Man falls back in love with pro surfing after difficult year.
It’s been a rough year for us surf fans.
We’ve wandered through our crumbling empire like the armies of the late Romulus Augustus, the last Caesar of Rome, watching as Germanic tribes armed with backward-finned surfboards and content marketing strategies seek to tear down everything we hold sacred.
Our once dominant legion, founded on the basis of surfing’s unbottled magic and unfiltered irreverence, has been worn down to a reactionary, reclusive rump. The wolves of progress bay for blood at the door. The end has grown closer and our voices fainter. We ready our ships for the final exile.
(I’m calling Salina Cruz and would also consider the South Australian Desert. Hit me up.)
But then it comes.
I don’t care how you butter your bread. Seeing an eleven-foot board knifed up and under a thirty-foot Pe’ahi bowl in real time makes me want to go and grab random strangers on the street and yell “Oi, cunt, THIS is fucken surfing! This is IT! Why would you wanna watch anything else!?”
A raw north-west swell flying out of the Pacific’s crown like a God Damn rearguard cavalry charge. All of a sudden the horns of Rome are sounding again.
First of all, Jaws.
I don’t care how you butter your bread. Seeing an eleven-foot board knifed up and under a thirty-foot Pe’ahi bowl in real time makes me want to go and grab random strangers on the street and yell “Oi, cunt, THIS is fucken surfing! This is IT! Why would you wanna watch anything else!?”
Say what you will about the wait between sets. That highlight reel, even in the “windy, small, average Pe’ahi“, should get a run on every sports show across the globe.
“Well Chuck, those lunatics over in Hawaii are at it again. Both men and women competitors took to giant waves at *news anchor squints* Pee…Ha… in Maui…”
Surfing’s best broadcast to billions.
“Oi WSL cunts,” I want to scream.
Here’s a tip for free.
Use the big wave tour as your Joe Public hook. Do a YouTube vlog following somebody like Billy or Kai or Keala around for a year, documenting the training and prep they go to. Sell it to Discovery Channel. Market Big Wave Dave-style surfer dolls that grommets world-wide can throw into shore breaks, up storm drains, down bath tubs. Make millions.
(Just don’t mention the crystal meth.)
Then you can keep the ‘CT to the core. Premium waves. Competitive fairy tales. Expert analysis.
Warrior women drawing brutal yet beautiful lines down that dreamscape Maui wowee. I could watch well-surfed Honolua all day long. All year long. Forever. Keep it coming.
Beachweave? Didn’t even rate a mention. Queen Steph carries so much gravitas she could make the Costco Texas Tanker Wave Cup classy.
Well done, WSL cunts.
Sure, we might disagree on a few things. My eyes might still be in the rearview mirror while you have the accelerator planted firmly to the floor. But when it comes down to it you still have enough lineage pumping through your veins to know what makes a good show.
Running two comps at once (and even offering split screen!) through the website and a vastly improved Facebook stream was a solid effort. Real solid.
It’s a simple formula. Good waves. Good surfing. Easy access. Keep it that way.
Oh, and the men’s title race is still to come.
I can hardly keep my sword in its sheath. Long live Rome!
