Inside source confirms: “World Surf League had ‘major’ announcement planned for this week that was mysteriously scuttled without explanation!”

It's a wrap, folks.

Earlier in the week, I received credible information from a trustworthy source that the World Surf League was hours away from making a grand announcement regarding the future of professional surfing. According to shim (English’s wonderful version of Latinx), the first event of the year would be Dec. and Hawaii, likely Pipeline, and would roll directly into the 2021 season.

I waited with bated breath and…. crickets.

It is now Friday afternoon, past the hour for any announcement major or minor, and what the hell is happening in Santa Monica?

Another source confirmed that there was, indeed, a “major” announcement planned but it had been mysteriously scuttled without explanation.

And so, is this moment the official end or was the official end a few months ago?

Hard to say.

I used to assume there was some play happening behind the scenes I couldn’t comprehend, as I am not a smart man, but rather a surf journalist.

I used to assume that professional surfing’s current owner co-Waterperson of the Year and exclusive southern plantation co-owner Dirk Ziff was wise and that his CEO Erik Logan was also wise.

But they are not wise.

Ziff is likely mentally checked out, worrying about other business ventures and/or his southern plantation. Logan is in well over his head, understanding neither sport nor storytelling nor surfing, Covid-19 exploded the tour and there was, truly, nothing else in the cupboard, except for his corpo double-speak and Dave Prodan’s interview skills.

The World Surf League bills itself as “The Global Home of Surfing” but it is not nor ever was. There is no “Global Home of Surfing” except for maybe Peru, where it all began (buy here in brand new paperback and signed by author).

So it’s over and my only question to you is should I take joy in tossing dirt onto the corpse or be sad whilst doing?

Summer of Blood: Australian woman recognizes “the face of Satan” in a print from K-Mart, further destabilizing 2020!

"Once you have seen it you can't unsee it..."

It has been a grim year what with the cancelation of professional surfing and also the loss of any World Surf League missives. The Santa Monica headquarters once so bold, so brash has gone entirely silent. Not a peep even after promises of exciting news.


Possibly, but about what? The legions of Great White sharks encircling America’s northeast and New Zealand in never-before-seen numbers?

A Covid-19 that has re-invigorated and extra-feisty, closing borders, filling hospitals, indiscriminately killing our obese elderly with underlying heart conditions?

Racial unrest that threatens the bucolic charm of World Surf League owner and co-Waterperson of the Year Dirk Ziff’s extremely exclusive southern plantation?

Satan himself coming out of the clouds to finish the whole business off for good?


An Australian woman recently purchased a print of what she thought were clouds except when she looked closer, realized it was actually a portrait of Satan.

‘So after finding a demonic face in this picture, I don’t want it above our bed anymore. Where else can I hang a cloudy picture?’ she said in a Facebook group.

Many terrified people quickly responded, urging the woman to get rid of the popular canvas or ‘burn it’.

‘Once you have seen it you can’t unsee it… I would get rid of it,’ one said, while another added: ‘Oh dear, I can see it! Looks evil.’

I did not see this print in World Surf League CEO Erik Logan’s office, when I last visited, but he did proudly show off a giant framed picture of Laird Hamilton riding a SUP.


At least we have Lawn Patrol.

World’s greatest athlete Kelly Slater launches extraordinary tirade at all-American juice company Snapple: “You’re killing people…”!

Health conscious champ sets his almost three-million strong Instagram army against Texas juice co…

It ain’t a good morning in any American household without a jug of Snapple holding court in the centre of the breakfast table. 

The delicious treat, which comes in Lemon Tea, Peach Tea, Raspberry Tea, Green Tea, Banana, Lemonade, Pink Lemonade, Half n Half, Straight Up Sorta Sweet, Straight Up Sweet and Straight Up Unsweetened among others, also mixes well with vodka. 

Is it bad?

Well, yeah, as is Coca-Cola, Mountain Dew, vaping, all-nat services etc.

We all know that. You take your chances.

The world’s greatest athlete Kelly Slater, who will soon reveal on Apple television the event that brought him to a “full-on breakdown”, was shocked, however, when he examined the ingredients panel on the back of a container of Snapple recently.

“Was thirsty and got this without looking at it then threw it out once i read 40 grams a serving. @snapple you’re killing people with all this sugar.”

The spray, which appeared on the Champ’s Instagram story, only became visible to BeachGrit, we’re blocked, when naughty Twitter account Full-On Steez IV gave it the ol treatment in a series of Tweets.

Does the revelation that Snapple’s delicious teas contain a large amount of sugar surprise you, too?

And, ergo, the company, which is headquartered in gorgeous Plano, Texas, is killing America?

Or no.

Surfline issues fiery rebuttal after being accused of secretly gouging customers during global pandemic: “We did too tell people about the price increase!”

"As a way of saying thanks..."

Well I sure put myself in a kettle of hot water yesterday by penning what was seen by many/most/all of you as a tone-deaf, ill-timed, poorly-executed obituary for Santa Cruz surfer turned Bali transplant and BeachGrit contributor Mara Wolford.

Nick Carroll swung in last night and wrote a beautiful, stirring memorial but I’m still sticking by mine. Not as better than Nick’s, no way, but as proper and fitting.

The golden rule states, “Whatever you desire for people to do to you, you shall also do to them…” and, maybe I’m broken, but when I go down, I sure as heck hope there ain’t just deafening silence. You all better be writing snarky, tone-deaf, ill-timed, poorly-executed obituaries about me.

Also, as uncomfortable as it is to look at death we just have to. So, sticking by mine even though the great Wiggolly’s Paddling Style told me, “You gotta learn to admit when you’re wrong Chozza.”

Which gave me long pause.


Emails bounced into my inbox fast and furious from Surfline’s own Marcus Sanders, pointing out the error that the subscription price was not quietly increased but announced in July 2018 with the following message:

Hi [username],

It’s been 15 years since we raised the price of an annual Surfline Premium membership. During that time, we’ve added over 300 cams, 10 full-time forecasters, increased model accuracy by 30%, brought Surfline to iOS and Android and built a blazing fast, mobile-responsive website. In addition, as of today, 48 of our most iconic cameras are available in high resolution, exclusively to Premium members such as yourself.

Also as of today, an annual Surfline Premium membership will cost $95.88 ($7.99/month) for all new subscribers. But, as a token of our appreciation for your ongoing support, we’re automatically applying your existing rate of $69.99 per year the next time you renew. That’s right: No price increase today and no price increase the next time you renew. For more information, check our New Premium Pricing help article.

Also, seven days before subscription renewals, Surfline sends out another message, this one too long to print here but the following sentence can be found in the middle of paragraph seven, page two:

…last July we increased our annual price for the first time in over a decade by about $2/month. As a way of saying thanks for your membership, we kept your annual rate at $69.99 for the past year. When you renew this year, you’ll be charged the current price of Surfline Premium, $95.88 annually.

Sorry, Surfline. I was wrong.

Classic Mara: "Today, I will not talk shit. Today, I will refuse to piss-take. Today, I won't try to be funny and only 16% of the Earth's population may be able to grasp my humour. The rest of them will get angry with me. Today, I will do my best to not infuriate fellow humans. Sarcasm is a passive-aggressive trait. Sarcasm is a passive-aggressive trait. Sarcasm is a passive...Ôm."

Nick Carroll on Mara Elise Wolford (1969-2020): “Perhaps, like a lot of glory-days hell-surfers, she felt the magic slipping away.”

A bombshell in every sense of the word.

Mara Wolford, who died last week in her rented house in Bali, was an extraordinary person — a bombshell in every sense of the word.

Highly intelligent, multi-lingual, often generous almost to a fault, seemingly capable of mastering any skill she chose, she was also a hairball risk-taker, someone for whom it seemed a worthwhile life had, from time to time, to be held in the balance.

Unlike most risk-takers, she was also laceratingly self-aware, naming her online story showcase “marastrophe” — a typically sharp play on two things at once: the language (apostrophe) and her occasionally catastrophic self.

Mara was born April 11, 1969, and raised in San Jose, California.

Her father Dean was a programmer and technical writing manager at IBM, her mother Sandra an executive secretary in the fledgling tech industry. She had two half-sisters, Claire and Andrea, from her parents’ earlier marriages. Dean and Sandra eventually added a fourth child, Mara’s younger sister Brenna.

At 16 she went to the North Shore of Oahu, and was instantly known to everyone she came across. Mara was hard to avoid. She wasn’t just gorgeous, she was more or less irrepressible. If she decided she wanted to get to know someone, she’d just bowl straight up to the person — almost always a man — and fix that person with her glowing blue eyes, saying some version of “Hi! What’s going on? Let’s go surf!”

Mara’s brain took her to UC Santa Cruz, where she earned a degree in social anthropology. The subject of her thesis — surfing as a community — might tell you more about where she was really heading.

At 16 she went to the North Shore of Oahu, and was instantly known to everyone she came across. Mara was hard to avoid. She wasn’t just gorgeous, she was more or less irrepressible. If she decided she wanted to get to know someone, she’d just bowl straight up to the person — almost always a man — and fix that person with her glowing blue eyes, saying some version of “Hi! What’s going on? Let’s go surf!”

Her surfing was about two parts skill and ten parts bravado. When you surfed with her at big Sunset Beach, you soon learned not to worry about this skinny blonde maniac who looked as if she’d snap in half in a strong wind, but took insane wipeouts and came up laughing.

She travelled the world with Australian pro Bryce Ellis for several years, before meeting and marrying the Swiss tennis star Jacob Hlasek. Later after the marriage failed, she married Frenchman Eric Mathieu, with whom she lived in Chamonix, and had a son, Joson, in 2004.

Eventually the marriage to Eric collapsed, and Mara left Chamonix to live most of the year in Indonesia, travelling to Santa Cruz at least once a year to work and to see old friends. She was renowned for her green thumb, and became involved with the Californian medical marijuana industry in its earliest days.

She also spent a lot of time on Nias, where she surfed Lagundri in its many moods, with the ragged-edge chargers who frequented the joint on its famed big swell days. Her son Joson would visit each year from France, living what seemed like a sort of Indo Huck Finn life of spearfishing, surfing and mucking around with friends; she nicknamed him Zuzu, then shortened it to Zu. At some point Zu took his nickname into his own hands, as Mara gleefully related to her friends: “He says, ‘From now on I think I would like to be called Zeus.’”

During this time Mara turned her hand to writing, at which she was formidably skilled. She wrote about her time with Bryce, about a terrible skiing accident in Chamonix which led to plastic surgery, and about much else, including a wrenching childhood experience during which she almost drowns in the presence of her father, Dean.

Her writing shone with both her intellect and with the power of lived experience, like this paragraph from a piece named “Two Wave Hold-Down”, in the magazine White Horses: “There’s no tension on my leash, but it hasn’t snapped. I open my eyes to see the board fluttering alongside me, six metres under. I don’t know what to make of that. I reach nineteen-one-thousand. It’s a 21-second interval swell, so I know the next bitch is bound to be right on top of me. Just then I feel the implosion and look up to see the next wave roll over me. I realise how utterly alone I am.”

Mara lived feminism at its most ferocious, but she was very much a libertarian. She castigated a later generation of women surfers for what she considered a victim mentality in the face of male bullying, something that would have been anathema to her.

She hated weakness, yet in recent years, events had begun to wear on her. She barely survived a “roofie” doping in Canggu, Joson’s best friend in Nias died untimely at 15, and she was accused by her Bali neighbours of carrying out a pogrom against the local cat population, aided by her beloved dog — an accusation she confronted typically, head-on.

In the past few months, according to friends, she’d given up surfing, saying, “There’s so many Russians out there now”.

Perhaps, like a lot of glory-days hell-surfers, she felt the magic slipping away.

Right now, how she died remains a minor mystery. The house she was renting has been locked down by the police, and an autopsy will be performed in order to reveal the cause of death.

She leaves father Dean, sister Brenna, half-sisters Claire and Andrea, and Joson. Her mother, Sandra, died in 2008.

Read some of Mara’s work here.