Revealed: “El Salvador has best surfing
beaches in the world; California second best!”
By Chas Smith
But more importantly, who wore it better?
California has a new Governor, a very handsome
man named Gavin Newsom who was once married to Donald Trump Jr.’s
current girlfriend. He is dashing, with an iron jaw and hair swept
back. He is also very liberal, very progressive and girls really go
in for that (except his ex-wife and Donald Trump Jr.’s current
girlfriend.)
I would like to have a discussion, here, about which people are
more beautiful, liberal ones or conservative ones, but Gavin Newsom
just traveled to El Salvador to be el salvaldor economico
and thumb his nose at Donald Trump whose son, Donald Trump Jr.,
happens to be dating his ex-wife.
Donald Trump very recently cut aid to the small Central American
nation.
What will salvar El Salvador?
Surfing of course and let us turn to NBC
news for more. Let’s do it right now before we have
any more discussion of ex-wives and girlfriends.
California masterfully markets its surfing culture and Gov.
Gavin Newsom said Tuesday he wants to share that expertise with El
Salvador to help boost tourism and provide more economic
opportunities for its impoverished citizens.
“There’s no doubt there’s a lot we can do together in this
space,” Newsom said after a discussion about the surfing industry’s
economic potential with local business owners, investors and U.S.
Ambassador Jean Manes.
He’ll have a willing partner in President-elect Nayib
Bukele, who he met later. Bukele has an initiative titled “Surf
City” aimed at investing in beaches to drive tourism.
“We have the best surfing beaches in the world and they have
the other ones,” he told reporters after meeting with Newsom. “So
we want to work together.”
Newsom said the state’s tourism arm, Visit California, has
already expressed interest in working with El Salvador.
Though El Salvador has among the highest homicide rates in
the world and the U.S. government warns its citizens about
traveling there, Newsom and Bukele said tourist areas are much
safer than other parts of the country. Bukele said he’ll work to
get the U.S. travel advisory removed when he takes office.
Etc.
So go to El Salvador and surf because you ain’t a sissy but
there are a lot of sissies who won’t go equalling more waves for
you.
Ok.
Now that we’re through with that, who wore it better?
Gavin Newsom…
Or Donald Trump Jr….
Vote in the comments below!
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Very difficult to escape. | Photo: Steve
Sherman/@tsherms
Steve Sherman’s post-Quiksilver Pro Photo
of the Day: Stephanie Gilmore “hazes” new tour threat Caroline
Marks!
By Derek Rielly
Surfing's great new rivalry!
Don’t let the smile fool you, as they say. The
seven-time champion and “greatest surfer in the
world”, Stephanie Gilmore, didn’t rise to those dizzy
heights without weaving webs and employing muscle when
necessary.
Here, we see Stephanie, who is thirty-one, squeezing the Gold
Coast’s WSL winner, Caroline Marks, seventeen, like an avid
pythoness.
“This was at a party Quiksilver had for their team riders and
the whole team, Mikey Wright, Zeke Lau, were there getting on it,”
says Sherm. “And Steph came up and bum-rushed Caroline,
semi-hugged, semi-tackled, and then tried to force her to guzzler
her beer.”
All in jest, of course.
It’s here we must point out that Stephanie’s long-time sponsor,
Sanitarium Health and Well-being Company, is owned by a strict
Protestant group called The Seventh Day Adventists, whose central
belief is that the Second Coming is just around the corner.
So get ready, start prepping.
Anyway, later in the night Stephanie and Caroline split the Quik
gig for Italo Ferreira’s victory party at Komune in Coolangatta,
where the pair danced the night away, together.
Is this a new version of the Kelly-AI rivalry?
Or better?
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Answered: Why Mick Fanning retired in his
prime!
By Chas Smith
He's knockin' on heaven's door!
“He has the voice of an angel” is a cliché
batted around far too often. Only three actual male singers in
modern human history have actually had a “voice of an angel.” Sam
Cooke, Morrissey and Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson just had his
angel card pulled which leaves just two. Sam Cooke’s is also in
real
jeopardy if we’re all being frank.
And so the possible reveal of a replacement second/third has
left social media atwitter, if you’ll forgive the pun.
Enter Michael Eugene Fanning crooning Bob Dylan classic Knockin’
on Heaven’s Door. (watch on BeachGrit’s
fabulous Instagram account!)
https://www.instagram.com/p/BwAxDJ6DbfT/
It was, of course, Axel Rose of Guns n’ Roses who made the song
truly famous but Mick eclipses them both with a singular delivery,
an élan that whispers greatness.
Oh how we need a star male singer. Michael Buble bubbles for old
people. Adam Levine is an utter embarrassment. Those Chainsmokers
will soon develop throat cancer a al Sammy Davis Jr. if they’re not
careful.
A giant dark hole.
The saddest time in star male singing history until the
Quiksilver Pro rolled into Duranbah and…
…Wham*.
The cat is officially out of the bag.
Mick Fanning climbing the charts.
Mick Fanning writing poetry with his tongue.
I know people think Mick and I have an adversarial relationship
and they may be right. Mick might hate me but I love him. It’s why
I half dedicated a book to “My Michael Eugene Fanning.” (Buy
here!)
Who else drinks beer from the bottom of a shoe and puts on the
best live performance in professional surfing history, shaming Tom
Curren, Peter King, Kelly Slater and all those who have tried and
failed?
The voice of an angel.
He’s got it and we can only guess that his time in the recording
studio made surfing funny heats an absolute impossibility.
In my heart of hearts I hope not true, though. Surfing needs
this version of Mick Fanning now more than ever and I mean that in
utmost sincerety.
*George Michael probably also has the “voice of an angel” if
we’re all honest.
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Changing of the guard: Steph Gilmore
officially declared “World’s Greatest Surfer!”
By Chas Smith
Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton vanquished!
I was very busy sailing over the past four
days, hunting surf off California’s Channel Islands, running up
scraggly hills, throwing rocks at prickly pears, editing
forthcoming book and sipping mezcal from small pewter cups with
four wonderful friends. It was a good time, great even, but I
missed the last two days of stunning Quiksilver Pro competition.
Well, not missed, I suppose because of
Longtom. He writes better than I see and I’m overjoyed
not to let my eyes get in the way of the truth and importance of
professional surfing.
Italo beat Kolohe, as you know, and Caroline Marks upset Steph
Gilmore but Steph should not be sad for she has just been
officially declared “World’s Greatest Surfer.”
“Who declares who is the ‘World’s Greatest Surfer’ and how do
they decide?” I hear you ask, with an incredulous edge to your
voice, and I’ll tell you. It is decided by the editorial boards of
Vanity Fair, Vogue, Esquire, Elle, ESPN and/or Guns & Ammo
magazines. It is the surfer that grabs a “World’s Greatest Surfer”
headline.
Now, Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton have been passing the award
back and forth for thirty years running. John John almost snagged
the baubles three-years-ago but didn’t have a “face for media” as
they say. And now we have Steph.
I don’t know how much Steph makes but I would bet all my
own money that it’s more than Italo Ferreira.
And do you think Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton are sad or do
you think they will throw her a welcome to the club party?
If I’m honest, I would not want Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton
to throw me any sort of party. Imagine what the two would serve.
Purps with added Laird Hamilton SuperFood Creamer festooned with
ice from the ice bath we all just got out of.
Yuck.
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Final’s Day, Quiksilver Pro: Italo Ferreira
King of D-Bah! Part of God’s plan, says Kolohe Andino!
By Longtom
"A great contest wrecked by a lame ending…"
Just to clarify. My little tête-à-tête with
John John and his self-appointed minder Peter King happened after
his round four heat.
Which, as you recall, he won.
We were both in our professional employ, not in private spaces
or training camps.
On reflection, it probably doesn’t reflect anything about John,
just a simple case of PK being a “local custodian” and protecting
his turf.
And he did make me laugh.
At one point he told me with a straight face that he was a
journalist. All good, I can never resent a man protecting his
livelihood.
Just don’t shoot me Peter. I come in peace.
Comparisons with UFC or other sports do offer insight, by
contrast. A fighter at a UFC presser might be asked about drug use,
terrorist accusations, family matters, nothing is off limits. Pro
surfers luxuriate in one of the most carefully cultivated bubbles
in any pro sport league.
Good for them, on the face of it.
Problem is, as someone suggested, in letting their surfing do
the talking, pure surfing is understood by the very few. Even a
panel of experts struggle to parse it to within a tenth of a point.
Story, drama, character is universal currency. Suppress that at
your peril.
Kolohe got robbed in the final against Italo. We all saw it.
More on that later. The real story today is what happened
yesterday. The ramifications of being beholden to Government
Tourism funding smacked the new Commissioner upside the head.
D-Bah was pumping. Silken double overhead peaks.
The decision to put on hold staggered me.
A source close to the top of the WSL cleared the confusion.
Contractual obligations to Tourism and Events Queensland were
invoked, the income stream from Atlas Pass VIP holders was in
jeopardy and needed to be thrown a bone. Stallholders and sponsors
set-up at Snapper rocks were baying for blood. Sophie G has made it
crystal clear that the commercial reality of the sport has to trump
all other concerns, including it seems, holding the Finals in the
best surf of the waiting period.
You could not blame Pat O’Connell for wishing and hopin’ for a
golden Sunday afternoon in the Queensland sun to a capacity
crowd.
Blind Freddy could see it was never going to happen.
Nursing a schooner at the Rainbow Surf club the impervious Tommy
Peterson grumbled to me “Fucking nor-easter is up and won’t lay
down. They should have gone at D-Bah; there’s no fucken surf
coming”.
By 11.45 the wind was into it, the Finals would have been
finishing in pumping D-Bah. They went on hold and on hold again. At
12.55 pm a black clad Pat O’Connell emerged from the main tower
with a blue towel wrapped around his head Lawrence of
Arabia-style.
A phalanx of Red Cameras departed within a the minute and the
illusion was shattered for the day, obligations presumedly met.
That left the WSL in the unenviable position of selling a
sub-standard Final’s day as a pinnacle when it was clear
anti-climax. Competitors struggled, none moreso than John Florence
who looked slow and sluggish in the soft peaks. He fell, and fell
and fell against Conner Coffin but still managed to prevail after a
6.33 that looked a full point too high.
Despite not a single scoring ride in the excellent range team
JJF will be ecstatic with a semi-final finish.
The week played right into John’s hands, away from the
pressure-cooker of the Snapper fish bowl with all its scrutiny and
potential for an aggressive opponent to test his resolve. Muscular
peaks to roam around in and feed on. Freesurfing during the first
half of over-lapping heats.
A dream return to competition.
Medina was clearly furious about the monumental failure to
capitalise on yesterday’s dream conditions. He sat for half the
heat waiting for a wave that never came and looked flat and
ponderous on waves he rode.
“It’s hard to compete when there’s no opportunity,” he told
Rosie in the post-heat presser.
“Why,” he said, “should we add your book to the atomic bombs
that our enemies are preparing to launch against us.”
Medina launched another bomb.
“I was surfing D-Bah (yesterday) and it was pumping but
whatever.”
Cut back to the booth and neither Ronnie or Pete touched it.
It was left to die. Like the swell on offer, slowly being torn
to pieces by the despised northerly wind.
Imagine any other pro sport deliberately downgrading its finale
to appease an outside funding body. Putting Wimbledon on a back
court with cracks in it and a holey net, shifting a title fight
from Caesars Palace to the parking lot.
Jordy and Italo finally brought some fireworks to the day.
Trading full-rotation airs with landings of impeccable hygiene.
Jordy’s was adjudged a full point and a third the better. Hard to
argue with.
Hard to argue with Italo’s response: a flurry of rotations and
varials.
Jordy looked confused.
The sheer weight of Brazilian spectator numbers meant a home
court advantage for Italo. He used non-priority as a weapon,
taunting Jordy with numerous waves under his nose. Jordy looked
relieved to concede with the clock ticking down.
Kolohe had dismantled John with a superior make rate and
technical advantage in the air, in particular a soft and subtle
back hand caressing the rail by the back heel. Sublime aerial
technique.
Vision of Italo cruising with his bottle blonde babe in the tent
between heats, necking Red Bull and getting loose has to be the
defining image of the day.
Surely that energy level had to be depleted come the Final?
Kolohe started strong. They both traded fives with no
discernible advantage. Andino surfed a QS-level wave like a jockey
coming down the home straight, whipping it mercilessly for a 5.93
and a handy lead.
Italo fell and finally looked drained.
Less than two minutes to go and he needs a 6.93.
The surf has turned to absolute dog caca. A maiden Andino
Victory looks almost assured. He lets Italo go on what he called a
“knee-high” wave. A decision he later assured us he would make “ten
times out of ten.”
Italo launched a flat low and fast spin. The rotation was
perfect and clean.
I wrote “Nah”.
But if they do, they’ll highball the fuck out of it.
They did.
The 7.07 was enough for victory.
Italo was mobbed. Kolohe looked to the beach, totally flummoxed.
He later ascribed the loss to Rosie as “part of the Lord’s
Plan”.
The lord works in mysterious ways but money doesn’t.
With a great contest wrecked by a lame ending we only place
certainty in the fact that he who pays the piper calls the
tune.