I hate every single thing about this picture including, but not limited to, some family members going right on a barreling left.
I hate every single thing about this picture including, but not limited to, some family members going right on a barreling left.

Question: Is the “family surf trip” a beautiful mélange or the devil’s most insidious contradiction?

A necessary investigation for our time.

I am, at once, a surfer and a family man and these are mutually exclusive. Surfers are selfish, by nature. Self-obsessed and edgy. Eggy. Family man necessitates selflessness, patience, kindness, benevolence, etc.

The two often thrash about and become entwined in my life. The surfer comes out on land, when a car drives by too fast when I’m walking my daughter to school and I kick its rear fender as hard as I can then chase it down until the driver opens the door at which point I press him, by the neck, against his death machine, screaming, “DON’T PADDLE ON ME!” while my daughter cries on the sidewalk.

The family man comes out in the water, when a gorgeous nugget is coming to me, straight to me, but I’ve been watching a gentle child struggle all day and now he is on the corner and now his head is down paddling with all his gentle might.

“Go!” I yell. “Go, go, go!”

It’s a rough business, trying to keep them separate, though I mostly do, but my beautiful wife is perpetually trying to destroy the fragile détente.

She has been asking, for years, to go on surf trip. She is a shredder. Once a professional snowboarder, now a grumpy local having cut her teeth in Westport, Washington, coming of age in bucolic Cardiff-by-the-Sea.

“You’re a surf journalist…” she tells me through tears. “Can you please take us on a surf trip? I need warm water and waves…” motioning to my daughter who has her hands folded as if in prayer.

And while she has taken us on snowboard trips to Wyoming, Colorado, Switzerland, France, Japan, Squaw Valley, etc. I respond, “No.”

A family surf trip equals misery in the water, particularly with a surfing spouse, wondering if he or she is getting anxious, and misery on land, playing Marco Polo in a swimming pool when, somewhere, waves are firing.

No.

The family surf trip is impossible. It is not a thing that exists or a thing that should exist. The devil’s most insidious contradiction.

But, late one night after too many vodka sodas, tired and worn down, I sighed, “Show me where you want to go.” The time is now, I suppose, as my surf journalism is quickly evolving into some new, grand mutation, possibly a modern Buddha or maybe Gandhi, and I don’t know if modern Buddhas go on many surf trips.

Gandhis definitely don’t.

Hours later she sent me an email link to Rancho Santana in Nicaragua.

I was intrigued as I’ve only ever heard glorious tales of the country from my uncle who was very good friends with… someone etched into Central American history (find out who here!) and spent time crawling around its jungles both before and after vacations to Afghanistan.

Rancho Santana looked ideal. Elegant yet folding into the verdant landscape perfectly. Pristinely white with red tiled roofs. A huge piece of property featuring a left point and beachbreak wedge out the front. A short hop to famed Colorados and Panga Drops just around the corner.

“But will it work?” I wondered. “Can a family surf trip actually work?”

More as the story develops.

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Like many beginners, the Surf Witches have been seduced by a vision that only rarely exists. You know the one, it’s that idyll of a mellow, dreamy session, where it all comes easily, everyone is happy, and the scene looks just like Instagram. They want it to feel like yoga or a meditation session. Or, a slumber party. | Photo: Hannah Jessup

Jen See on ‘Surf Witches’ all-girl surf gang: “A challenging thing in life as a woman is figuring out when things are about gender, and when they really just aren’t!”

Like many beginners, the Surf Witches have been seduced by a vision that only rarely exists.

Earlier today, I went down to the beach and went for a surf.

Some rugged windswell had rolled into the neighborhood, which meant fun waves if you knew where to look for them. It is no longer bikini season here, in case you were wondering, so bikini updates are suspended indefinitely.

We apologize for the inconvenience.

When I paddled out, I was the only woman in the lineup. Later a couple women more joined us. But for most of the session, a crew of bros and I competed for waves. Most of us knew one another, if not well, at least in the “I’ve seen you around” kind of way. The vibe was happy, competitive, mellow, all at the same time. I didn’t really notice I was the only girl in the water. No one burned me. No one burned anyone else, either.

The midlength guys had an advantage and used it. The shortboarder from a nearby college with the golden retriever personality chased every peak in his time zone. It was fine. It was all fine. We all eventually got waves. Some got more waves than others. That’s how it works.

We all want waves. We all can’t have them at the same time. This is surfing’s most basic law.

I came home to an email from Derek. (Chas doesn’t email, his inbox is where hope goes to die.) Derek had sent me a link. Surf witches! I wondered if there would be hats. Obviously, I clicked immediately.

In search of a feel-good story, ABC Gold Coast reports that a crew of women have formed a surf and social group called Surf Witches.

Their goal?

To escape the competitive, negative vibes they have experienced while surfing Snapper and Duranbah.

“There are lots of men in the lineup and they’re very serious, and they don’t want to talk to you, and they’re all dropping in on your waves,” said Surf Witches co-founder Hannah Jessup, who learned to surf earlier this year. “As a beginner, it’s hard to know how to handle that kind of attitude.”

The group meets up to go surf and wears blue bracelets to identify one another in the lineup. “It actually feels like a party or a sleepover or something,” said Jessup. The women cheer for each other’s successes, however small, and have begun expanding into meeting for brunch and coffee out of the water. The Surf Witches hope to reach beyond Australia to the U.S., in an effort to make women feel more welcome in the lineup.

There is… a lot to unpack here.

Let’s start with the easy part. A social group for women who want to surf is indeed a lovely little feel-good story for your afternoon perusal. Women who want to surf with other women, they should totally do that. I would rather be shot into the sun than join a women’s surfing group, but on the whole, I am not a joiner. I will gladly, however, take my woman friends surfing if they would like to try it out. I do that, because while I’m not a joiner, I do like my friends.

If I did take my beginner friends surfing, we would never, in a million, billion years paddle out a place like Snapper. Like, never.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever burned a beginner. You totally have, right? I totally have. I mean, I’m not proud of it, but I have. Sometimes, my inner asshole escapes.

It’s crowded, you’re surfing a decent spot, you’re pretty sure the beginner will eventually blow the wave, so you just fucking go. We’ve probably all done this. It’s like sharks eating the smallest, slowest fish they can find. Chomp. No regrets, no remorse.

I would like to teach the Sea Witches of the world that there are beginner spots and they exist for a reason. Every town has at least one. Beginner spots are fun and generally super chill and that’s where you go to stand up and go straight and figure out this whole mysterious business of riding surfboards.

Standing on surfboards is pretty fun and I have no problem with new people trying it out. But for the love of the fucking sun, pick your spot and pick your day. That means, not the most famous A-list spot in your neighborhood and not the biggest day of the year. Or even, the biggest day of the week.

An A-list spot will be crowded. It will always be competitive. It will rarely be beginner-friendly. If it’s nearly flat, sure. But otherwise, you can expect to compete for your waves. That’s simply how surfing works. (If you live on a desert island or some other remote spot where no one else surfs with you, I do not want to hear from you! In fact, I am going to send every beginner I see to your remote desert island!)

There are a finite number of waves in the ocean. You might get lucky, but a good wave is not simply going to be handed to you. Like, oh hello there young lady, here’s a fun wave for you! Thanks for coming surfing today! This is not how any of this works.

There’s a significant disconnect between how people imagine surfing and what it actually is. Like many beginners, the Surf Witches have been seduced by a vision that only rarely exists. You know the one, it’s that idyll of a mellow, dreamy session, where it all comes easily, everyone is happy, and the scene looks just like Instagram. They want it to feel like yoga or a meditation session. Or, a slumber party.

You want to know who drops in on me the most often out of anyone? Women on longboards. The old school women never do this and I love them for it. But so many times, I look up, and bam! There’s a woman on a big board dropping in on me from the shoulder. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t think men are the only problem here.

Once in a while, surfing looks and feels something like this. But more often, it’s messier. More difficult. It’s not just you and the ocean, the way Instagram promises. It’s you and the ocean and other humans. And those other humans, well, they do have a tendency to shatter the dream.

There’s an amusing irony in all of this agonizing over the angry men and the negativity and omg you have to compete for waves and it’s terrible.

You want to know who drops in on me the most often out of anyone? Women on longboards. The old school women never do this and I love them for it. But so many times, I look up, and bam! There’s a woman on a big board dropping in on me from the shoulder. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t think men are the only problem here.

A challenging thing in life as a woman is figuring out when things are about gender, and when they really just aren’t.

I was out surfing over the weekend, sharing space with a couple of men on shortboards. We’d staked out an interesting sandbar. It was a warm fall California day. Bright sun. A puff of offshore. The sky, the water, a blur of glimmering blue.

There were waves, but not quite enough to go around, and the men in the lineup got more than I did. It had nothing to do with gender. The dudes were fucking ripping. They were quite simply better at surfing than me.

I still got my share of waves and I still had so much fun. This is how surfing works.

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President Erik Logan (pictured) sad that he lost his instructions on how to build IKEA's Flärdfull.
President Erik Logan (pictured) sad that he lost his instructions on how to build IKEA's Flärdfull.

Sweded: IKEA and WSL team up for “a line of products catered to you, the surfers and ocean enthusiasts of the world!”

Exciting days.

And it’s as if the World Surf League’s Santa Monica best-n-brightest including, but not limited to, Co-Waterperson of the Year Dirk Ziff, President Erik Logan and one-time Pottery Barn aficionado Kelly Slater sat down this morning, watched my not very hinged rant then said, “You don’t like corporate stupidity and absurdist greenwashing? Mic drop, skinny bitch.”

Boy oh boy, it was a dis track that may never be topped but have you not read the news? Have you not read that Swedish disposable furniture giant IKEA has teamed up with the WSL for… “a line of products catered to you, the surfers and ocean enthusiasts of the world” announced four months ago but stumbled out again today?

I have no idea what that sentence means but let’s head straight to the press release for much, much, maybe more.

WSL & IKEA are collaborating, and we want your input!

World Surf League and IKEA have partnered to create a line of products catered to you, the surfers and ocean enthusiasts of the world!

We want you to be a part of the process, helping us develop products that not only suit your lifestyle, but are better for people, the planet and society.

I clicked on the survey but couldn’t be bothered to take it.

Will you?

Also, who has a cuter bedroom, Co-Waterperson of the Year Dirk Ziff, President Erik Logan or one-time Pottery Barn aficionado Kelly Slater?

Argue now!

Sweded.
Sweded.
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Bodyboarder fight at Pipe goes nuke: “I’m a lazy motherf**ker, I’d rather just cut him up!”

Latest news from the North Shore etc.

In news from the eleven kilometre miracle, two Puerto Rican bodyboarders have squared up on the beach at Pipeline, with one determinedly holding what appears to be a little dagger.

The two bodyboarders do a lot of yelling and the show continues until a cop, in classic Hawaiian style, shuts it down by telling ’em it’s okay to scrap, but not to stab.

BeachGrit’s couple of sources say the episode started in the water when Lucas Godfrey, a noted Pipe charger and sometime star of Jamie O’Brien’s excellent blog series, collided with one of ’em as he attempted to go Backdoor, the bodyboarder, Pipe.

Words were thrown into the air, nothing serious, not a wave you’re going to throw a punch over.

Godfrey paddled away.

Then, according to our sources, another bodyboarder paddled over and started beating hell into the bodyboarder that collided with Godfrey.

“It was obvious they knew each other,” said a source who paddled in at the same time. “It was like a soap opera. It had nothing to do with surfing, in my opinion.”

On the beach, a witness called the cops and told ’em a knife had been pulled.

The cop arrived and, says our source, the bodyboarder “was talking to him bluntly, candidly, like a gangster, saying, ‘I’m a lazy motherfucker, I’d rather just cut him.’ The cop was, like, ‘You can’t be a sore loser and pull out a knife. That’s a whole other level of trouble.'”

Fight fizzed out. No injuries reported.

Watch here.

 

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Watch: “Core surfers boiled in tank of corporate stupidity and absurdist greenwashing!”

Let's bring the Grit to politics, to culture, to movies. Let's smear Grit everywhere!

In the depths of despair, I received a revelation. A quiet whisper barely audible over the muted grunts of professional surfers locked into silent bondage.

“Smear grit all over the world…” is what I heard. “Smear grit where it doesn’t belong.”

“What?” I shouted. “Smear grit where?”

But did not get any response.

I pondered the meaning for hours and hours before understanding the meaning.

Surfers, core surfers, boiled in a tank of corporate stupidity, World Surf League storytelling, absurdist greenwashing and Kelly Slater conspiracy have become so purified of any pretense, any wrongly elevated sense of self, any pride whatsoever.

Surfers, core surfers, boiled in a tank of corporate stupidity, World Surf League storytelling, absurdist greenwashing and Kelly Slater conspiracy have become so purified of any pretense, any wrongly elevated sense of self, any pride whatsoever.

We, but mostly you, are Buddha-like.

And we, but mostly you, will usher in a utopian dawn by chatting about various situations only tangentially related to surfing. By applying our selfless minds to all manner of this and that.

We owe the world our gift.

Also, have you been watching Haleiwa?

Every year the Vans Triple Crown rolls around, every year I think, “This year I should really care,” every year I don’t.

Maybe we fix that first then move to the plight of the Rohingya.

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