You did it. You and the low, low price of $1.99
actually did it. Never not once did I ever image that I’d be more
popular than Laird Hamilton, world’s greatest human man or Bethany
Hamilton, world’s most inspirational human person.
And what does this mean?
Will the People now want me to invent a supplement guaranteed to
put more pep in a step? Maybe something like one of those powdered
coffee creamers that used to be real popular but instead of making
it out of poison and chalk what if I made it out of “superfood” and
sea turtles?
Will the People demand a movie about how I overcame
insurmountable barriers to achieve a great success? Maybe called
Troll Surfer? And how no one could have predicted that a little
book titled Cocaine + Surfing (buy here) would
one day sit atop of the pile, towering over Pulitzer Prize winners
and icons but then Amazon dropped the Kindle price to $1.99 and the
world shifted on its axis.
I’d like to thank you for using some precious e-reader bandwidth
or cell phone memory and spending $1.99. You’ve proven to children
everywhere that dreams still come true.
Suck it Hamiltons.
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Now here is a couple that will never be
throwing insults at each in family court. Jack Robinson,
Australia's own version of John John Florence, and his peachy
Brazilian lover Julia Muniz. @juliamuniz
British woman splits from husband after he becomes
"obsessed with night surfing."
Relationships and surfing mix like MAGA-hatted teens and
Native Americans. This is not, as I believe the teen
parlance goes (though I’ll need to check with Nick Carroll), brand
new information.
What is Brand New Information, brace yourselves married men (and
two or three women), is that there’s a choice! Turns out you CAN
choose surfing instead of kid’s birthday parties, work commitments
or Great Aunt Fanny’s baptism.
I mean, there’s compromise. There’s always fucking compromise.
It’s my most hated noun. And don’t even get me started on the verb
form.
The compromise in this instance is called divorce.
But not to worry, because now you can crowdfund your family
breakdown! In the midst of gut wrenching emotional turmoil, who
needs dignity, eh?
The backstory to this is the case of a UK man trying to
Crowdfund his divorce. A marital chasm that was opened due to
surfing. “Karl” is a one-time family man from Bournemouth, England
by way of NZ. Recently he split up with his wife and two daughters
when the ol’ handbrake filed for divorce, citing Karl as “obsessed
with night surfing”.
Allegedly, Karl had taken to surfing Bournemouth pier at night
with some friends. Often he would come home just for a shower and
to get dressed to go out to work, as if he were a “student tenant
in the family home as opposed to a husband and a father,” his wife
stated in the citation.
Woooofffft. Stinger.
But Karl’s surf buddies weren’t happy. Outraged by the behaviour
of this harlot, this siren, this harpy, this over-zealous mother
bitch, Karl’s mates kindly set him up a Crowdfunder so he didn’t
need to take out a loan to pay for the divorce.
Now, from the perspective of a man who squirrels boards away in
outbuildings, I don’t feel in a position to comment on a healthy
surf/life balance, other than to say it involves a lot of
half-truths. And perhaps some outright lies (if you’re asking, your
honour).
But what do you think?
The Crowdfunder has now gone, so you can’t send money or
condolences or relationship advice to Karl I’m afraid. Maybe Chas
can offer some words of wisdom in between trying to coax Dave Lee
Scales into the arms of a life-partner like he were the Mr Miyagi
of Tinder. Chicks dig cock shots these days, Dave, that’s all I’m
saying. It’s a brave new world out there.
But back to Bournemouth.
I went to Bournemouth once. I drove all the way down there to
pick up a MK2 Golf GTI. It was Tornado Red with a subwoofer that
consumed the entire boot space. Nearly 22 years old, it remained
pristine and shiny because of the balmy, dry south coast, where old
ladies tootle along beside big hedges and Mediterranean winds drift
across the English channel. I soon booted it back North beyond the
wall, to the mist and the grey, and I ragged the fuck out of it on
winding singletrack and black ice and sheep shit for a couple of
years. It was good that car.
When I was in Bournemouth I looked at their artificial reef. A
monument to wasted public money, it is a £3.2 million shambles of
burst sandbags. It opened in late 2009, never worked, and then was
finally shut down in March 2011. The charlatans who built it, a NZ
based company called ASR, went into liquidation shortly after. I
looked at it then turned away, smirking.
So, Karl and his divorce.
Forget that Bournemouth is a terrible place to be a surfer and
their artificial reef was hilariously shit.
Is surfing worth divorce?
And (in principle) would you spare a few shekels to help
absentee father, lost to the clutches of two drizzly surfs a month
on his longboard and his windslop, in the dark?
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@joshwilliamstattoos
Elation: Buy all the cocaine you can handle
for the low, low price of $1.99!
You’ve no doubt read the book Cocaine + Surfing by
now. Maybe you even own it. If you do not own it but would
like to stick it to the man you can today and all of March because
it is Amazon’s pick of the month and on sale for $1.99. Now,
normally I wouldn’t care but Amazon ranks its books and I’m always
behind Finnegan and the Hamiltons (Bethany and Laird). For just one
day I’d like to have cocaine soaring above their heads. Maybe $1.99
will push me over the top.
Pushing through the door I am once again enveloped in a
scene that has played out the exact same for the past forever. A
messy knot of people pushing toward the bar and toward the bathroom
with equal force. Too close, too loud for talking. Too much
talking. Nose rubbing. Chatty, conspiratorial, ecstatic, depressed,
ecstatic, chatty. Conspiratorial.
It’s always snowing in Orange County, or so they
say.
I try to press toward the bar but am intercepted by a very
dapper industry bro holding an extra vodka-something. I take it
from him and he says, “Yeah, Chas…” while nodding slowly and
flashing a half smile. In another world his face would belong to a
heartthrob singer or an actor or a model, or at the very least a
teeth model. His teeth are impossibly straight and white. It would
have to be assumed that they are veneers but they are not. They are
real and blindingly white and so straight. I can’t take my eyes off
of them an probably look weird when I respond, “Howzit…” while
staring at his mouth.
In another world his very handsome face would pinned to the
bedroom walls of teenaged girls, or orthodontists. In this world it
does sales for the surf forecasting website Surfline and before
that it was surf team manager for a surf shoe brand called
Globe.
And surf industry genetics are a thing to behold. Inside it
may seem the surf industry bro is a vacuum, an empty vessel, even
though his heart is racing for his true and ancient love. Outside,
though, he is almost perfect. Always lean, always tan, always
well-proportioned, always salty ideally tousled hair, though
usually a little short.
Why? The surf industry bro doesn’t grow food or build things
or know things. Why then has evolution gifted such a worthless
cultural appendage such genetic superiority? I don’t really know,
though think it has something to do with the surf industry’s Mecca
being Orange County. A place that molds its population after
itself: pretty and vapid.
This particular surf industry bro, the one possessing the
beyond handsome face and perfect teeth, and I chat empty surf talk
for a minute. “You surf today? Sick. Where? Etc.” and then he asks
me what I’m working on next—after “that Hawaii book.”
I tell him, “Cocaine plus surfing…it’s a love
story.”
His nod doesn’t change rhythm nor does his smile change
intensity and he says, “Yeah. Well, you won’t have any shortage of
material,” before pushing off into the sweaty pit.
I watch, thinking about his teeth and wondering what career
avenues open for a man with perfect teeth, but those thoughts are
interrupted by an angry mouth too close to my ear. “These fuckers.
These fucking fuckers taking Surfing away from us…fucking…fuckers.
They wanted us to fail so they could shift our image archive away
and sell it for millions of dollars and fuck us out of our rights.
Now they won’t have to pay us, any of us, for reusing shots.
Fucking…”
A damned surf photographer. I nod and say, “Yeah, totally,”
before shuffling back toward the bar. I want to leave already but
am really trying to honor my journey, trying to be a good surf
journalist for the first time in my life. Trying to uncover little
specifics in the world’s greatest love story. Like, asking people
questions and stuff. I just got done asking Surfing’s ex
Editor-in-Chief, Taylor Paul, if he likes cocaine. He looked at me
all pucker-faced and said, “No. Are you kidding me? I hate the
stuff. It makes everyone so…lame.”
I suppose he is the exception to the rule. After all, he is
from Santa Cruz, and most Santa Cruz surfers love
methamphetamine.
I’d just got done asking an intern who works for the extreme
sport sock company Stance if she has any cocaine. She said no while
looking at me like I was a total idiot by subverting the social
order. I was supposed to be telling her I had cocaine. Stance is
one of the only companies thriving in the surf space though, so I
thought it was a fair question.
I then asked a part-time professional surfer part-time DJ if
he wanted cocaine. He said, “Sure…” then got angry when I told him
I didn’t have any.
And I really should have left an hour ago. It is too late
and now I am depressed and caught in the conspiratorial web of
another surf photographer who is even more furious than the last
that Surfing magazine got shut down and is insisting that the
magazine was actually making money and doing well. The crowd is
still thick and getting sloppy.
It would impossible to guess if his rant, or the rant before
his, is cocaine infused because most surf photographers are, by
nature, conspiratorial. Someone is always stealing their art. No
one is ever paying them enough. Everyone in this whole damned
industry has profited and profited handsomely except them. In their
collective mind they are getting fucked. Always getting fucked and
always ready to snap about it, though I once carried a surf
photographer’s backpack across a mile of beach and instantly
understood surf photographer rage. The backpack weighed 250 lbs.
The sand was scorching hot. It was like a forced march and all surf
photographers should be paid reparations by the brands for their
servitude.
“…fucking saw one of my shots being used by fucking Rip Curl
on their Instagram feed…gonna fucking kill someone…”
The surf photographer rage and victimization complex is
extreme but also mirrors the way most surfers feel about the surf
industry. Surfers love surfing and reckon it such a pure love. Such
a rush, such a kick. Such a high. But then they start looking
around and seeing more and more people riding waves alongside them
and they turn into strange possessive Gollums, hating other
surfers, stealing their waves, getting high off their waves,
fucking other surfers and hating the industry that is built around
selling their personal dream. So much like the last boy with a
baggie of cocaine at a dying party. Such hiding in the bathroom.
Such suspicion of everyone and everything.
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Depression: “The worst February in 28 years
for Mavericks!”
Are you crazy for the big stuff? Like, not to
surf obviously but to watch? Viewing parties for Jaws and Nazare
etc? Well if you are, I can only imagine the frustration,
depression even, that you feel about California’s premier big wave
Chasing Mavericks.
It seemed, early on, that this would be her year as the event
had finally been extracted from a man named Griffin Guess and
gifted back to its rightful heirs, owners of all professional
surfing, the World Surf League.
And in December, oooee! she lit right up. A day of 50+ foot
waves but… confusingly no competition. Or maybe not confusing at
all. In what became a tradition, it was called off because the
waves were both a) too big and b) too good and the Pretty Big Wave World
Tour was born.
In any case, that was December. Certainly the Grand Ol Dame
would roar in January and February.
Alas. And let us let the San Francisco
Chronicle be the bearer of bad news. Let us kill that
messenger instead.
The Mavericks surf contest is on the clock, and things do
not look promising.
The month of March remains in the contest window, but the
combination of foul weather and an unsettling forecast has greatly
reduced the odds.
“This was the worst February in 28 years for Mavericks,”
said San Francisco big-wave surfer Grant Washburn, who has
meticulously documented every swell since the place became
popularized in the early 1990s. “It’s not even close, by my
records. January was not much better. There hasn’t been anything
even remotely contest-worthy in almost three months.”
March is traditionally a tricky month, known for its stiff
northwest/west winds (not good for Mavericks), and there’s little
reason to expect much this time.
“The jet stream has been split for at least six weeks now,”
said Mark Sponsler, who lends his forecasting expertise to the
contest, “and even with the Active Phase of the MJO raging in the
West Pacific, it hasn’t been able to feed enough energy into the
jet to get it to consolidate across the width of the
Pacific.
“Until that happens, the odds are low of a storm forming
close enough to Mavericks to result in a contestable swell. At this
point, the odds are not good of that happening.”
Etc.
Bummer.
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Buy: VIP World Surf League experiences from
$1,200 – $13,299!
Finally, a luxury way to experience the best of the
World Surf League!
I don’t need to preface this with any sort of
introduction. Some things, as they say, sell themselves and this is
one of those things so let us turn to the World Surf League’s desk
of Very Important Person Experiences that Journey Beyond without
further ado.
I would suggest having your credit card within arm’s reach.
For the first time, we’re taking you deep inside the
adventure of the tour with VIP experiences beyond the waves on a
global journey of discovery. Get passes now.
Now, you should just blindly click in your details details and
press “purchase” but, since ye have little faith here. I’ll let the WSL give you
details.
Snapper. $1200 gets you…
-Prime viewing, screens, and shade at the WSL VIP lounge every
day the competition is ON
-Complimentary food and drink at the WSL VIP lounge
-Athlete meet and greet
-VIP welcome bag
-VIP Access to The Drop concert in Coolangatta
Bali. $13,299 gets you…
– Beachfront Pool Suite at Komune Resort for the duration of the
event window (May 13-25)
– Prime, poolside, competition viewing
– Complimentary drinks when the competition is ON
– Daily Resort meal credit (up to $815/person total value)
– Two lay day activities that showcase the region (e.g night
surfing, waterfall hike, sunrise yoga)
– Access to exclusive parties and concerts
– VIP Odyssey welcome bag
– An invitation to a personalized athlete mixer
Margs. $9499 gets you…
– Premier accommodations within a 10 minute drive from site for
the duration of the event window (May 29- June 9)
– Prime competition viewing
– Complimentary meals and drinks when the competition is ON
– Daily breakfast at your accomodation
– Two lay day activities that showcase the region (e.g wine
tasting & vineyard tours, cave exploring, lunch on a private white
sand beach)
– VIP access to exclusive parties and The Drop concert
– VIP Odyssey welcome bag
– An invitation to a personalized athlete mixer
Chopes. $10,488.90 gets you…
-Private bungalows tucked into the jungle await you. Live like
the locals do for the duration of the event window (Aug 21- Sept
1)
– Prime competition viewing from the channel on a VIP only
catamaran
– Complimentary meals and drinks when the competition is ON
-Daily breakfast at your accommodations
– Two lay day activities that showcase the region (e.g
snorkeling day w/ private group lunch, hiking the iconic mountains,
exploring hidden coves and untouched beaches)
– Access to exclusive events, parties and concerts
– VIP Odyssey welcome bag
– An invitation to a personalized athlete mixer
So? Which one are you going to choose? Will you invite any of
your friends from here? Bells ($1299) and J-Bay ($8623.85) are
available too.
