Rumor: $50,000 Surf Ranch days sold out for
the year!
By Chas Smith
The ultimate in corporate team building!
I know you don’t want to read another word
about Surf Ranch. About Lemoore or greater Lemoore or the
Grapevine. That you are thoroughly and completely exhausted so I’m
sorry for this here but we still have things to ponder in our
hearts. Therefore, pull your work pants up and let’s get to
pondering.
I saw many things while walking, people and Dirk Ziff in
cream-colored dress shorts w/leather topsiders and Barefoot wine
signage. I heard many things too. That Surf Ranch offered 88 days
for lease this year or rent or whatever it should be called. Loan?
Whatever. That Surf Ranch offered 88 days for loan this year,
$50,000 each day, and has completely sold out.
Big blue chip corporations are using the Lemoore facility to
host employee appreciation events or gold member perk nights,
tossing foamies into the pool and turning the wave down, letting
senior vice-presidents from Omaha feel the rush. Or turning the
wave up and letting Jim from accounting release the fins a la
Sebastopol Zeitz.
Just kidding. Jim from accounting can’t release the fins at all
but I was thinking anyhow, if you worked for a big blue chip
corporation and they gifted you a day at Surf Ranch wouldn’t you be
hyped? Oh sure you’re in Lemoore BUT also at Surf Ranch and Mary
from legal is in the hot tub watching the last little barrel bit of
the left.
All to say, when I heard the 88 $50,000 days had all been sold
out it made me think the WSL is really on to something in turning
surfing into the ultimate team-building exercise and suddenly
$50,000 didn’t seem like very much at all.
Right?
Also, did you see Kelly Slater doing his Wim Hof breathing
before his final run?
But back to team-building days at Surf Ranch. A steal at $50,000
no? I would imagine a speaker (not Paul), some nifty hula-hoops and
a catered meal from Buca di Beppo costs more than $50,000.
BeachGrit is going to book a corporate retreat next
year once we pay off the billboard. We all need better teamwork and
more trust etc.
Loading comments...
Load Comments
0
Gabriel Meinda, for the third time in a row (Future
Classic, Founders' Cup, Surf Ranch Pro) leaves other competitors
gasping like fish for air. | Photo: WSL/Cestari
Gabriel Medina wins Surf Ranch Pro: “A pure
corporate dusting of the intangible!”
By Longtom
For the third time in a pool event, Gabriel Medina
leaves other competitors (exception: Filipe Toledo) like caught
fish, gasping for air!
Soz, but your burnt-out hack got the lay-out and
implications of Finals Day, Surf Ranch Pro, horrendously
wrong. I can only blame the cognitive deficit of four days
of compounding sleep deprivation but I thought Finals Day was
remaining top eight men and to four women having one run each.
One left, one right to decide the matter.
Which would have placed a premium on conservative,
finish-the-wave type surfing.
As it happened there was a glut of surfing. The basin was
playing up and “defect” waves plagued some competitors. When
replacement left waves were added to both men and women the empty
rights got pounced on by Strider, who was the closest and loudest
seagull to the chip.
Strider live-narrating a funnelling right hander was almost the
highlight of the Finals Day, for me. It was a welcome break from
the monotony of mandatory high performance – as compelling as one
of those live car chases shot from a chopper that American TV does
so well. Apart from Kolohe’s dummy spit yesterday about the only
true non-scripted moment.
There were a lot of fails in the opening rides from the men.
Stage fright? Some weird wind ribs and general funkiness in the
lefts that made accurate reads hard to come by.
The first excellent ride was an insanely well ridden right from
Filipe Toledo. The foot forwards tube technique was a cross
gendered homage to Steph Gilmore who had looked shaky in her
opening run. It was obvious from the 8.33 that judges had reset the
scale overnight, because by the scale set by Kelly’s opening day
wave it was a mid nine.
Kanoa’s opening right with a failed air on the end was awarded a
8.17. It caused consternation in the booth. Blakey must have been
getting a little BeachGrit into him overnight because he
came out firing.
“Would you stick that in a free surfing clip?” he mused,
“because that’s my definition of high-performance surfing.”
Lovely Kanoa Igarashi.
Hate to break it to you Ron Dog but by that standard less than a
dozen waves ridden in four days would make the High P cut. The
judging applied to Filipe was curious. He was measured against a
theoretical limit of what he might produce, versus what he actually
did.
Gabe’s first right was ridden with a mixture of brute power and
palpable relief; he slotted deeper into the end section than anyone
and emerged with pale hams quivering with lactate in the
Steinbeckian sun.
Again, we were treated to passionate discourse from Pete Mel
telling us rides would have to feature the progression of
above-the-lip surfing if they wanted to get in the excellent
range.
Unless you’re Kelly Slater.
Three thousand four hundred fans in Oceania tuned in on Facebook
to watch him score an 8.60 without loosing the fins and falling on
the end turn. It did not raise an eyebrow.
Wobbly, weird lefts caused confusion for gals and guys.
Carissa’s power game on the forehand was imperious but her lefts
looked a little forced. No matter, she held a winning lead from
start to finish, despite a fast finishing Lakey Peterson and an air
game from Caroline Marks who somehow, out of all the surfers this
weekend looked more stylish in the tub than the ocean.
Julian was going big, skate style big. But couldn’t stick a
single one of the varial/big spin attempts on the lefts and just
wasted too much real estate on the right boosting on the end
section.
Which bought Toledo into the mix on run two. Righthander. Three
clean, boosted and greased airs, the first one launched near the
outside pole 69, if my eyes did not deceive. Huge hacks,
tube-rides. The best wave of the event by so far it wasn’t funny.
The one wave that did deliver on the promise of the wave systems
vision of the future.
Ten, I wrote in the notes. Got to be.
Got to be.
Except it wasn’t. Judges short changed it in a miserly
display.
Kelly deserves his plaudits. His janky, jangly angular foam
climbs and twitchy backside re-entries were definitely not to my
eye or taste but they impressed the judges and made a hometown
crowd – as close to hometown now as he will get – wild with
joy.
“What do I have to do to get a ten?” he announced to fans who
had erupted in boos when the judging call was announced.
Fucked if I know. Maybe shave your head and stick an outerknown
sticker on your board?
Now, now, that is unfair. Kelly deserves his plaudits. His
janky, jangly angular foam climbs and twitchy backside re-entries
were definitely not to my eye or taste but they impressed the
judges and made a hometown crowd – as close to hometown now as he
will get – wild with joy.
Gabe was the only one to capitalise on the bonus left. The
drive, zap and drift through turns was stunning. The ability to
redirect with deep gouges and not lose forwards momentum, a notch
above. Just before a live TV audience on CBS was cut he stuck a
lofted Kerrupt flip that crop-dusted the entire end section with
rad from a frothy height. The winner of last year’s Future Classic,
the best surfer at the Founders’ Cup was again the best surfer in
the basin. Even if Filipe got a ten, he would not be bested. The
Medina family went nuts, tears of joy flowed freely etc etc yet the
silent evidence seemed to fill the room. Facebook audience stayed
static between two and three thousand. Pitiful. Everyone I spoke to
pronounced: boring.
Is this Betamax or the internet?
I know I’m a bum, the very essence of Teddy Roosevelt’s nameless
critic who does nothing compared to the great ones etc etc. I never
pretend otherwise. Kind to my kids, polite in the water, try to
write the best sentence I can. That’s the best of a very flawed
package. I take my lessons from what’s poor: as Bonnie Prince Billy
said. That’s what God has put me here for.
But bizarrely I have friends in high places. One of them texted
me as the show wrapped. I give the last word to her: A pure
corporate dusting of the intangible.
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed the coverage.
If you’ll excuse, there’s something involving a man and a mat I
need to investigate.
Surf Ranch Pro Men’s Final Results:
1 – Gabriel Medina (BRA) 17.86
2 – Filipe Toledo (BRA) 17.03
3 – Kelly Slater (USA) 16.27
4 – Kanoa Igarashi (JPN) 15.77
5 – Owen Wright (AUS) 15.40
6 – Julian Wilson (AUS) 15.37
7 – Sebastian Zietz (HAW) 15.07
8 – Miguel Pupo (BRA) 12.96
Surf Ranch Pro Women’s Final Results:
1 – Carissa Moore (HAW) 17.80
2 – Stephanie Gilmore (AUS) 16.70
3 – Lakey Peterson (USA) 16.57
4 – Caroline Marks (USA) 14.77
Live from Surf Ranch: “Maybe tomorrow I’ll
go surfing!”
By Jen See
The last chapter of a perfect story.
The door to my hotel room is stuck. I have warm
pizza and cold beer and I can’t get into my hotel room. I wait in
the hallway. My beer warms.
The woman from the front desk in Visalia asks if I’ve been at
the surf event. I’m not sure what gave me away. Maybe the Patagonia
bag, the cut-off corduroys, the blonde-streaked hair.
I’d love to check it out, she says of the Ranch. And Social D is
playing! That’s going to be a great show. But she has to work and
she’s envious that I get to be there. My feet hurt and I
desperately need a beer, but I try to absorb her enthusiasm. I want
to carry it with me when it’s time to do it all over again
tomorrow.
I awaken in the dark and pull another lululemon top from the
pile I brought with me. Lululemon is my hot-weather uniform. No one
can see me sweat. I blend into the scenery. A woman walks by in
lululemon. Do you notice? Probably not. Sometimes, it’s nice to
slide through the world unnoticed.
I drive toward the sunrise. I stop at Starbucks and slam my two
espressos in rapid succession. It’s best not to taste the coffee at
Starbucks in my experience. Just get it down. I crank the radio to
ear-splitting levels. I’m not a morning person and I need all the
help I can get. I find the right exit this time and my spirits
lift. I’ve got this Surf Ranch thing dialed.
I pull into the dirt lot that serves as general admission
parking. Then I wait for a shuttle that never comes. Eventually a
Tachi employee drives up in his maintenance cart. We’re closing
this lot today, he says. You have to take the shuttle from the
hotel. I repark and ask around until I find the shuttle. I’ve
missed the start of the event, but it’s fine. I got this. I totally
got this.
It’s not a surf spot until it has a name. I’m not sure I would
have chosen The Basin, but no one asked me. The North Basin. The
South Basin. Upper Basin. I play with the possibilities. Kelly’s
Right. Jackson’s, after the street name. Where’s the drunk in the
parking lot? We need the local parking lot drunk to name this thing
properly.
I stand against the wall of the Basin and watch the lower seeds
fall. It’s as though every wave is the last set of the heat.
Everyone’s racing the buzzer, needing a high score to advance. Very
few make it through. The stakes add an intensity to the proceedings
that was missing during the previous day. Amidst the whirring of
the cables and the pulling of the plow, Wilko gives the sport a
human face. His hopes and dreams are sucked under. He’s out.
I try to get into the headspace required to compete here. It’s a
one-minute effort. You have one chance. There’s no warm-up. You’re
sitting in the pool, waiting for the train, facing an all-out,
one-minute effort from a standing start. And nothing can go wrong
during that short slice of time.
In heat surfing, there are second and third chances. A
competitor might come out swinging and nail their best score on
their first wave. Or they might “build house” throughout the heat.
There’s no building house at the Basin. Some surfers very obviously
manage the shift in headspace better than others. Anyone who’s
surfed a crowded line-up understands the hassle of heat surfing
intuitively. We do a version of it everyday.
I imagine trying to surf here and my brain seizes. No
paddle-out. No quick insider or two to get going. Just straight on
to a perfect set wave. I get stage fright just thinking about it.
My brain spins up a new anxiety dream. I’ve been invited to surf
the Basin. I hear the train coming. The count-down. I’m ready.
Paddle in. Stand up. Feeling good. Then I take off and go the wrong
way, straight into the white water.
The crowd is sparse in the morning, but it fills in steadily by
the afternoon. A woman passes pulling a wagon packed with kids.
They could be headed to any beach in California. Dad is watching
the surfing. The kids are going to the beach. There’s a lake that
runs parallel to the Basin and Hurley has set up umbrellas and
floated blow-up toys. By late afternoon, there are kids splashing
happily amidst the giant swans and flamingos. My bikini is in my
car, parked a shuttle-ride away, or I might join them.
I lounge in the shade during the break and then it’s on to the
higher seeds. I swim through the crowd along the pool’s walls. They
cheer for the airs and groan at the falls. They’re into it — and
most of the people seem to understand what they’re watching. They
love Julian’s wave with its straight air on the final section. They
like Kelly’s barrel on the left, but the airs get the biggest
reaction.
From the side of the pool, I watch part of the wave live and
part of it on the video screen. Kelly feels overscored, Kolohe
under. But I’m not sure if that’s because the judges are wrong or
because I can’t see the full wave from my perspective. Kolohe’s
angry interview injects a necessary human element. He gives a shit.
Maybe we should, too.
Chas shows up and I’m not sure I see another wave for the rest
of the day. We stand together and toy with the joke about how we’re
supposed to be the same person. Me, in my lululemon. Chas, well,
you can see him coming from a mile away. He does not slide through
the world unnoticed. We gossip and circulate. We forget about the
surfing. I still haven’t seen Nick Carroll.
Then it’s time to go. The heat begins to press. I’ve had my
watermelon agua fresca and my avocado toast. I’ve seen some good
surfing and laughed with some entertaining people. I’ve napped in
the shade and walked until my feet hurt. The coast is calling.
Back at my car, I peel off my sunscreen-crusted clothing and
wipe away the dust. I slide gratefully into a cut-offs and a tee.
Then I down another espresso and drive southwest across the
valley’s flat terrain.
I stop for ice cream in Kettleman City. My phone buzzes. It’s
Chas.
Nick Carroll says, Where the hell is JEN SEE?
I laugh and slide through the golden hills to the coast and
home.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll go surfing.
Loading comments...
Load Comments
0
Nick Carroll, at right, and Charlie Smith, author of
Coke and Surf etc. | Photo: David Lee Scales
Listen: Chas Smith vs Nick Carroll!
By Chas Smith
The future of Surf Ranch revealed in a mutual
vision!
I woke up yesterday at 4 in the morning,
darkness outside, darkness in my heart, grim about the mouth. It
was time. Time to drive to Oceanside to catch a train to Fullerton
to meet Travis Ferre and continue driving to Lemoore, California.
Home of cows, more cows and Chas Smith’s damned ex-wife.
Son of a bitch.
It was appropriate to join with Travis in Fullerton, I thought,
as the train crept through black fog, because it is home of The
Spaghetti Factory, collegiate baseball and Social Distortion. The
new headlining act for the Surf Ranch Pro. In Lemoore, California.
The future of professional surfing. The beating heart of
professional surfing.
Travis and I chatted and sipped his black coffee as we headed
north and east, away from the coast over the hills into a valley
that stretches the length of California. If not for the sheer joy
of spending time with him my mouth would have stayed grim. Lemoore,
California. Going to Lemoore, California.
I would not have been going to Lemoore, California had I not
spent the past nine months glibly and smirkily dancing upon Surf
Ranch and the World Surf League. Laughing, poking, laughing,
poking, Backward Fin Beth, Dirk Ziff, no grumpy locals, laughing
some more. There was nothing for me to write, no possible way to
add to the tandem beauty of Jen See and LT, but I have a personal
ethic, maybe my only one. When I make fun I need to go look the
thing in the eye in case it wants to slap me. I need to give it,
whatever “it” is a chance to re-re-re-rebreak my nose and then feel
we can laugh together.
And so we drove and drove and finally arrived at the Tachi
Palace where we parked and took a shuttle to hell. It was early and
already too hot but my hateful attitude continued to dissipate as
we passed Matt Biolos, Jesse Faen, Danielle Beck, Evan Slater,
David Lee Scales, Jen See etc. etc. etc. All of my friends and
family.
Live professional surfing, I realized instantly, is enjoyable
because of the spectacle certainly but mostly because of the other
people who go and watch live professional surfing for whatever the
reason. The WSL could have hosted a contest anywhere, from Alice
Springs to Pittsburgh to Brasilia to Lemoore and the friends and
family show up, the People too, and it is fun to be together.
And so it came to be that I was in Lemoore, California in front
of my favorite surf journalist of all, Mr. Nick Carroll feeling
very happy. Clearly seeing the problem of Surf Ranch and the
solution to Surf Ranch.
I love Nick Carroll.
In creating this perfect inland wave man effectively killed God
but then took a giant nap. The wave is there, churning and driving.
The surfers are there surfing and not duck-diving. The skis are
there Raimana yelling just like in the ocean.
BUT THIS IS NOT THE OCEAN!
The powers could have done anything. Anything at all. They could
have, and should have, put Slayer on the plow, having them play
Raining Blood with flames shooting up around them or the bass
player from Mad Max. They should have had carnival tents with
freaks and strippers tempting wayward youth. They should have had a
Waterworld-style barge in the pool with actors and actresses
dressed in fine dystopian chic. They should have strung cables over
the top of the pool and had contortionists swinging on swings.
Lemoore is hell and they should have decorated it appropriately.
Like the Titty Twister in From Dusk til Dawn.
Future wave tank and wave tank events should also be themed
because why the hell not? The ocean is beautiful, wonderful, home
but also presents certain constraints. Those are gone when the wave
is removed. So why not party? Like really really party?
What do you think about that?
Listen here!
Loading comments...
Load Comments
0
Riding a left that was, I can't even describe it,
except to say it might have been state of the art in 1998 but it
wasn't in 2018 and was scored a full point and change over Italo.
Conveniently, along with his 8.5 from Day 1 Kelly was now rocketed
up to second place on the leaderboard. You can create your own
walled reality and do what you want with it – from Rockefeller to
William Randolph Hearst to Gates, Zuckerberg, Page et al, that's
the American dream – but if you are going to broadcast it to the
world and call it sport then you need at least the illusion of
fairness and transparency. Kelly's overscore made the Surf
Ranch look less level playing field for all and more private
fiefdom, administered by opaque decrees designed to make the King
look clothed in gold. | Photo: WSL
Surf Ranch, Day Three: “Kolohe Accuses
Judges of Mind Tricks; Kelly’s overscore makes the king look
clothed in gold!”
By Longtom
If you are going to broadcast to the world and call
it sport then you need at least the illusion of fairness and
transparency.
After breathing the rarefied air from yesterday’s
dizzying climb it was a buzzkill to have go back to
basecamp and watch the field of honest journeyman get crushed by
boulders they had no hope of summiting with. Three days in and the
affair has blended into a quagmire of instantly forgettable
rides.
The scoreboard takes an age to update which meant the mind had
to loose itself from the previous ride to focus on the current one.
That, and the bombardment of advertising between each ride, made
for a particular psychological challenge to stay engaged. I mean in
a wave by wave fashion which gives the event some meaning as
sport.
If there was one thing to be grateful for in the Run Three reset
it was Miggy Poops
being able to elevate himself from the muck of mediocre rides. He
rode a left and a right gracefully, beautifully. Like other surfers
the camera cut to the dewey eyed babe watching nervously on the
…..shoreline?…presumably his wife added some kind of emotional
intensity to the broadcast.
After three days of having waves of uncommon length and
perfection implanted in my brain I feel a curious sense of hunger.
The return on investment for the viewer, in terms of memorable
moments, is low, even by pro surfing standards. The prodigality of the ocean
has been supplanted by the stinginess of the machine. We’ve seen a
lot, but we’ve barely seen anything of substance. Mikey Wright
spoke of feeling like he’d had only half a bite of an apple.
Judging from the shellshocked and wistful pressers with the losing
contestants that must have been a common reaction.
If there was one thing to be grateful for in the Run Three reset
it was Miggy Poops
being able to elevate himself from the muck of mediocre rides. He
rode a left and a right gracefully, beautifully. Like other surfers
the camera cut to the dewey eyed babe watching nervously on the
…..shoreline?…presumably his wife added some kind of emotional
intensity to the broadcast.
The tub had, presumably by some common consent, become a
“basin”. Pete Mel got assigned the job of pitchman and took to
hustling merch with a feverish intensity. Mobile phone cases, WSL
merch, a muddy pond with blow-up swans. Pete took to it all with
admirable sincerity.
It was becoming hard to separate one rider from another. Style
is exposed in the ocean. Heightened. In the basin it is flattened.
They surf a little less like themselves. If the ocean is a karma
sutra where the range of positions is infinite to the imaginative
lovers the basin seems more like jackhammer sex with an
unresponsive doll. It gets the job done for the participant no
doubt, but to the onlooker it lacks grace. (Editor’s note: Just read Jen See, she says
it so much better).
Only Italo made it look like he was having fun. He loosened up
the program and dished up a left spiced with a pair of cleanly made
airs and a ton of repertoire. This was minutes after Pete Mel
almost burst a haemerrhoid telling us judges wanted innovation,
progression, risk etc etc.
Except they didn’t. They just didn’t.
You can create your own walled reality and do what you want with
it – from Rockefeller to William Randolph Hearst to Gates,
Zuckerberg, Page et al, that’s the American dream – but if you are
going to broadcast it to the world and call it sport then you need
at least the illusion of fairness and transparency.
Kelly proved that in short order. Riding a left that was, I
can’t even describe it, except to say it might have been state of
the art in 1998 but it wasn’t in 2018 and was scored a full point
and change over Italo. Conveniently, along with his 8.5 from Day 1
Kelly was now rocketed up to second place on the
leaderboard.
You can create your own walled reality and do what you want with
it – from Rockefeller to William Randolph Hearst to Gates,
Zuckerberg, Page et al, that’s the American dream – but if you are
going to broadcast it to the world and call it sport then you need
at least the illusion of fairness and transparency.
Kelly’s overscore made the Surf Ranch look less level playing
field for all and more private fiefdom, administered by opaque
decrees designed to make the King look clothed in gold. This is a
man who has claimed injury has prevented him from surfing all
events except those in his private basin, and who will probably be
granted the injury wildcard next year in spite of it. Italo’s
injured hamstring has been discussed ad naseum, Kelly’s busted hoof
carries the mystique of the Turin shroud. As inviolable as the
Koran. From any viewing angle, it don’t look right.
Grown-up sports have independent broadcasters and commentary
teams and integrity units and judiciaries and other accoutrements
aimed at least giving an impression of accountability. That’s how
folks believe that it’s at least semi-legit. Pro surfing believes
in back slapping and bubbles and magical thinking, as long as
someone else picks up the tab.
This confusion turned to disgruntlement and boiled over in
Kolohe’s post heat presser. Kolohe accused the judges of “playing
mind tricks” and rewarding safety surfing and sitting in a barrell
that carried with it no risk. “I thought they wanted to see risk,”
he said.
So did I Brother, so did I. I thought he had legitimate beef to
have not made the cut. Certainly, his two wave total should have
bested Kelly.
The high point of the day was supplied by Julian Wilson. He
greased a rooftop landing on a lofted reverse on the left then
exclaimed a static free right with a monster slob grab. His was the
counter-factual to Kelly’s insider trading. No pre-trip warm-ups.
He settled the nerves by “not watching anything”. A quick skate to
warm-up then boom.
The WSL site and app crashed for the final two runs with Medina
and Filipe. I clicked to Facebook feed. The Oceania audience
rocketed up from 2600 to 2900 which indicated 300 hardy souls were
tuned to the WSL webcast. Facey had no scores, no leaderboard and a
failed audio sync. Angry face emojis sailed skywards through the
screen and made surreal bedfellows with Toledo’s
high-as-fuck-but-just-failed flip.
Anyway you measure it the numbers look pitiful.
The swolled field should have been thinned sooner allowing extra
runs for the Final day. Eight man field left, four women. That
should be a clear cut demonstration of winner and loser if judges
can decide on what is good surfing 2018, not looking into the
rearview mirror and pining for a day long gone.
