Surfing’s two great polemicists face-off in
epic Coronavirus blood feud: “I can’t wrap my head around anyone
that would spend their entire life riding beginner boards!”
By Derek Rielly
And, "You're a total kook who ran home to the
shoulder at Mavericks!"
It’s been too long between the bloodying of computer and
telephone keys, as warlords face off online.
A respite today, and a timely respite given the cholera, or
whatever it is, epidemic.
Earlier, the noted big-wave surfer from Santa Cruz, Ken Collins,
fifty-two, also known, variously, as Skindog and Skin Dizzle, a man
who once received a citation for the “bitch slap” of two
bodyboarders, was set upon by the original retro-fabulist, and kung
fu expert, Joel Tudor.
Joel, who is forty-four, is no stranger to online blood
feuds.
You at pipeline was pretty funny ….total kook who ran home
to the shoulder at Mavericks! Bwhahaha love you and thanks for
unblocking me hahha.
Skinny jabs,
Who you kidding? I don’t partake in the great migration each
winter with you and your massive heard of semi-pro sheep. I went to
Mexico all through the 90’s to present. I think it paid off not to
follow on that path.
It goes on and on for days, the two various camps firing virtual
salvos over virtual bows.
I’m in the Joel camp, if you’re wondering.
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Question: What is the actual toll of
forcing human beings to be mortally terrified of one another?
By Chas Smith
The horror. The horror.
I have not been to the grocery store in a couple of
days which means I have not been to the grocery store in
an eternity as experienced through our current Coronavirus
Apocalypse. Last time, a couple of days ago, there was a limited
amount of toilet paper and the checkers were wearing medical
gloves.
Today, I had to line up with red tape indicating where I could
stand and, once ushered in, there was also red tape indicating
where I could stand. Confused grandparents who had lived through
World War II wore ironic, disbelieving smiles.
Completely healthy millennials wore medical gloves plus masks
and ran away from me like I was the physical embodiment of
terror.
And what the honest hell.
What the honest to goodness hell.
I understand that we’re supposed to socially isolate etc. and do
our part and am doing my part but has anyone stopped to ponder the
toll this wildness will take on society?
Humans fleeing each other terrified?
Especially younger, healthy humans?
I went to the refrigerated zone to get a Mexican Coke. A man no
older than Ashton Goggans, maybe 33-ish, and just as heavy but
twice as fit stood there, in full medical gloves plus masks and
fled, turned tail and sprinted toward the produce, when I came
near-ish.
I spent the rest of my shopping minutes angling toward younger
men, giggling internally as they peeled away in panic.
Then my wheels began to turn.
The future of surfing.
The glorious future.
I’m paddling out exactly where I want tomorrow and surfing
exactly where I want.
But what happens to the rest of humanity? Mental states
etc.?
More as the story develops.
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Two more surfers of “extraordinary
self-confidence” run gauntlet at J-Bay; captured, threatened with
six months jail: “Round them up and bring them to the locals. Lots
of spare energy to sort them out!”
By Craig Jarvis
Locals, again, red with indignation etc.
The online commentary in yesterday’s article on the
Doctor who surfed at Supers and wanted to apologize was
brutal, as only it can get on BG.
Luckily, not too much was aimed at me, and it was mainly
directed at the interloper, who really wanted to express his regret
and move on.
What I did take to heart though, was that there wasn’t enough
context in the article, and commentator Jordy’s Pout helped out a
bit there.
Mr Pout described the South African situation perfectly, and I
quote (but edited to suit me),
“The article didn’t give proper context to the extent of the
lockdown. It has nothing to do with beaches being closed, or
surfing being banned. We literally have to stay in our homes,
except to buy food or medical supplies (or if you work in related
supply chains). All non-essential businesses are
closed. There’s no allowance for exercise or recreation
outside of your own home. The president specified that any
visitors still in the country when lockdown started would have to
stay in their hotels for the 21 days. Clear as
daylight.”
With that as context, when two local surfers paddled out at
Supers on Sunday afternoon, the other locals obeying the rules and
staying at home were pissed off, again, and the two surfers were
called many names on social platforms, none of them flattering.
They surfed for a while, and a few people grabbed a few clips
from the phones from balconies overlooking the waves.
It is heartbreaking for them all, watching from their homes, but
the general consensus, much like yesterday’s theme was, “What makes
these two so fucking special?”
These two laaities are locals, and they will be dealt with by
the older locals.
As one of the more notorious older locals said on Facebook,
“Round them up and bring them to the locals. Lots of spare energy
to sort them out. Name and shame.”
Another local mentioned, “It would be nice to know who these
guys were. Name and shame them cos you are right, lockdown means
fucking lockdown for everyone… No exceptions.”
There are enough people who are taking this all as seriously as
it should be, and are fully aware of what is coming.
The two surfers were apprehended by security and police, and
were both given their options: R5,000 fine (three hundred US) or
six months in jail.
They both took the fines.
They were unceremoniously marched into the back of a police
wagon, and driven down to the local station.
In the big picture, it’s not an outrageous amount of money, but
in a world that is broken and there is no more income forthcoming,
it’s a huge and stupid waste.
It’s not the point though.
The point is that there are hundreds of surfers in the area, and
in the country, there are also hundreds of fishermen, and divers,
and open water swimmers, and kayakers.
We all want to surf, to be in the ocean.
My boy is eleven years old and all he wants to do is surf.
All the groms want to surf. It’s what we do.
We surf.
But we can’t, because it’s the law during lockdown.
It’s the fucking law.
So don’t be a poes.
Be lekker, ekse.
Chill. Relax.
Have a massive dop, or have a skyf or a gwaai or whatever it is
that you need to do to get over this kak time in our lives when we
can’t go surfing.
Just don’t be a poes, seriously.
We will all be surfing again, if we all work through this
together.
The alternative is too heavy to think about.
Translation: Laaities = young surfers, a bit older than
groms, but younger than the established crew. Haven’t done their
hard work yet. Poes = meaning female genitalia, it is typically
considered a foul word as it is often used to refer to or describe
someone with utter disgust. Lekker = cool, good. Ekse = I say Dop = alcoholic beverage Skyf = marijuana rolled up neatly inside some
rizla. Gwaai = tobacco cigarette Kak = faeces
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Breaking: Two teenage boys practicing
appropriate “social distancing” viciously attacked by malicious
Great White shark in Santa Cruz!
By Chas Smith
No quarter.
We’re all doing our best here to at least look like
we’re being respectful, staying away from others,
vigorously washing our hands and/or squirting hand sanitizer in
front of others so they can see how seriously we’re all taking this
Coronavirus pandemic. This absolute horror above/beyond anything
ever seen in human history. Sneezing into our elbows. Using those
same elbows to “fist bump.”
Two teenaged boys in Santa Cruz went the extra social distancing
mile yesterday, for example, hanging scarlet S U P’s around their
necks. StandUp Paddleboard. A device guaranteed to keep people well
over six feet away and likely cause denouncement from friends and
family members. More “social killer” than “social distancer” as
these boys will likely never find a partner who forgives but there
they were, doing their part, standup paddleboarding out beyond the
kelp beds ringing Santa Cruz’s Pleasure Point but did nature reward
their self sacrifice?
Two teenagers who said a shark thrashed their Stand Up
Paddle board in waters of Pleasure Point in Santa Cruz on Friday
walked away unscathed.
The close encounter happened while they were in the water in
the evening when one teen said his SUP board was suddenly and
aggressively pushed by a shark.
They were paddle boarding past the kelp beds when he felt a
jolt and was knocked off his board.
While there was thrashing in the water, he scrambled back
atop his board only to see a shark taking a bite of the back of the
board.
The teen then punched the shark causing it to let go of the
board. The friends got out of the water quickly with the board,
which now has visible bite marks in the SUP board.
No surfing in Santa Cruz for both moral high horse reasons but
mostly related to deadly, malicious Great White sharks.
More unforgiving than your glaring neighbor when you step out
for a waltz in the sun during this Coronavirus Apocalypse.
More as the story develops.
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Longtom on HBO’s 4 x Emmy-nominated 24/7
Kelly Slater: “You can see why he plays now in this end of the
pool. An increasingly belligerent surf media is as likely to mock
as worship the eleven-time World Champ”
By Longtom
It's soft focus hagiography, Kelly is treated with
a gentle reverence, adored by every camera angle.
Maybe the greatest reveal was Kelly learning from that expose to
be more circumspect and hence less vulnerable to the public slaying
he copped after the Soundwaves episode was broadcast.
HBO’s doco is very good.
Very, very good.
As you’d expect.
Slick, high production values, a super abundance of emotional
cliches which hit all the right spots. Pretty much perfect fodder
for mainstream audiences.
You could show it to your Granny and she’d now “get” Slater. We
get the ultra-competitive war horse, with a self-confessed case of
small man’s syndrome from an upbringing on the wrong side of the
tracks in small town coastal Florida, writ large.
I see it as being of a piece with the great meta-narrative of
Kelly’s life which has run parallel with his competitive surfing
career: making him a main street sporting star and celebrity in
American life. He reached that point easily and effortlessly in the
Australian public imagination almost from day one, first as
anti-hero when he relegated a generation of Australian surfing
stars to the status of second rate supporting acts. Then, as
genuine economic hero to a generation of tourism bureaucrats who
saw in his power to draw a crowd the answer to their prayers to hit
key targets. An official in the WA Tourism department cited, by way
of example, Kelly’s appearance in the Margaret River Pro when it
was a QS, as the chief metric and reason the government was willing
the spend to up the event to CT level.
Sadly, Kelly has never reached the same level of stardom in his
native country. Driving a couple of Floridian gals from Byron Bay
to the Gold Coast airport I was stunned they had never heard of our
guy Kelly. Mid-Twenties, bright as buttons. You will not find
specimens of any part of the sexual spectrum in Australia who are
unaware of Mick Fanning, nor Kelly for that matter.
That subject isn’t touched upon in the HBO doco.
The principal animating force is Kelly’s drive to compete and
his battle with an ageing body that houses a mind that still throbs
with the passion of competing and, as the elegant opening voiceover
insists, shows a “stubborn unwillingness to let time dictate his
story.”
It’s soft focus hagiography, Kelly is treated with a gentle
reverence, adored by every camera angle. You can see why he plays
now in this end of the pool. With the disintegration of the surf
industry/media model an increasingly belligerent surf media is as
likely to mock as worship the eleven-time world champ.
Any jagged-edged rocks could be carefully sieved out either in
pre or post production; there is nothing approaching the openly
cringey moments we got in the Soundwaves Ep.
It seems to me the conflict in the film comes from the question
which remains unasked in the film, but yet lurks in every scene
like Chekhov’s Black
Monk. In that story, a brilliant scholar is
convinced by a black monk that he is chosen by God for a special
purpose.
As the scholar becomes more deluded he becomes convinced that
without the Black Monk he is doomed to a lifetime of mediocrity
instead of genius. By that analogy, Kelly’s battle with time and
his determination to only go out when the “battery is done” has a
tragic edge to it. In the Chekhov story the scholar succumbs to one
final hallucination, the Black Monk guides him to incorporeal
genius and he dies with a smile.
There’s no such tragic ending in the Doco.
More an extended meditative foreplay leading up to last years
Pipe Masters. Which, according to Kelly, if had won, would have
been his final victory, his genius now immortalised and he could go
out with a smile. The film ends, bizarrely, before the Pipe
Masters, an extended foreplay with no denouement.
We know how the story ends of course. A semi-final loss to
winner and world champ Italo Ferreira.
We know Kelly keeps the Black Monk close by, commits to his
genius.
The question, unasked in the doco – will he keep going and for
how long? – is answered in the affirmative. At least for one more
year.
While the film may be superficial for the aficionado there are
many wonderful moments to savour. A sweaty Kelly rolling on the mat
with Joel Tudor in a ju-jitsu scene is compelling, for many
reasons.
Despite my intense dislike of golf, I found the golf scene
marvellously entertaining; Benji Weatherly heckling Kelly during a
golf swing was gold. Even I could see Abe Lerner was there to make
Kelly look good. There was something expressive and yet incredibly
enigmatic in girlfriend Kalani Miller’s Mona Lisa smile, whilst
watching Kelly compete at Haliewa. The four-fin with nubster
Cymatic surfing at six-to-eight-foot Haleiwa is a flashback to the
2011 New York high point.
In the end, Kelly’s monstrous yet utterly necessary
self-obsession is tempered with the awakenings of self-awareness.
He’s alien to us and yet we have to accept him. Reflecting on his
life he realises how “it’s all gone my way” and then credits
himself for the luck by suggesting that maybe “it’s just looking
with the right perspective, the right lens.”
He hesitates when suggesting life advice to others, realising
that pursuing your passion and making some kind of living out of it
is a rare outcome available to the few, not the many.
Chasing the spectral shadow of pro surfing success is our man
Kelly born with the rainbow wrapped around his shoulders.
This madman’s delirium is no lofty ideal but it gives his life
purpose, making it joyful and happy.
For most, chasing a pro surfing dream is, on the contrary, an
evil genius who entices with vile flattery and spits you out shaken
and confused. A true black monk.
For us, the spectators, we imbibe the dream at our leisure, in
the hope and mostly vain expectation of being relieved of the
burden of depressing reality.
For that reason, we hope Kelly is the rarest of the rare: the
one who never dies.
(Editor’s note: If you don’t live in the US, it ain’t
an easy film to get on your screen. If your country doesn’t have
HBO, or won’t share, get y’self a VPN and sign up for a
free-month’s trial at Amazon HBO. Bonus is you’ll get to watch
Momentum Generation, a truly brilliant film, for free,
too.)