As for spectators at the early events, "you had the guys hanging off in the bushes, smoking dope and calling bullshit on the whole thing."

Every Sunday afternoon, east of the international date line that is, Seattle-based former surfer Matt Warshaw emails subscribers to his online encyclopedia a thoughtful summation of a certain event or epoch in surfing.

Today is Pipeline Masters themed, and the email links at the end to an interview Warshaw made with the father of the Pipe Masters, and pro surfing, the former Republican senator, Fred Hemmings.

Oh, reader, it’s thunderbolt after thunderbolt.

“I wanted to develop a format that would look good on television so I could market surfing to a larger audience—to the average schmuck watching TV in Middle America,” says Fred.

“I didn’t kiss the surfing establishment’s ass. I was an outspoken critic of drugs, back when that wasn’t cool. ‘Do your own thing, man’ —all that stuff. Well, a lot of my friends died as a result of doing their own thing.” FRED HEMMINGS

On why he chose Pipe over Sunset or Makaha.

“I went back and talked to people in New York, TV people, business people, and surfing was a really hazy thing to them. I’m sure they wouldn’t have really understood what was going on with a guy riding a 10′ wave at Sunset or Makaha. Seen one wave, seen ’em all; this guy looks just like that guy. That kind of thing. So I wanted to sell them on something a little more challenging—and dangerous, to be frank. The Pipeline is so different from other spots. And back then, as a contest site, it was virgin ground. The reason I just had six guys in the first contest was because I didn’t want to create a situation where someone was going to get in over their head.

Why the surf media ignored his event, at least initially.

“I didn’t kiss the surfing establishment’s ass. l didn’t play ball with Drew Kampion and the rest of them. I was an outspoken critic of drugs, back when that wasn’t cool. ‘Do your own thing, man’ —all that stuff. Well, a lot of my friends died as a result of doing their own thing. Anyway, I didn’t see things the way the magazine folks saw ’em, and my contest was a victim of that.”

And the spectators?

“I did the best I could to hype the thing, but I doubt if there were any more than a hundred people on the beach—probably not even that. And then you had the guys hanging off in the bushes, smoking dope and calling bullshit on the whole thing. But we just went ahead and ran it, and all in all, I think it was pretty exciting.”

(Subscribe to the Encyclopedia of Surfing, here. It’s a few bucks a month and will give the interested surfer rabbit hole after rabbit hole to fall down.)

Given the paucity of high-level surfing in front of us, will you be thrilled to watch Filipe, Brother, Griff and co oxidise Lemoore's water spouts?

Any port in a storm or so the rationale goes at three am in an emptying bar or, in our case, a year with no surfing contests. 

So it was with much excitement that we fielded a rumour, straight from WSL HQ where twenty-five percent of its staff have been “furloughed”, that America-based WCT surfers were being mobilised for a Lemoore contest “within a month.” 

The field will include Filipe Toledo, Kolohe Andino, Conner Coffin, John John Florence, Seth Moniz, Griffin Colapinto and the tank’s creator Kelly Slater; Carissa, if she decides to end quasi-retirement, Caz Marks, Lakey Peterson, maybe Stephanie Gilmore (Malibu crib), Courtney Conlogue, Sage Erickson, Malia Manuel and Brisa Hennessy if she can sneak in under the tortilla curtain. 

The Freshwater Pro, of course, has never been a favourite of surfers or fans. 

As Longtom opined last year, it was “damned with faint praise by Kolohe Andino, openly mocked by Jeremy Flores, universally panned as a doomed experiment by surf fans the Tub should have retreated back to its by now natural niche: as a novelty venue for things like Founders Cup and a high-priced corpo retreat. It ain’t a championship Tour stop. Especially one now stretched out over six days. That’s cruel and unusual punishment and I refuse to cover it.”

But, now?

Given the paucity of high-level surfing in front of us, Pentacoastal and Reynolds and Mini Blanchard’s new blog aside, I’ll be thrilled to turn on the WSL channel and watch Filipe, Brother, Griff and so on oxidise Lemoore’s water spouts.

Are you of similar mind?

Gone for two years.

If you were curious why Tyler Wright disappeared from the tour for two years, and were disappointed by the WSL’s belated and half-assed explanation, this television feature might fill in a few gaps.

While it ain’t the tell-all you mighta wanted, for mystery still surrounds the Wright family, you’ll get partly inside the head of a preternatural talent who won her first big event at fourteen and two consecutive world titles at twenty-two and twenty-three.

Meet the pop-star girlfriend “Alex the Astronaut” who nursed Tyler through her long illness, the physical therapist who asked, “How do we make her human again?” and how, at the depth of it all, and after being bedridden for months, the champ couldn’t stand up without feeling like her heart was going to explode.

A season in hell.

Make art, and see what happens. If you don’t have a plan you can never fail.

Vans’ latest film Pentacoastal is a war cry for the contemporary surf fan.

It shows us surfing at the vanguard of the modern performance spectrum, pushed even further forward by the sure-handed direction of an in-form auteur. Pentacoastal is blistering, exhilarating.

It captures attention like a well placed punch on the nose – blam! – and forces our gaze back to what’s most important.

Surfing.

This is how you create a narrative. This is exactly where the sport should be.

A rare delight. And all for free.

Have you seen it yet?

There’s a whole lot to like.

The reinvention of Wade Goodall, who’s as close to a central figure in the film as we see. Wade’s had a narrative arc that would match any character from The Wire. The pop-shuvit funboy of the early naughts is still there, but with a style and presence that’s rounded out into something much more substantial.

His surfing is next level. That foamball wrestle and bounce at P-Pass needs to be watched again, and again.

Harry Bryant, the fizzling quokka with a Marzo-esque level of command in some damn heavy situations. I was lucky enough to be out during a few of the Indo sessions featured in Pentacoastal and he was by far the standout in real time. It shows through in the film.

A supporting cast that expose no weak links.

Dane.

Even though the locales are mostly well known, the waves are shot in a new light. Literally. Muted hues and tonal fades are in the edit throughout. The aesthetic is distinct, but never overpowers. The washed-out drone soundtrack evokes that unsettling power of desert Australia and the Indian/Southern oceans chillingly. It had me putting on some Earth and settling into a doom haze as soon as I finished watching.

Pentacoastal captures the dystopian mood of 2020, but in a way that will remain relevant long after the last Chinese cough subsides.

At thirty mins it’s the perfect release time.

You gotta love the Vans model, too. Keep loose rein over a large team of talent. Allow them the creative freedom to do their own thing. Pull them together every now and then for a major project, and place it under the guidance of the likes of Goodall and Shane Fletcher with full creative control.

Make art, and see what happens. If you don’t have a plan you can never fail.

For that reason, nothing in Pentacoastal feels contrived, or marketed. It’s a statement in and of itself that surfing is at its best when it’s organic, powerful, and unencumbered.

This is how you create a narrative. This is exactly where the sport should be.

Perhaps the ultimate compliment I can give?

I’ve already watched it twice.