Our dear General Secretary Sophie
Goldschmidt appears on camera wearing a comforting
yellow and recounts the unvarnished successes of the year from Mick
Fanning’s retirement to the Surf Ranch Pro to equal pay amongst all
surfers.
A true workers’ paradise.
Inspirational music plays in the background and when the WSL’s
Ministry of Culture finished editing I’m sure they bowed slightly
to the framed picture of ex-General Secretary Paul Speaker hanging
upon the wall then threw very tight shakas in each other’s
direction, shouting, “Job well done comrade!”
Was President-elect of Content, Media and WSL Studios Comrade
Erik Logan overseeing the work even though he is yet to officially
take the position?
Maybe.
And if this is a representation of his art we are in very good
hands.
Though some degenerates didn’t love.
ed_geb64 wrote: “WSL get a real CEO not a Facebook
sister…..bring back the aloha spirit. There are other ways to make
money rather than force us into FB. WSL should be from surfers to
surfers!”
ndsearing wrote: “If you can’t admit the Facebook
failure and correct it for next year you need to resign. Surfing
will never be a mainstream sport. It’s not built that way. When you
alienate your core base of fans (surfers) to pander for $ and
viewership your sport will suffer long term.”
The World Surf League quickly mustered ranking members like Joel
Parkinson (ok sign, praying hands) and Conner Coffin (raise the
roof raise the roof raise the roof) to suppress the small
insurrection with beckgard adding, “Ignore the Haters
Sophie…this middle-aged, land-locked, non-surfer LOVES following
the WSL…men & women.”
Re-education camps will be set up forthwith Surf Ranch
adjacent.
Now let us sing our anthem:
By exploding the mental strength of the united heart of our
billion fans.
Dear General Secretary Sophie Goldschmidt resounds the
marching drums of the powerful, prosperous League.
Let’s go, great World Surf League from bright and pure Santa
Monica.
Let’s drive unbelievers and degenerates into the
sea.
Or maybe drown them underneath the never ending perfect
waves of Surf Ranch.
Hail General Secretary Sophie Goldschmidt.
Hail the World Surf League.
May it rule for 10000 years!
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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!
By JP Currie
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.
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.
HE’S MICK FANNING…HE’S THAT FUCKIN GOOD.
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…
“MONG BEAN! MONG BEAN! MONG BEAN!
“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.
“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!”
By Chas Smith
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.”
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Tragedy: Surfer described as “ex-pro” dies
night surfing at Topanga.
By Chas Smith
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.
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Advice: How to surf the holidays without
killing anyone!
By Jen See
"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.
