Parko. My first real surf crush. The first guy I looked at and said “I want to surf like That Guy.” Smooth and beautiful. As precise as Mick but with his own stamp. So often made it look too easy. Bloody grateful he got the title he did. If he’d thrown his hands in the air a bit more and added a few hip jives he might have had five. But again, I’m bloody grateful he didn’t.  | Photo: Steve Sherman/@tsherms

From the we-still-do-lists dept: The Five Best Things About Surfing in 2018!

Including why Italo Ferreira equals dangerous sex, Gabriel, rape fantasies and why Conner is tantric lovemaking, beautiful yet simultaneously frustrating…

Let’s start with the positive, shall we? Get the hard stuff over with. A bit of festive cheer before I revert to type.

These are the Five Best Things about Surfing in 2018.

1.  The WSL Portrait Photographer

I’d love to name this individual, really I would, because they must have a cunt of a sense of humour. What sort of a photographer could take 37 (mostly objectively handsome men) and transform them into a Crufts line up? A bloody genius, that’s who. 

Have a browse, but allow me to pick some highlights.

We have…

Jordy Smith as…The Basset Hound!

Julian Wilson as…The Weimaraner! 

Kanoa Igarashi as…The Shiba Inu!

Wade Carmichael as…The Shih Tzu!

Patty G as…The Saluki!

And Wilko as a stray. 

I could go on. Truly a work of creative genius. 

2. Ain’t That Swell

The best of anything can’t be imitated. Razor-sharp commentary, genius mixing, classic cameos, and just simply funny as fuck. Nearly knocked me laughing off a high ladder this summer.

I suspect some people don’t really get it, and that makes it all the more appealing. Cali-centric surf media is a blight.

Best surf podcast going and it’s not really close. 

Fair play to Scalesy for his efforts. I still listen, mostly, but it’s hit-and-miss these days now that there are too many cooks. Some things don’t scale, no pun intended. 

And a nod to ONE HALF of Lipped. Can’t stomach the we’re-really-smart-and hardworking-and-no-cunt-appreciates-us tone anymore but Cahill Bell Warren, at least, is a man deserving of a voice and a great job somewhere – coaching or commentating most likely. Seems like a thoroughly bloody good bloke with a lot of insight and a lack of ego. His breakdowns and analysis of competition surfing are perhaps the best I’ve heard. Take note, WSL. 

But Ain’t That Swell. How fucking good is it?

3. Mick Fanning and Joel Parkinson

Mick Fanning. I love him, I do. Couldn’t fault him. And I can find fault in pretty much anyone. I love his surfing to bits. What’s not to love about precision and power? Did he ever make a mistake? I’ve never met him but I know I’d love him as a man. Definition of a legend. Knocks Slater out of the park, in my opinion. 


And Parko. My first real surf crush. The first guy I looked at and said “I want to surf like That Guy.” Smooth and beautiful. As precise as Mick but with his own stamp. So often made it look too easy. Bloody grateful he got the title he did. If he’d thrown his hands in the air a bit more and added a few hip jives he might have had five. But again, I’m bloody grateful he didn’t. 

Dear Santa, for Christmas please can I have many, many future Parko and Fanning collabs. Cunts have a shit lot of great surfing still to do. And good on them for having the whereabouts to go out on top. 

Stone cold legends, the pair of them. I know they’ve had all the plaudits going, but I truly believe we might never see their likes again. You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone. 

Cynical bastards will point to the lack of evolution in their surfing over the years, the not really developing an “air game”. But those wankers probably add water to whisky. 

4. My Favourite WSL (Male) Surfers

Gabriel Medina = rape fantasies. You’re getting fucked, one way or another. You don’t want to like but you probably will. Photo by Steve Sherman/@tsherms

Most of you won’t know this, but my day job is actually as a teacher. It’s the reason I write under “JP” when everyone IRL calls me Jamie. People who call themselves by initials are utter wanks, but it’s my penance. It’s a thinly veiled disguise, but at least I haven’t been hauled in front of the headmaster again for shit I wrote on the internet. 

The reason I divulge this now is because last week, in one of my classes, (a bottom set first year) I made a throwaway comment to a thick-set boy in the class which stitched me right up.

Let’s call him Bob.

“Bob,” I said.”If you were a vegetable you’d be a mung bean.”

Well. The next thing I know the entire class has turned into Lord of The Flies and rounded on poor Bob (Piggy), roaring with laughter, pointing at him and chanting demonically…


“No, No!” I cried, helplessly. “I said MUNG bean!”

But it was no use.

I calmed them down eventually, but only after I explained what a mung bean was (not as straightforward as you might think to low-ability twelve year olds) and promised to give the rest of them vegetable nicknames for next lesson. 

So in that spirit, and with neither the will nor the words to justify my favouritism, I thought I’d just assign my favourite male surfers types of sex.

Italo Ferreira = Choke sex. Or any kind of dangerous sex that exhilarates in a way that will push you right to the edge where you’ll either die or have the time of your life. 

Gabriel Medina = Rape fantasies. You’re getting fucked, one way or another. You don’t want to like but you probably will. 

Zeke Lau = Pounded with full eye contact. You’ll be too scared to move. 

Conner Coffin = Tantric. Beautiful yet simultaneously frustrating. But when it goes, it goes. 

Griffin Colapinto = First time sex, probably a few tears. There’ll be moments of pleasure, the potential is there. You’ll cry because there are so many more levels to hit and you just hope you reach them. 

I love you guys. You’re why I watch. 

5. Honourable Mentions

Indecision is one of my greatest foes, and I’ve already written too much, so here are some bulletpoints of other great things.

Steve Shearer, AKA Longtom’s contest wraps and writing in general. After what we’ve seen this season, I genuinely feel you’ve got the stamina to go a few rounds with Zeke Lau, maintaining eye contact throughout. I suspect you won’t take up the mantle again next season, and WCT contests will be duller for it. Your words sing, my friend. 

Jordy’s nipples going over the falls at Pipe. Did any moment in pro surfing history sum up so succinctly the gulf between one surfer and another in the competitive arena? 

Caroline Marks. Will be world champion, likely multiple times. Literally surfs and looks like Occy. 

Rob Machado. I love Machado. I want to grow old just like Rob, but with a better van and a fucking haircut. 

Matt Warshaw/EOS and The Surfer’s Journal. The only surf media that matters (present company excepted). The bastions of our culture. I savour and admire each of them like a twelve-year-old Balvenie.

“If you want the ultimate, thrill you've got to be willing to pay the ultimate price" etc.

Advice: “If you’re going to be a surfer, you have to take it seriously!”

Straight outta Rockaway.

We joke and laugh and giggle and cajole surfing and professional surfing every day. It is undeniably ridiculous as it is fun and if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times… we put on black pantsuits and go sit in the ocean, waiting to wiggle our bottoms and spew out our arms and legs all akimbo.

BUT it is also deadly serious. Deadly deadly serious and this is why The Inertia-style Adult Learners are such shit with their, “the-best-surfer-is-the-one-having-the-most-fun” “calm-down-it’s-just-surfing” bullshit.

We have spent our lives here and tourists ain’t welcome.

That’s why it put a tear in my eye, this morning, to read about surfing in the Rockaways in The Failing New York Times and Mr. Brian James in particular.

Let’s together.

Three years after Hurricane Sandy lashed the Rockaways, the boardwalk marched down the beach in broken segments as the public housing built under Robert Moses was hemmed in by condos. Out in the surf, not much changed as the bathymetry returned to normal, but the predominantly white, male crowd of surfers had.

Part of that shift happened when Louis Harris, 46, founded the East Coast chapter of the Black Surfing Association in 2016.

Mr. Harris bought his first surf board after moving to the Rockaways in 2006. After getting his bearings in remote beaches, he joined the crowd at Beach 90th Street.

“That’s when I saw B.J.,” Mr. Harris said.

Brian James — “B.J.” — the only other black man in the water, paddled over to Mr. Harris and asked if he wanted to hang out afterward.

“‘If you’re going to be a surfer, you have to take it seriously,’” Mr. Harris recalled him saying. “‘You’re a black guy. Everybody’s eyes are on you.’”

The rest of the story is beautiful but I would like to tip my cap to B.J. for proactively spouting truths in the lineup.

“If you’re going to be a surfer, you have to take it seriously.”

Tragedy: Surfer described as “ex-pro” dies night surfing at Topanga.

A sad ending to a wonderful stretch of swell.

California has been belted with much wonderful surf over the past few days though tragedy struck last night near Malibu.

According to the CBS local news:

At about 11:40 p.m. Thursday, screaming was reported at Topanga State Beach, where sheriff’s deputies found a man who had been performing CPR on his brother. The two brothers had been out in the water for a night session of surfing.

As they surfed, the brothers lost track of each other, authorities said. One of them later found his brother face down in the water and dragged him to shore, where he performed CPR, but was not able to save him.

Sheriff’s deputies say the two brothers are skilled surfers in good physical shape. The brother who died had been a pro surfer at one point, according to a deputy.
The surfer’s father and brother were both on the scene immediately after his death.

He was just identified as Damon Michael Geller, 48, of Pacific Palisades.

More as the story develops.

Advice: How to surf the holidays without killing anyone!

"Together, we’re going to get through this challenging time of joy and holiday cheer!"

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. The time for caroling and rum toddies and snowflakes on, well, whatever the fuck snowflakes fall on. I don’t know much about snow.

It’s also the season for paddling out to surf with 500 of your closest friends, their five children, their ten grandchildren, and their racist uncle. Christmas means apocalyptically crowded lineups, at least in Southern California.

There’s the dads pushing their precious darlings into waves, sending them bouncing down the face to splat into the white water, bobbing and sinking like bath toys. There’s the rippers finally out of school and ready to master that elusive air reverse. This time! This time I’m going to make it! Oh. Okay. Maybe next time. There’s someone’s inland relative on a Wavestorm, floating blissfully unaware into the impact zone.

Forget the good will toward men, you are going to want to kill everyone. Honestly, it’s not even Christmas week yet, and I already want to kill everyone.

A week or so ago, I had to ban myself from Rincon for yelling at a lady on a midlength. Maybe she deserved it, but mostly, she was the latest in a long line of annoyances on a day filled with them. I’m good at crowds, until I’m not. I haven’t decided entirely how long my ban lasts, but next week doesn’t seem like the best time to return to the scene of the crime.

What to do? I have assembled a few suggestions, because I am totally here to help my friends — even my friends who aren’t sure I’m an actual person. (I am! I promise Chas did not yell at the midlength lady. That was all me!)

Get of town.
Travel enriches the mind — and if you do it right, it should get you away from the teeming holiday hordes. I recommend sharks. Find a spot with sharks. Big waves, if you are into that kind of thing, will help, too. But the sharks are essential. Sharks keep the crowds away. Assuming you don’t get eaten, you will while away the day as blissfully happy as the Wavestormers before the lip smashes their precious little faces.

Try snow sports.
From what I understand, you can do fun things with snow. Like, slide around on it in a way that bears a resemblance to surfing. You’ll need a puffy jacket and other assorted warm clothing. Just buy the whole Patagonia catalogue and you should be fine. There are lift lines, which is a bummer, but also, resort lodges that sell snacks and beers. Unlike its crazy cousin, the ocean, snow is not super forgiving and may cause injury to falling humans. Maybe just avoid taking any risks at all, and spend your day on the resort balcony with the beer and the snacks, basking in the sun.

Practice Yoga.
I have somehow managed to avoid ever doing yoga. I count this as an accomplishment right up there with finishing my Ph.D. But there are plenty of people who want to tell me all about its benefits. It makes us flexible and limber and healthy, they say. It’s an excuse to wear yoga pants, which I know you all want to do. Yoga also takes away our anger, winging it away like a bird flying higher and higher until it vanishes into the infinite blue. Let me know how that works out for you, yoga people.

Sell your boards.
Just give it up. It’s never going to get better. You can find a new hobby, maybe something that you can do in a remote desert without any people for miles around. Maybe there could be tequila. I feel like tequila is good for going to the desert to do your new hobby. Also, there are no sharks in the desert. I’m starting to like the sound of this. Anyone want to buy my boards? Fins included! Futures, of course!

Drink heavily.
Skip the desert and the effort of finding a new hobby. Stay home on the couch instead. Watch reruns. Avoid anything related to surfing. Sip the tequila you were going to take to the desert. When you run out of tequila, move straight on to vodka. It’s so alphabetical, that it’s inevitable. Wake up sometime after New Year’s and recycle your empties. Return to the lineup, refreshed and ready for more mayhem.

I believe in us. Together, we’re going to get through this challenging time of joy and holiday cheer! We’re going to go surfing and not kill anyone, not even the blank-faced, half-drowned beginner.

Maybe I better try the yoga after all.

Here, Gabriel and Mick, with fans, at Gabs’ world title party. “Rip Curl had rented a condo at the Turtle Bay. It was a really close knit affair with all Gabriel’s Brazilian friends. Mick was in good form. Him and Gabriel are tight. There’s a definite bromance going down. They were talking for so long, telling each other how much they love each other. Mick gets really sappy after dark and he was being very social on the North Shore this year. He was having a good time every night. Gabriel was drinking a little bit but not the point where he was drunk. He was very in control. That freckled kid? Not sure who it was but Mick was engaging him as well and the kid was having the conversation of his life. | Photo: Steve Sherman/@tsherms

From the living history dept: Steve Sherman goes behind-the-scenes on the North Shore!

Gabriel's victory party, cops take over the Shore, Brazilians rule everything else!

There is very little that separates the work of most sporting photographers. A slightly different angle here, a different lens there. Any sorta lifestyle shot is perfunctory, at best.

Surfing is very lucky, then, to have Steve Sherman, a skater and surfer from southern California. His photography is a kind of subdued magic, controlled and exquisite, the kind of things you get from a good movie. More than any other surf photographer, Sherman has a sense of living history.

For the month of December, Sherm flew, on his own dime, to the North Shore because, what, he was going to miss the title showdown?

“The WSL cut me off, Channel Islands cut me off, so it was a full art trip,” says Sherm. “I lost everything. They’re all blaming budgets. I didn’t have to be anywhere, I could just do my thing and I had the best artistic year of my life so I can’t be too bummed.”

Apart from looming poverty, it was a different experience this year for Sherman. He’s on the wagon with only the occasional breeze of weed entering his temple. Already, he’s dropped twenty pounds from his linebacker frame.

“I got off the beer because I was feeling shitty, my liver wasn’t get rid of it fast enough. It was slowing me down. I went to a part the other night and, fuck, I was seeing more things than when I was lit up. And, I figured, if I want to keep surfing until I’m seventy I’m going to have to clean things up a bit.”

Let’s stroll though the best of Sherman’s North Shore photos.

First, the wonderful Mark Occhilupo who, like Sherman, was on the wagon. “Occy hasn’t drunk for nine months and he looks great, physically he looks…so…good and he was ripping at Pipeline.” Gabriel Medina and Brazilians after he won the world title, but before Pipe Masters final, which he’d also win. “There was no way he wasn’t going to win the title,” says Sherman. “They’re walking down Ke Nui Road for that three-block walk to his house. Everyone was very happy. It was Brazilville over there. I gotta tell you, the Hawaiians put up with a lot. I was tripping that the Brazilians don’t give a shit. They don’t seem worried that some Polynesian guy is going to punch them out for being loud and obnoxious and flying the flag. Twenty years ago, this never would’ve happened. When Americans go to Brazil, the last thing we do is put flags on our houses and wave flags on the beach and sing the national anthem. I mean, fuck, it’s so heavy. I don’t think they have any idea how heavy the place was thirty years ago. There would be dead bodies scattered if this had happened back in the day.” Jack Robinson and Brazilian girlfriend Julia Muniz. “Yeah, she’s a hot little number,” says Sherman.  Kelly Slater and Joel Parkinson, Pipeline. “Those guys don’t know what they’re doing. It’s some weird handshake,” says Sherman. “That’s right after Joel retired and Kelly’s congratulating him. Historically, they’re not the closest of people but they respect each other even if, behind their backs, they tease each other.” Mick Fanning and Joel Parkinson. “I sent that to Mick and he pulled me aside, later, and said, ‘I love you Sherman’ and gave me the longest hug he’d ever given me. He’s going to get it for his house. That’s when I knew I’d done something well. They’re both walking into the retirement sunset.”
John  John Florence and brother Nathan watch Herbie Fletcher’s Wave Warrior’s shoot unfurl. “It’s always supposed to start at twelve but never starts on time. They were hanging out at the RVCA house. RVCA’s the new power company here. They fucking sponsor all the Hawaiians, they have (Dustin) Barca, it’s crazy. Even Pat Tenore’s with Andy’s ex-wife.”
Matt Wilkinson, Backdoor, Conner Coffin, Pipe. “That’s comic-book like. That will be in my archive for a while. Conner told me hit the bottom real hard.” Pottz and Occ, pre-Occ-cast. “Legends, nice guys. It’s great to see Occ looking so good, I could see it in his face and his body weight. He’s proud he’s not boozing it.” Kelly, creeping out to Backdoor. “He’s creeping out, running down from his house to the Johnson’s yard to surf Backdoor one night. It’s my classic creepy Kelly moment. Kelly’s daughter was on the North Shore, she was having an art show. She’s a sweetheart, a sweet little woman. But Kelly doesn’t want to have any more kids. He told me, I just don’t want to have kids. I’ve done that. I’m done.”
North Shore Justice: “Yeah. Fuck. Heavy. That’s the new thing now. I’ve never seen such a police presence on the North Shore. There were cops everywhere, signs everywhere. Everyone’s watching, police are writing tickets and pulling people over.”  Parko, Bruce Irons, Mick Fanning, Parko’s retirement party: “That was right after Mick did the all-time speech. Mick has two beers in his hand, which was par for the course this trip. One night I said, ‘Why the two beers?’ and he said, ‘Because this one is almost done.'”