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!
