about preparing poached eggs, smoked Scottish salmon, freshly
ground parsley and a quickly whipped hollandaise sauce that would
have made Chef Auguste Escoffier smile.
By the time I started driving Mick Fanning and Kanoa Igarashi
were in the water surfing their heat re-do from yesterday’s
unfortunate mixed call. I didn’t write about
that nor did I see it because I was taking my role as
object lesson to the people’s children in their utopian
professional surf school seriously. Don’t go looking for Coopers
and dance, dear children, lest you become a hungover surf
journalist like me.
Whilst passing the media tent, which had been moved further
south from yesterday’s location inside one of the San Onofre
nuclear power reactors to a structure in the United State’s Marine
base Camp Pendleton, I listened to Kanoa again getting the jump on
Mick with a quick 8 something right at the opening horn. A very
fine wave surfed elegantly.
And the heat ended right as I pulled into the $20 parking lot. I
was clutching my phone, staring holes through the screen as a set
approached, almost running over an electric bicyclist. Kanoa had
surfed a few waves, though the ocean did appear very finicky. Mick
had seemed to be on the same retirement tour as his good friend
Joel, enjoying the gluttony of just sitting in the ocean and not
surfing but there was a one wave set approaching and Mick only
needed a small score to win. He paddled over it and looked casually
out to sea. Into the salad years.
“White lightening is the penultimate competitor. Such a glassy
guy…” Joe Turpel said, or something similarly malapropriate, as I
backed the ’17 Panamera into its spot. “…And now on to the women.
We’ve got Steph Gilmore and coming up next.”
“The women?” I thought but felt energized. “The women! No
possible better way to spend my morning for women are the people
too!” I quickened my pace, winking at the California State Park
policeman who had threatened to give me a ticket when I was driving
in for being on my phone.
Hurrying down the trail, over the trestle and through the reeds
I marveled. It had been naked, scorching sun for the first three
days of the Hurley Pro. Hot unrelenting sun everywhere that the
people stood. But this day God had decided enough is enough and
given the people a VIP tent of their own. High, thickish grey
clouds.
And then I got my first glimpse of Steph Gilmore in the water,
arcing one of the most gorgeous turns I have ever seen in my life.
So fluid, so on rail, such poetry. The finicky waves of Kanoa and
Mick’s heat had given way to pumping oil glass sets and watching
Stephanie bag two nines made me wonder, “Could she compete against
the men at pointbreaks when the surf is head high and perfect?
Could she beat them all?” I know it is unfair to compare men’s
surfing and women’s. They are unique flowers. But Steph’s turns
mesmerized, although Lima won later in the day with more rad.
I was so mesmerized, in fact, that I ran smack dab into
Surfline’s very handsome Marcus Sanders, though he looked
perturbed.
“Heading to the media tent?” I asked.
“Didn’t you hear?” He responded. “The Marines are using it in a
simulation drill for a North Korean invasion. Bombing sorties,
tanks, heavy artillery, battalions of troops running in and all
live fire. I’d be shocked if there are any survivors.”
“But I saw Michael Ciaramella and Morgan Williamson from
Stab there or at least I saw their cars parked near the
Camp Pendleton entrance gate!” I shrieked.
“There’s little hope.” He said while slowly shaking his head.
“Notifications have already been sent to next of kin.”
The news saddened me greatly and I was unable to enjoy any more
of the women’s heats, instead crouching amongst the people and
drawing up plans for Stab-style funerals with a stick in
the dirt. It would have to be something fantastic. Something very
grand. Maybe their ashes could be taken to Uluwatu and shot into
the barrel while Bruce Irons spread his arms blindfolded? Or maybe
their bones could be carved by anonymous surfboard shaper and
tested in the lineup by Taj Burrow?
I was leaning toward the second option when a sort of grinding
sound distracted me. Looking up I saw one of the people’s very
small children sating her hunger by gnawing on a piece of
driftwood. Her precious small teeth working overtime trying to find
some relief for her hunger.
My heart instantly went out to her. Oh the good Lord had
provided shade for the people today but no bread and I had used my
morning’s sandwich making time on hollandaise sauce instead. It is
of course impossible, and not recommended at all, for the
children’s parents to turn away from professional surf action but
still.
Sad.
Suddenly I had an idea. Standing just across the way, talking
important surf business with someone, was Hurley’s Evan Slater. And
in his pant pocket I spied a small glimpse of a VIP wristband.
“Yes!” I thought. “Yes! I will sneak that VIP wristband out of
Evan’s pants and go into the tented areas in order to bring the
people’s children their nutrition! I will be a modern Robin Hood. A
reverse Bernie Madoff lavishing the people with undeserved,
unearned gifts and will become a hero to them but will not allow
them to build statues in my likeness on Lowers’ cobbled stone nor
will I allow HBO to make a special about me starring Alexander
Skarsgård.
“No!” I will shout. “No! Spend your time and energy building
statues of working class hero Stu Kennedy instead for he is not a
real Kennedy but a grimy Australian one. Make HBO specials about
Bede Durbidge starring Rhys Ifans and the people will come.”
I hurried and snuck over to wear Evan was standing, wishing I
had worn the Louis Vuitton drivers of two days ago instead of the
Prada penny loafers of today as they are much softer and quieter.
Better for sneaking. Somehow, though I pulled it off and now had a
silver ’17 WSL GUEST VIP wristband in my possession.
Should I just give it to the people?
No.
The people will get caught very quickly as it will be very
instantly clear they don’t belong. Brazilian flags and dirty Reef
sandals being dead giveaways. They will be ushered out and maybe
ejected from the beach altogether or worse, taken to the remains of
the media tent.
No.
I must go for them and so I marched south with the gilded
paravel directly in my sights. I made it to the stairs and said
hello to Jon Pyzel who was hurrying back toward the competitor’s
area, “John John is in the next heat…” I heard him say.
Which made my mission that much more urgent. Up the stairs I
strode, two at a time, and into the place of earthly delights. An
exclusive eagle’s nest. A perch where the privileged feast upon
handmade breakfast burritos and wash them down with bottomless
Michelob Ultras. Shade. Cushioned couches. Water with hints of
watermelon flavor hidden inside. It had been so long since I’d been
surrounded in luxury I almost forgot how to act, tugging the neck
of my pink Balmain button-down until a few of those buttons popped
off.
But I could not let the people down.
Never.
My people.
And so I hurried to a bowl overflowing with fruit resting on a
silky blue tablecloth. Strawberries and apples, grapes and bananas,
kiwi and dragon fruit. I spotted a juicy pear nestling between a
stack of one-hundred dollar bills and a brick of gold bullion.
Bingo.
I moved with vigor and snatched it then fled as quickly as I
could to the dirt and rock and Africanized trash bees. Stealing
from the rich and bringing to the poor. A modern day Bruce
Springsteen.
By the time I had arrived back where I belonged John John was
indeed in the water, fighting Jeremy Flores and Kanoa Igarashi in
the no losers’ round. I handed the pear to the people’s little
angel and she took it from my palm before letting it roll into the
sand and then a puddle of Monster Energy Drink.
John John, out the back, was doing the most magnificent arcing
turn much like Steph Gilmore’s. The man can do it all. Turn, arc,
carve, barrel and air. The people do not need food when John John
Florence is in the water. The peoples’ little angels can fill their
empty bellies on driftwood and saltwater and greatness instead.
And the rest of the action as witnessed from the shoreline.
Round 4
Heat 3: (Jeremy vs. John vs. Kanoa)
I have disliked this part of the WSL programing, quite publicly,
before but today it was perfect because John John surfed
magnificently, filling the people’s li but Jeremy Flores surfed
more so and Kanoa Igarashi less so. Kanoa had already beat Mick.
John John is John John. Jeremy is revitalized. I wanted to see them
all again and thanks to the format I get to. Egalitarian! Jeremy
won but John made the better turns but look out for Kanoa.
Heat 4: (Filipe vs. Julian vs. Bede)
Julian is surfing at the very top of his game but watching Filipe
in person it almost seems unfair. He sticks 100% of the airs he
throws without any doubt ever. He turns on a rail. He can beat any
section and the people love him. The people, surrounding me,
whooped and hollered his every move in a tongue I couldn’t quite
understand. He has it all. He is the new Kelly Slater and if he can
put his heat strategy together he may soon be completely
unstoppable. Filipe won.
Round 5
Heat 1: (Ace vs. Jadson)
And we are back to the perilous. Lose and go home. The people, of
course, enjoy bloodsport and tension rose amongst them. Jadson,
even though he drives a simple Toyota RAV-4 and is generally one of
their favorites, was simply out-surfed by Ace. The waves were slow
but no care and no matter. Ace for the win.
Heat 2: (Jordy vs. Seb Z.)
Never count Sebastian out. No not ever. Only count him out when
there are no waves and there is 30 seconds left and Jordy Smith is
winning. Is Jordy getting closer to a stranglehold on the
title?
Heat 3: (John vs. Bede)
No not a stranglehold for behold, John John! The man with two
working-class first names! There was a full seventeen minute lull
in the middle here and the people became very uneasy and hungry
once again because of the no surfing. I would have gone to the high
VIP places and brought them steaming pasta alfredo and caviar but…
John John. He is a magician. And I was right not to leave. The
waves turned on and he put on a show that will fill the people’s
bellies until dinner.
Heat 4: (Kanoa vs. Julian)
Very tense. Wrought with tension. Much for you to discuss in the
comments. Kanoa won.
Quarterfinals
Heat 1: (Li’l Plumber vs. Ace)
So close. Heat restart. Ace stoked to be alive on finals day. And
I’ll admit, I’ve left the people. I’ve driven the Panamera home and
am sipping more Trust Me vodka
and organic strawberry lemonades and feeling so invigorated. When
was the last time you were with the people? I’m telling you, their
scent is even more stirring than cocaine.
Heat 2: (Fred vs. Jordan)
Are they the same person or is that the vodka writing? Is Frederico
like Weight Watchers Jordy? The “before” of the “before and after”
Jordy? I passed Jordy on the trail. I was hot. Hurrying. Thinking
about what else I could steal from the rich to give to the poor.
Should I put one of the people in the Panamera and drive him to an
Occupy Wall Street protest? Is Occupy Wall Street still a thing?
Jordy was so crazy focused. He was like a boxer with his hype boys
behind carrying surfboards. Maybe I should ask one of his hype
boys? But they were gone before I could and now he is surfing
against Fred and it is a seesaw battle. Pottz is getting hot.
Bothered. He loves it. Jordy gets a good wave and does a better
claim. Double shaka to chesty.
Oh yes there were no losers today. The people were given
benevolent gifts. Heaven’s shade, man’s pear, Steph, John John and
Filipe’s free and public performance art.
No losers at all.
Except for Jadson, Sea-bass, Bede, Julian, Adriano and Fred.
