Opinion: Sal Masekela* is the worst thing to happen to pro surfing since non-elimination heats!

*And by Sal Masekela I mean cloying fan boy-ness!

The J-Bay contest is very rough for every single professional surf fan outside of South Africa. Oh, the wave is gorgeous, a dream, perfect, iconic and the culture is fascinating, interesting, fabulous and the history is unique, long and important but the time… that damned time… ooooeee!

Very rough.

I somehow imagined that the Corona J-Bay Pro would get underway before my tired eyes closed in the, admittedly, early evening. I was wrong. I also somehow imagined that the time would be in Australia’s wheelhouse and that Derek Rielly would get our patented “Live Chat” feature up with ease.

I was also wrong.

South Africa exists in a timezone unto itself. Like the store in O Brother, Where Art Thou? that serves FOP for Men but can’t get the auto part from anywhere in a reasonable time, South Africa is a geographical oddity.

Two weeks from anywhere.

And so I didn’t watch the contest, you didn’t watch the contest, thankfully Longtom did watch the contest (read here!) but as I went over the replays I experienced a shocking bummer.

Sal Masekela in the damned booth.

Now, you may like the man’s velvety pipes as he calls the action but there is a profound and troubling truth about Sal Masekela. A virus that threatens to infect even Joe Turpel, ’89 World Champ Martin Potter, Ron “Dog” Blakey and even our happy savior Barton Lynch.

Sal is surfing’s biggest fan boy.

Biggest by far, and you can’t even imagine how many dinners I’ve sat across from Sal as he pulled out his phone to show the audience text messages from Kelly Slater etc., how many times I’ve heard him derive personal value from his professional surfer “friends” but the fan boy drive is not his alone.

Surf media, in general, suffers from wanting to be “liked” by the professionals who dance across the waves. Wanting to be acknowledged and accepted by the hot, now surfer demanding attention but this instinct cuts across surf media’s very job.

Shouldn’t we be clinical, analytical, unmoved by personal preference or desire for hunger for proximity? Shouldn’t we all be ruthlessly immolating ourselves for the truth and for The People™?

It’s why Longtom shines. He doesn’t want friends, he wants to do the best job he possibly can. It’s how any sport’s writing/commentating works when it actually works. When writers and vocalists are free and willing to gut golden calves in order to share what matters.

And certainly what we do is not important. Certainly we operate in a backwater of a backwater but I think it’s time to demand a separation of church from state, or rather bro from bro, and bring some actual, honest critique to the booth.

Gimme Paul Evans.

Gimme Jen See.

Gimme a woman or man that has enough smarts to call it like she sees it and enough backbone to not shirk from truth.

The action in the water has never been better but, like in O Brother, Where Art Thou? the allure of popularity and closeness is pulling us toward the rocks.

It’s high time we demand a fix.