A shocking surprise!
One thing that I enjoy very much is sharing
real truths about surfing with the non-surfing world. The WSL, in
its mission to expand expand expand expand, spends much of its time
spreading misinformation about the number of surfers, the potential
reach of surfing, what surfers actually crave besides Michelob
Ultra Gold brewed with Organic Grains etc. I am only but one small
voice but want everyone to smell the cowshit of our future and
especially the beautiful fashion world.
In the most recent Flaunt (the world’s
current greatest fashion magazine) I was asked to write about “The
Next Wave.”
So I did.
The next wave smells like horseshit and cowshit and Immigration
and Customs Enforcement two day old Old Spice rotting underneath
unnecessary bullet proof vests. Did you know that? Like Diesel Ford
F-350 exhaust and also unwanted steak cut fries with the slightest
touch of Indian casino cut-rate air filtration. It’s true.
Did you also know that the wave you grew up either surfing or
watching, the one that smells like salt and baked sand and coconut
suntan oil and cigarette smoke has been made redundant? That the
ocean is no longer meaningful? That the dysphoria is here? I mean
dystopia, of course, but really it’s all the same damned thing
because, like sex/gender categories, the ocean is no longer
meaningful and all thanks to the greatest surfer to ever live.
The Syrian named Robert Kelly Slater.
His creation is called Surf Ranch and it thrust itself onto the
world consciousness not yet two years ago via Instagram. A year and
a half ago, I suppose, in December when civilians are thinking
about Christmas and Chanukah and (the atheists) New Year’s Day and
Instagram is filled with “Happy Holidays” messages but surfers are
thinking about professional surfing and the always scintillating
end to professional surfing’s calendar on Oahu’s North Shore.
A wonderful work-a-day Brazilian plumber had just been crowned
Surf Champion of the World after winning the World Surf League’s
final stop at Da Banzai Pipeline, you see, and Da Banzai Pipeline
is the most iconic wave in the entire world, smelling of frangipani
and Heineken and cocaine.
Pipe, what locals and hangers-on call it, breaks there in Hawaii
with its iconic “beach vibes” and “aloha spirit” etc. in the ocean
and the Li’l Plumber was thrilled, beyond thrilled, as was his
right. He had conquered the seven seas. He had smashed other
professional surfers in Australia and Europe and Africa and America
and Oceana and was now he was in Hawaii, the birthplace of surfing,
hoisting a Koa wood trophy above his head on those perfect Hawaiian
sands but R. Kelly Slater thought otherwise. He thought, “This is
the moment for the dysphoria to take its hold.” And so he posted a
video of the wave he had been working on in a repurposed waterski
lake in Lemoore, California some 100 + miles away from the Pacific
to his 1.3 million follower strong Instagram.
All of those 1.3 million followers stopped dead in their tracks.
The entire world for that matter, stopped wishing each other happy
holidays and stared. They stopped and stared at this… this… this
perfect wave peeling for hundreds of yards and barreling as it sped
down the line. Gurgled off of a giant plow in a repurposed waterski
lake some 100+ miles from the nearest ocean.
BARRELING!
Do you even know how… how… unreal that is? Every single other
attempted manmade wave had been an abortion. A mockery of man’s
ability to replicate what God does so effortlessly. They looked
like waves, if the looker was high on drugs, but didn’t act like
waves. They were gutless and feckless and downright silly.
But Kelly’s wave, his Surf Ranch, barreled and that first
Instagram clip was passed from surfer to surfer to surfer with a
breathlessness not seen since… well, not seen since ever.
It did not seem to matter, at the time, that Pipe with its palms
and coral heads and salty blue water that is always the perfect
temperature had just put on a show. It did not seem to matter, at
the time, that Surf Ranch was shrouded in industrial farm mist and
its water was the same shade of brown as horseshit and cowshit.
Surf Ranch seemed perfect. And Kelly Slater kept his foot on
God’s throat releasing clip after clip after clip of himself
crouched in minute long barrels, of his friends crouched in minute
long barrels, of a few of his famous movie star friends trying to
crouch in minute long barrels but getting lipped in the head
instead, of his Surf Ranch and the future of surfing. Waves that
can be conjured on demand. Waves that do the best thing on
demand.
I stared like all surfers, like you, but felt a sickness in my
heart. The dysphoria. And wondered if the future of surfing would
be ugly, for lack of a better word. Tacky.
And then I got to go. An invite to Surf Ranch before many of
Kelly’s other famous movie stars even received their invite. It was
a gift to the fifteen very top surf journalists in the game and I
wanted to be proven wrong and have the feeling of sickness in my
heart washed away by perfect barreling waves on demand. I wanted to
join the howler monkeys in their songs of praise for the death of
God.
So I drove north and east, away from the ocean, with my best
Australian pal who is also a very top surf journalist and we stayed
the night in the nearby Indian casino sucking down the cut-rate air
filtration and bourbon sodas in unfortunate small plastic cups and
the next morning we woke early and drove the 1.3 miles to Surf
Ranch.
It had been themed to look like a real ranch with natural wood
finishings, branded logos, bad coffee and the smell of artichokes
or some green vegetable rotting because the immigrants were too
busy searching for their incarcerated babies to work the
neighboring fields.
The very top surf journalists were all excited as was the staff
and after a small breakfast the button was pressed and the wave,
the perfect wave bubbled to life.
Wow. Wow wow wow wow wow and we all hung on the hewn wood
railings and watched like dudes at a dude ranch except we were
dudes at the Surf Ranch and going surfing. Four surf journalists
stripped down, climbed into wetsuits then went and sat nervously
along the chainlink fence that runs down the center of the lake,
the entire two football field length.
That is where we were supposed to sit, we were all informed by
the kind staff, along a chainlink fence in the middle of a
repurposed waterski lake staggered all the way down like detention
kids lining up for lunch. And then came the wave. The magnificent
barreling wave and that first group of surf journalists surfed
while the rest of us surf journalists ran up and down trying to
figure out the best place to sit, the best place to tuck, the best
place to get barreled, the worst place to fail in front of everyone
on this perfect wave.
I was in the second group and was the second detention kid lined
up for lunch. The water wasn’t too cold and the lack of salt didn’t
seem to matter too much. The sky was grey and there were no palm
trees and it smelled like John Deere but I was so nervous about
failing in front of everyone that I didn’t seem to care.
And then it was my turn. My first wave, a right, was fine enough
but I safety surfed, not wanting to make a wrong move and so looked
as dumb as I felt. My second wave, a left, felt boring so I kicked
out midway and a kind water safety man riding a jetski told me I
was the first person to kick out midway on purpose. My third wave
murmured toward me and I caught it and tucked for the barrel and
crouched for two full seconds until the wave, the perfect wave,
lipped me in the head, smashed me off the vinyl bottom and
dislocated my shoulder.
I popped up knowing my experience was my bad attitude’s fault
but also hating the future. Getting hurt in nature feels manly.
Getting hurt in a repurposed waterski lake feels goofy.
Fuck the next wave.