Kelly Slater stands in waist-deep water waiting for a three hundred metre long ride, with ten-second tube. Insane, yes?

Opinion: “The beachbreak contest is dead!”

By Derek Rielly

7 years ago

Goodbye Rio, Portugal, France and Snapper!

At some point this afternoon and tomorrow morning, the world’s best surfers (with the exception of the still-gravely wounded Kelly Slater) will split Lemoore for the four-hour drive or one hour PJ flight to LAX.

From there, it’s fourteen-and-a-half hours via Sao Paulo or Miami to Rio and an hour’s drive to Saquarema for a contest in a wave vastly inferior to the one they’d just travelled six thousand miles from.

Three turns in shifty, shitty beachbreaks will win heats compared to seven hits, an eight-second tube and an upside-down air. Days will go by with no surfing. Some days will run only half a round, others three. Viewers will come and go, mostly the latter.

#goodwavesmatter

Despite the sudden blackouts when the machine, covered by an electric blue shroud, didn’t work, the Founders’ Cup has slaughtered the dragon of these rambling inconsistent events in atrocious waves.

Pro surfing, in beachbreaks, is dead.

How can it be anything else?

I slept through most of the first day of the Founders’ Cup and woke to Filipe’s confected ten. I said so in an email to Matt Warshaw who replied, “And we’ve ruined the tuberide.”

As Longtom said in his piece yesterday, “I thought it not possible to score the tube. How could they? When you know it is coming you are basically scoring people for crouching down. They scored the tube.”

Hardly ringing endorsements from surfing’s sharpest minds.

But I know how easy it is to be on the wrong side of history.

To wit,

“The horse is here to stay but the automobile is only a novelty – a fad.” — President of the Michigan Savings Bank advising Henry Ford’s lawyer, Horace Rackham, not to invest in the Ford Motor Company.

“Television won’t be able to hold on to any market it captures after the first six months. People will soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night.” — Darryl Zanuck, 20th Century Fox.

“Cellular phones will absolutely not replace local wire systems.” — Marty Cooper, inventor.

“Everyone’s always asking me when Apple will come out with a cell phone. My answer is, ‘Probably never.'” — David Pogue, The New York Times.

This was the first public reveal of Surf Ranch. And it was television perfect.

In and out in two days. Energetic. Decisive.

Compare and contrast to the drudgery of two weeks in Rio, in Portugal, in France, even Snapper.

In three years, maybe less, we’ll wonder how we ever persisted with those two-week waiting periods just to see surfers struggle with imperfectly calibrated waves.

Soon, a tour will exist and it will be Pools and Reefs, for nothing can replace the insanity of Teahupoo or Pipeline.

But, beachbreaks? They will be gassed.

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Strider Wasilewski (pictured) at Surfer Poll.

Rebel: Strider flaunts “offensive” WSL law!

By Chas Smith

7 years ago

Is Strider Wasilewski our leader?

Yesterday was, in my opinion, BeachGrit’s best day. Jen See and Longtom combined to paint a complete and utterly truthful picture of professional surfing circa May 5, 2018. Honest, nuanced, hope mingling with despair. I wonder if the World Surf League powers read and enjoyed? Or if they were too busy being very excited about what they had wrought?

Flipping through Instagram at the end of it all, it seemed that most of the people there were thrilled by the spectacle. Post after post after post praising Kelly and toasting the future. It made me wonder if it is something one must see live. To get all caught up in the Michelob Ultra buzz.

Michelob Ultra, speaking of, had very nice placement on the step-and-repeat in front of the pool. It is the only branding I can recall seeing during the few moments I watched. I didn’t see any surfers brazenly breaking the new WSL law that no posts should be sent into the social medias implying a product is associated with Surf Ranch. A selection from a leaked WSL email reads:

A useful rule of thumb is that if you look at a potential post and see a product in association with Surf Ranch imagery, or if you see a post at Surf Ranch and assume it is a paid advertisement or contractual commitment with a brand, it is likely to have crossed the line.

But I did see Strider Wasilewski go out of his way to place a water bottle featuring his wonderful skincare company Shade’s logo in a frame. I wonder if this was a dog whistle, as pundits like to call subtle nods to possibly darker factions. I wonder if Strider is quietly beginning the rebellion?

I would follow him. I would post all sorts of implied Surf Ranch endorsed products everywhere. Like Surf Ranch endorsed Cheetos and Surf Ranch endorsed Stella Artois in a can and Surf Ranch endorsed political positions (probably the inalienable human right to keep and bear arms).

I would follow Strider to the gates of hell/Lemoore with a face smeared in Shade.

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The wave itself looks as perfect as ever. A succession of them feels like too much of a good thing, as though perhaps imperfection in surfing is as important as that one amazing wave you caught back in 1985 and remember forever. If all of them are perfect, what will you remember? | Photo: @ramamccabe

Live from Surf Ranch: “Perhaps imperfection is important”

By Jen See

7 years ago

The waves blurred one into the next. Only a few stood out.

I got barreled at Surf Ranch. Or at least, I got the closest thing to getting barreled that I could find. You see, if you stand near the middle of the pool, and wait patiently, eventually the water slops over the wall. And if you stand right up next to the wall, you can get totally barreled.

So that’s exactly what I did. I stood right up against the wall. The spray covered me entirely. Bystanders looked on in awe. It was beautiful.

I began the day by standing in line. The sun was hot, the line long. My feet already hurt, which is the kind of harbinger that you try to ignore, but it’s hard. It was entirely my own fault for wearing inappropriate shoes, which is a habit I’ve tried and failed to shake. I once ended up surrounded by spiders while taking photos in flip flops. I squealed and ran. It was extremely dignified.

When I got to the front of the line, they turned me away. I was totally scared! Again, I was going to have to turn around and not see the Surf Ranch with my own eyes. And this time, I had come so close. They tried to take my food and I wouldn’t let them and then they told me to go to the other entrance.

I didn’t know there was more than one entrance, but I found it! And when I did, at last, I entered Surf Ranch! Nirvana! Also, I still had my food, because never surrender.

The wave. You want to know about the wave. You don’t care about my sore feet. It’s my job to have sore feet, you’re saying. It’s my job to have sore feet and tell you about the wave pool. I am going to disappoint you. It looks exactly like the videos. Because of it’s totally improbable location, in fact, Surf Ranch might look less real when it’s right there in front of you than it does on the internet.

I thought the train would be louder and hearing the wave pool compared to a fish bowl, I expected everything to be closer. I expected to see spray flying off the waves right there. It was oddly far away. I felt like it needed bridges maybe. Bridges so I could walk across and look down on Surf Ranch. Bridges so that I could walk over, rather than around.

You want to know about the heat. The heat was everything I imagined and more. It was fabulous! Like a living thing. In the morning, there was a brief period of delusion. I sipped an iced coffee and ate something baked. Maybe it won’t be that hot today!

Maybe we will not die out here, shriveled into dried up piles of cells on the cracked earth. We were wrong. By mid-afternoon, the wind died, the sun blazed. I almost cried, but I knew I couldn’t come back and face you all, if I cried at Surf Ranch. Somehow I’d wandered into a Steinbeck novel, all dust and heat.

The waves blurred one into the next. Only a few stood out. Medina, Florence’s final air, Carissa Moore’s deep front-side barrels, Moore’s turns – pretty much all of them, really. The airs looked weirdly slow and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Somehow they just seemed to lack the punch I expect to see.

But Steinbeck is dead and we’re still alive and we’d gathered around the wave pool in some kind of strange fellowship. All hail! The train is coming! We fell into step with its hypnotic rhythm.

The level of surfing was uneven, as some competitors had learned the pool’s quirks better than others. Fanning’s board worked beautifully. Florence’s, much less so. There were still no true bottom turns to be seen and the more waves I watched, the more it nagged.

The waves blurred one into the next. Only a few stood out. Medina, Florence’s final air, Carissa Moore’s deep front-side barrels, Moore’s turns – pretty much all of them, really. The airs looked weirdly slow and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Somehow they just seemed to lack the punch I expect to see.

The crowd was enthusiastic, though not in the stadium roar kind of way. People were into the surfing, especially the barrels and wipe-outs, which are maybe the easiest things to understand out of it all.

The general admission crowd gathered around the pool’s edges and seemed happy to take it all in. They appeared amused by the novelty of the setup. The VIP’s were more picky, more likely to pick and choose their favorites, but on the whole, it was a very Slater-friendly crowd. He drew the loudest applause each time he appeared.

I was there! At Surf Ranch! But somehow it all seemed to happen at a distance. The athletes appeared magically when it was time for their team’s round. Then they quickly disappeared. I’m not sure where they went. Tomorrow, I will try to find them. Depending on where I was around the pool, I could sometimes hear the commentary and sometimes, nothing at all. I ran into Shaun Tomson and had time to say hey, before he signed a couple autographs for the groms and disappeared. Maybe there was a really cool party going underground or behind a secret door.

I confess I have no idea what broke during the afternoon rounds. But the whole thing – the wave, the surfing, all of it – stopped for around an hour. At the time, I was hanging around the middle section, trying to finish off my photo set. I had a spot in the shade and a place to sit. These factors won out over my curiosity to ask questions.

While the wave was broken, there was a short musical selection, I believe. I vaguely understood that Carissa Moore sang with a band of some kind, but I might have been wrong.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BibFvR9gH9W/?hl=en&taken-by=rissmoore10

By then, we’d reached the point where understanding had begun to fade. I never did figure out what Strider was doing with his blue surfboard.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BibHEJrnBgc/?hl=en&taken-by=stridersworld

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe my sore feet. Maybe it was the part where we switched to tequila sometime after three pm. By then I desperately wanted to cool my feet in the shallows, the way you do at the beach on a hot summer day.

Maybe they could add that part. A place to cool my feet. Or maybe on Monday I’ll just head to the beach and float in the cool water and stare up at the boundless, blue sky.

At least I got barreled. At least I got barreled at Surf Ranch! A girl could live a long time on that alone.

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When is a tube not a tube? When a surfer can crouch under the lip, fully visible, with a shot clock that I want to borrow in the bedroom for my next sexual performance. To put it delicately, it was flattering. I thought it not possible to score the tube. How could they? When you know it is coming you are basically scoring people for crouching down. They scored the tube. Rest of the World skipper, Jordy Smith. | Photo: WSL

Founders’ Cup: “Mind-numbing safety surfing!”

By Longtom

7 years ago

And a judging scale that seemed artificially tweaked to reward mediocrity…

Kelly Slater, when asked by Kaipo Guerrero about his thoughts on the impact of Day one of the Founders’ Cup held in a wave system in central California, admitted “I’m in the woods, I’m biased”.

I also offer a similar caveat. I tried so hard to come with an open mind but it’s impossible, three years into the life of the Kelly Slater Wave Ranch, to not have a fully formed opinion locked down.

The reality was a majority mind numbing predictable safety surfing and a judging scale that seemed artificially tweaked to reward mediocrity.

A structural problem is the novelty paradox. After three years of (admittedly brilliant) drip feed marketing from wavepool owners WSL there wasn’t much left to reveal. The promise was futuristic progression on tap, in a stadium atmosphere.

The reality was a majority mind-numbing predictable safety surfing and a judging scale that seemed artificially tweaked to reward mediocrity. When is a tube not a tube? When a surfer can crouch under the lip, fully visible, with a shot clock that I want to borrow in the bedroom for my next sexual performance. To put it delicately, it was flattering. I thought it not possible to score the tube. How could they? When you know it is coming you are basically scoring people for crouching down. They scored the tube.

The tub is killing Raimana, he looks pre-diabetic. Hope he’s going to be OK.

The steady beat of the action, was nice. The leaderboard, when they displayed it, was welcome. There is the germ of a very good idea there. But it didn’t quite work as designed. By mid-way through the second round I’d completely lost touch with the scoring and the leaderboard. It seemed arbitrary and disconnected from reality. When Kaipo said “historic day” I twitched, by the close of the first round I had developed a visceral loathing of Chris Cote, and he seems like a very nice gentleman who has never done a thing wrong by me. The tub is killing Raimana, he looks pre-diabetic. Hope he’s going to be OK.

The left is a porcine joke, suitable for foam climbs and not much else and punctuated by a toy tube section at the end. The most cringeworthy moment of the day came when Pete Mel started yelping like a drowning puppy when Slater did three foam climbs in a row on his penultimate wave of the day. Progression? We see things with different eyes Peter Mel, but if you can tell me that a foam climb on a head high wave was avante-garde any time after 1997 I speak for the surf world in calling your judgement into question.

The right is a decent simulacrum of a high-performance wave except the majority of it can only be surfed with rail free fins only snaps. Anyone trying to engage the rail properly left or right, except as a very finishing manouevre was summarily executed and left to stand in knee high water in front of five thousand fans. Were they baying fans? The broadcast gave no sense of fan engagement except when Kelly did a victory lap with golf claps or took the long walk back down the side of the pool, separated from California’s finest by only a moat of grey-green freshwater and a concrete wall.

The most cringeworthy moment of the day came when Pete Mel started yelping like a drowning puppy when Slater did three foam climbs. Progression? We see things with different eyes Peter Mel, but if you can tell me that a foam climb on a head high wave was avante-garde any time after 1997 I speak for the surf world in calling your judgement into question.

I felt for the camera-men. A staple wide-shot before the train left the station was grim, industrial, like something scripted by Solzhenitsyn. There were no easy options for attractive cutaways, no gals, no beach; just shimmering heatwaves and beer in plastic cups. Round one ended and it was still black on the East Coast of Australia. I tried to catch some sleep but I felt so cold. So bone chilled cold that my blood felt frozen. When I woke, the future was there waiting for me.

No gender disparity existed, as far as I could see. Lakey Peterson and Tyler Wright turned as hard, or harder than men. Carissa Moore and Steph Gilmore rode deeper and more reliably in the tube.

The gals were a revelation. No gender disparity existed, as far as I could see. Lakey Peterson and Tyler Wright turned as hard, or harder than men. Carissa Moore and Steph Gilmore rode deeper and more reliably in the tube. Frankie Harrer from Team Europe: her beat was nice.The inclusion of mainstream CBS sports reporter, the sharp and savvy Jamie Erdahl lifted the mood in the pressers. Fresh blood is desperately needed in the booth.

Drama was hard to come by. The inter-country concept is well tried and well tested in international sport but they need to rejig the format to have any sense of real competition between nations. Tomorrow maybe different. I still cannot understand the format but it looks like there will be a sense of surfers from different nations surfing against each other.

Was the CBS broadcast live when Parko was marooned for an hour by mechanical failure? That must have kept Sophie up at night. Sharks, onshore winds and flat spells are a hazard but the breakdown of the train is a stalking horse that trumps all as a boner kill. Still, it gave us one of the days many delicious ironies: 1978 World Champion Wayne Bartholomew filling dead air detailing the reasoning for the Dream Tour – World’s Best surfers in the World’s Best waves – with the pan cake flat lake as a back drop behind the Michelob encrusted glass.

When play resumed Parko made a wave, his first for the day. He wasn’t the only one to struggle. John Florence fell on both his opening waves… runs? What’s the terminology for these things now, and looked truly and wretchedly discombobulated standing in the shallows. He fell again on his left before loosing the one truly progressive, albeit utterly predictable, air of the day: a tail-high inverted reverse with an incredible landing.

Based on what I saw today I would have Team Brazil first place. Judges have them languishing second last, below the cut. Filipe was the best surfer in the house, daylight second, even if his ten-point ride had a whiff of (historical) desperation about it. Still, he was the only surfer during the whole day to punt mid way through the ride. Another irony, bitter this time: the predictability of man-made perfection was designed and sold on the premise of loosing creativity and risk.

Based on the evidence from today, it has done exactly the opposite.

More to come etc etc.

Founders’ Cup of Surfing Qualifying Runs:

L1 = First Lefthand Wave
R1 = First Righthand Wave

United States:
Lakey Peterson – L1: 6.6, R1: 7.83, L2: 2.77, R2: 7.93
Kolohe Andino – L1: 8.5, R1: 6.00, L2: 8.8, R2: 7.43
Carissa Moore – L1: 7.43, R1: 9.27, L2: 8.37, R2: 9.43
John John Florence – L1: 3.43, R1: 6.63, L2: 5.3, R2: 9.8
Kelly Slater – L1: 8.80, R1: 8.47, L2: 8.6, R2: 7.87
USA Team Total: 80.83

Australia:
Tyler Wright – L1: 4.83, R1: 9.1, L2: 6.4, R2: 9.33
Joel Parkinson – L1: 3.5, R1: 6, L2: 3.53, R2: 7.4
Mick Fanning – L1: 7.43, R1: 8, L2: 9.07, R2: 8.43
Stephanie Gilmore – L1: 8.63, R1: 8.23, L2: 5.53, R2: 2.17
Matt Wilkinson – L1: 8.37, R1: 3.83, L2: 4.5, R2:6.43
Australia Team Total: 75.82

World:
Bianca Buitendag – L1: 7.6, R1: 2.5, L2: 6.77, R2: 4.93
Kanoa Igarashi – L1: 2.17, R1: 8.83, L2: 3.87, R2: 4.5
Michel Bourez – L1: 8.8, R1: 7.5, L2: 5.5, R2: 4.5
Jordy Smith – L1: 7.27, R1: 9.07, L2: 8.87, R2: 4.53
Paige Hareb – L1: 7.53, R1: 7.93, L2: 7.43, R2: 8.33
World Team Total: 75.33

Brazil:
Taina Hinckel – L1: 2.17, R1: 4.17, L2: 5.5, R2: 4.1
Filipe Toledo – L1: 7.83, R1: 6.93, L2: 4.2, R2: 10
Gabriel Medina – L1: 6.67, R1: 7.83, L2: 6.87, R2: 9.17
Adriano de Souza – L1: 6.83, R1: 7.93, L2: 3.93 R2: 4.93
Silvana Lima – L1: 5.5, R1: 7.73, L2: 5.67, R2: 8.33
Brazil Team Total: 72.3

Europe:
Frankie Harrer – L1: 5.73, R1: 1.93, L2:5.87, R2: 3.83
Leonardo Fioravanti – L1: 8, R1: 8.17, L2: 3.73, R2: 9.57
Johanne Defay – L1: 6.67, R1: 0.77, L2: 5.33 R2: 7
Frederico Morais – L1: 7.17, R1: 3.07, L2: 7.17, R2: 6.77
Jeremy Flores – L1: 8, R1: 8.47, L2: 8.77, R2: 7.77
Europe Team Total: 72.12

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Breaking: Jon Pyzel eats a hotdog!

By Chas Smith

7 years ago

With only mustard! No ketchup nor grilled onions nor sauerkraut!

The heart of surf is beating strong but not up in Lemoore, California where wide-stance’d European girls check-turn monotonous green waves. Where Adriano de Souza is not coming out of a tiny barrel to confused applause. No. It is beating strong underneath the fluorescent lights of an out-building at the Del Mar Fairgrounds.

It is beating strong at The Boardroom surfboard expo.

For it is here that the fucking surfers, the goddamn nerds, are mingling, caressing glassed rails, watching Peter Schroff stalk, listening to Devon Howard redefine the egg as a “big boy trike,” talking about surf and surfboards and surfboard rails and the weird minutia that turns us all on and by “all us” I mean the fucking surfers. The goddamn nerds.

Surf Ranch Founders’ Cup is playing on a few televisions but nobody is crowding to witness. It looks slow. It looks uninspired and the few stragglers stopping by seem genuinely confused by it. I ask a handsome boy, “What do you think?” He shrugs. I ask an older man, “What do you think?” He says, “About?”

I go outside and watch Jon Pyzel buy a hotdog. A hotdog with just a bun and the hotdog and mustard. No ketchup nor grilled onions nor sauerkraut. No flair just high performance, straight to the point, get ‘er done.

Hotdog.

And here is the damned thing. I’d rather watch Jon Pyzel, extraordinary shaper, John John’s secret weapon, 2x Stab in the Dark winner, eat a hotdog than a competition at Surf Ranch and that is God’s honest truth.

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Eat beach grit spam!