squirty, squirted, squirter, squirting... it's
professional surfing's word du jour!
I didn’t get the opportunity to watch much of
the Hurley Pro webcast, seeing that I was standing in the dirt with
the people and their hungry children, but when I did I was
guaranteed to hear one word.
Squirt!
And guaranteed to hear it in all of its many splendored
grammatical forms.
“Barton, what did you think of that ride?”
“It was squirtingly good, mate!”
“He squirted over the section…”
“Squirting down the line…”
“Squirts into the flats…”
“That board looks like a real squirter…”
“He was going for something a little more squirty…”
Etc. Etc. Etc.
I could go on all day but what wonderful rehabilitation Ron,
Turps, Pete, Pottz n The Razz have wrought. Since 2006 the word
“squirt” had come to mean two things and two things only. A fizzy,
fruity soda pop (for anyone over 40) and female sexual sexual
ejaculation (for anyone under 50).
Now it is also a multi-use surfing verb, adjective, adverb and
maybe even pronoun. Let’s go squirting everyone!
Loading comments...
Load Comments
0
Which disco floater soaps your sex nest? Filipe at
Lowers, Mason at Backdoor?
Disco Floater: Who did it best?
By Derek Rielly
Filipe Toledo, Mason Ho or its inventor Joel
Parkinson?
Earlier today, and yes you saw, Filipe Toledo
capped a week of zombie dominance at Lowers with an easy and
playful win at the Hurley Pro.
Even the uncontrollably palsied hands of judges, punching nines
instead of sixes, for a one-turn wave of Jordy Smith, couldn’t
nibble away the rose glow.
His fuzzy jaws black with a week’s growth of beard, Filipe’s
eyes glowed phosphorescently in his teasing tan face.
At 2:45 in the clip below, Filipe rides it tough and talks that
sweet nasty shit with a disco floater, the manoeuvre popularised
first by Joel Parkinson and, lately, Mason Ho.
And who remembers what film Joel Parkinson goose-stepped in?
Was it the dog film that wasn’t very good and that killed the
career of Ellis Ericson?
Or some sort of Billabong edit?
(Visibility on this thanks to the wonderful Devon
Howard)
Loading comments...
Load Comments
0
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
See: Jordy’s “miracle” nine pointer!
By Chas Smith
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?
Loading comments...
Load Comments
0
Hurley Pro: Filipe Toledo overcomes!
By Chas Smith
And Silvana Lima wins the Swatch Pro!
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
The wonderful Sage Katz ain't afraid to take a
swing!
Quiz: Should You Surf With Pro’s?
By Giancarlo Guardascione
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?
