New Zealand company enters sea machine
race; promises twelve-foot waves: “We’ve cracked the code and can
provide bigger waves than any other man made wave on the
planet!”
By Derek Rielly
The Sea Machine arms race continues…
Before a mysterious virus climbed out of the ooze of a
multi-species Chinese slaughteryard, there was a wavepool
race going on.
A reminder.
Wavegarden leads, currently, with its proven commercial
viability and American Wave Machines (Waco, Jersey super mall) is
in second place. The WSL’s yet-to-build-a-second-tank KS pool is a
distant third along with old-new entrant, Tom Lochtefeld,
whose Surf Loch is going
to be used as part of a member-only retreat at a remote site just
west of Sydney and as the tech behind the new
Magnusson-Robb pool in Palm Springs.
Forty-nine-year-old New Zealand entrepreneur Josh Nepia, the
owner of Surf
Mountain, an off-road track for scooter riders in
Auckland, says local technology is able to create waves “up to
twelve-feet high”.
He wants to build a park called SwellPlanet and has
already lodged a building consent application for the
fifteen-million dollar construction.
Meanwhile, Surf Lakes, the pool tech that features a giant
plunger which failed spectacularly during a test run at its
full-sized testing facility, has promised to break dirt on a Gold
Coast tank with eight separate waves and permanent offshore winds
sometime in the next “nine to twelve months”.
Just in: Surfing Icon’s devastating act of
kindness in face of coronavirus pandemic!
By Derek Rielly
As panic sets in to a world under siege by
invisible bug, one surfer stands tall…
I doubt, by now, if I have to press upon you the bona
fides of surf historian Matt Warshaw, a former surfer who
is currently confined at home in Seattle, Washington.
A peerless writer, researcher, thinker, owner of
The Encyclopedia of Surfing, the
very thread, no, the single thread, that holds surf
culture together in the face of the WSL’s VAL onslaught.
On matters concerning the sport’s atrophying culture, there is
no one else to turn to.
If you’ve yet to drink from his fountain, dip into,
In today’s weekly EOS mail-out, where his subscribers are
treated to one thousand seamless words on whatever topics Warshaw
has been into that week and in the face of the Coronavirus
pandemic, he writes,
In exchange for you guys cutting me some slack, I make this
offer: if anybody out there in EOS-land takes enough of a hit
during the impending economic plunge that your subscription becomes
a burden, let me know and I’ll pick up the cost until things get
better.
I will continue to pull frivolity from our viral pandemic,
in keeping with a whistle-past-the-graveyard response that,
surprise surprise, is already the default setting for surfers and
memers alike. On the other hand, there is no whistling away the
fact that COVID-19 has literally hit home in Seattle. Schools
closed here last week, meaning that in addition to being CEO
of the world’s leading nonprofit surf history and cultural
preservation website, I’m now a full-time stay-at-home
Dad. Expect more typos and misplaced, commas, in other
words.
In exchange for you guys cutting me some slack, I make this
offer: if anybody out there in EOS-land takes enough of a hit
during the impending economic plunge that your subscription becomes
a burden, let me know and I’ll pick up the cost until things get
better.
Social distancing means we are all going to have more time
alone with our computers and phones. Between refreshing CNN Live
Updates and watching our stock portfolios contract like a hot
panful of Shrinky Dinks, we might as well kill time together
on EOS. So hit me up. You guys rallied and kept EOS going when we
were on the brink. I’m glad to carry anyone who needs it from now
till vaccine day.
And to go out on a high note, remember that surfing, in
these tense and unsettled times, is practically a life-saving act.
Barring some kind of open-mouth collision with another surfer,
riding waves is the safest thing this side of trail running through
the Falklands. In other words, we just became half as selfish
and twice as righteous.
No one quite like Matt Warshaw is there?
Put him in a shimmering white silk micro dress and a blue-black
wig that hangs to his shoulders and jam his size ten feet into
white square-toed pump with rhinestone buckle and I’d marry the
bastard.
South Central's Giovanni Douresseau "is
committed to sharing the life-altering gift of surfing that was
given to him when he needed it most." WSL
The Magic Elf Syndrome: Is the WSL
fetishising People of Colour?
By Derek Rielly
"A kind of saintly, adorable ET whose sole purpose
is to remind us only about tolerance and our prejudices…"
Transformed is a documentary series from WSL
Studios, currently into its second season, that tells “stories of
surf ambassadors whose lives were transformed through
surfing, and who are now transforming their communities
through the power of surfing.”
The first series “sparked an emotional response from surf fans
and resonated with a broader audience,” said the WSL’s CEO Erik
Logan.
It’s a good spin.
The YouTube numbers were terrible, between four thousand and six
thousand views an episode, a handful of comments.
The second series, between three thousand and thirteen
thousand.
These are pretty, well-made films with every emotional button
pushed: brave women fighting patriarchies, a legless Colombian,
cruel Taliban overlords in Afghanistan and a focus on People of Colour.
Of series two’s four eps, the first three feature,
India’s First Female Surfer,
How Women In Surfing Are Changing the World, with
Senegal’s Khadjou Sambe
And, A Surfer From South Central,
All gorgeous stories, break out the tissues etc.
I watch ‘em all over and over, big fan, especially chubby LA guy
gets out of gangsta lifestyle via surfing, a real weepy.
I hadn’t noticed, too busy sniffling and jazz-handing, although
it did make me wonder,
Is the sentiment of Transformed the same as the media’s
canonisation of the Gay Man as Magical Elf, a theory held by
superstar eighties author Bret Easton Ellis.
“The sweet and smiley and sexually unthreatening elf with
liberal values and a positive attitude is supposed to transform
everyone into noble gay-loving protectors… a kind of saintly,
adorable ET whose sole purpose is to remind us only about
tolerance and our prejudices,” he writes.
Ergo,
Is the WSL festishising people of colour and is it this
patronising approach masquerading as progressive values that has
its potential audience staying away in droves?
Or not?
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Indonesia locks down ports: Twelve
Australian surfers stranded on charter boat off coast of
Sumba!
By surf ads
Booze, food, fuel, running low.
Ramifications from the world’s response to coronavirus
are far reaching. Yet to be fully understood.
Border closures. Enforced quarantines. Essential social services
in many countries suspended. Macro decisions that hit on a
micro level.
The biggest social upheaval since World War II plays out in
myriad ways.
As I write, twelve surfers from Newcastle, Australia, are in
limbo off the coast of Sumba, east of Bali. Stranded by a political
decision that sees them unable to disembark from their boat nor
allowed to return home.
While they were out chasing waves in a mobile reception dead
zone, local government authorities decreed no foreigners could set
foot on land in any of their ports for fear of spreading the mildly
lethal virus further.
Upon their return, they found the world had shut up shop.
No back to life, no back to reality.
At one stage, the dozen were down to the final meal and running
dangerously low on basic supplies. The skipper they’d use the last
of their fuel to travel to nearby Flores, but there was no
guarantee they could land there either.
Many have already missed connecting flights home (and will now
face a two-week quarantine for their troubles when they do finally
make it).
“We’ve had one boat come out to speak to us to basically tell us
we can’t come to land,” one of the surfers,
Brydon Roper, told 9News.“This is a ten-day surf
charter so the guys that run this boat stocked it for ten days only
of food and water.”
Dire times east of the Wallace line.
Yet surf travel companies in my Facebook feed are still
advertising business as usual in the Ments, up the other end of the
archipelago. Freedom of passage assured, lack of crowds guaranteed.
Social distancing to be enforced on the trip, allegedly. But any
person that’s ever stepped foot on one of those testosterone-soaked
love boats knows how that will play out
Cheap deals for you, mister.
Special price for today only. Shred the apocalypse.
But the situation is evolving as quickly as the virus
spreads.
The only knowns are the unknowns and a real-world, geopolitical
unravelling that would rival any right-wing-left-wing conspiracy
fantasy.
So what would you do for love in the time of coronavirus?
Risk a dirt-cheap trip and uncrowded perfection for the chance
of quarantine, forced berthing, or worse?
It’s a yeah, nah, for me.
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Heedless surfer-father and young daughter
enter Coronavirus travel nightmare; forced into boutique Parisienne
hotel like “filthy refugees!”
By Chas Smith
A vivid dream.
“Would you rather be here or back home waiting in a mile
long line for Trader Joe’s canned beans and…banana chips?”
I ask my young daughter as we drop luggage off in our
Opera-inspired, Jacques Garcia designed Paris hotel room.
“Ummmm. What’s Trader Joe’s?” She responds while washing her
hands with the supplied Hermès soap in the bathroom.
“Exactly.” I say and it’s the right answer though we are now,
officially, Coronavirus refugees. Instead of being allowed on to
our scheduled Air Tahiti Nui flight tomorrow we are forced to cool
heels in Paris for extra days, near the Palais Garnier, a stone’s
throw from le Chapelle Expiatoire.
Brutal but like our brothers and sisters fleeing war torn Syria,
war torn Afghanistan, conflict ravaged west Africa we will
survive.
The Coronavirus Zombie Apocalypse has reached full tilt, or a
much fuller tilt than any sane person could have ever imagined. I
thought the flu-esque
paranoia would grip Europe and we’d shred empty
palaces, empty restaurants, empty plazas, parks, zoos
and museums and that has been true, all of that and more, but
Europeans, or at least the French and Germans, seemed generally
lassiez-faire/lass los about the whole business. Nobody panicking.
Nobody over-purchasing. Life as normal but… decidedly, gloriously
less crowded, or at least until midnight tonight when all
restaurants shutter and theaters screening The Best of Brigette
Bardot turn black.
Aside from the elderly, who pull away in horror from my own
personal walking immune system booster, we have lived a vivid dream
but then, overnight, flight delayed. Postponed until the next day
and who knows what then? Into an America hoarding nightmare?
Otherwise healthy people crushed to death by cans upon cans of
Trader Joe’s beans?
Honestly, what is going to happen to all the hoarded foodstuffs,
toilet paper, hand sanitizer, masks? Has stockpiling suddenly
mainstreamed and will awakened Americans begin digging bunkers as
soon as this virus passes or will it all end up in landfills,
hastening the Global Warming Zombie Apocalypse?
Well, we may as well learn French in the meantime.
“Oh can we please learn to speak French… ples vous?
That’s how they say please. I’m serious.” My young daughter says
while pulling me out the door for a steak frites.
“Oui Vuitton je ne sais quoi.” I respond. “That means
yes.”
My phone rings at that very moment and it is my wife, back in
California.
“When are you guys coming home?”
“I don’t really know. The French are sending us to the
Caribbean, theoretically, tomorrow.”
“What?” She does not sound happy. “You are NOT getting sent to
some crazy quarantine island in the Caribbean with OUR
daughter!”
Minutes later she’s busted us free and has us direct without
even paying a gouged fare.
Charles de Gaulle to Los Angeles International.
“Your mama is better than Papillon.” I tell my
young daughter as we push out into the almost warm night, the City
of Lights glowing in puddles as the French, seeming to ignore
social distancing norms, continuing to see life in pink.
“It took that bro a decade, or something, to escape from his
crazy quarantine Caribbean island. Your mama is, historically,
legendary.”
“What did Papillon do to go to the crazy whatever island?” She
asks.
“Not cry when his mother died…” I respond. “Or wait. That’s my
other favorite Frenchman. But your mama, classically
legendary.”