"I thought, whale or shark…"

A woman who was hit by a Great White twelve days ago, the third attack on a surfer by a White on roughly the same stretch of coast in two months, has recalled the event in an interview with The Guardian.

Environmental scientist Chantelle Doyle, who is thirty-five, was surfing a weak two-foot swell at Shelley Beach in Port Macquarie with her boyfriend Mark Rapley when the White hit.

“As I was paddling, something hit me underneath the board with enough thrust to throw me up and off the board,” Doyle told The Guardian. “I just thought – ‘whale or shark’ – and I looked down and there was nothing grey. I felt something grab my leg – I think I yelled ‘Shark, shark, shark’. It grabbed me and I grabbed the board and it readjusted … There were three distinct readjustments of the jaws. I was holding on to the nose of my board. It was like being bitten by a dog – it’s painful but it’s more this intense pressure and squeezing and crushing.”

Rapley climbed onto the animal and started belting what he describes as feeling like “a professional boxing bag.”

“I was just flailing – Hail Mary punches – and I’m thinking ‘Just get the bloody hell off’. I was connecting, but after the first two it felt ineffectual… Chon’s leg was completely in its mouth,” said Rapley, who is haunted by the vision of the shark’s head and eyes.

The hit severed a nerve in Doyle’s leg. No moment and only limited feeling despite two major operations, the first a seven-hour marathon to repair damage to muscle, tendons, bone and nerves.

The second operation was a skin graft to cover a hole the size of an orange in Doyle’s calf.

It ain’t clear what’s going to happen to the stilt, but a prosthetic limb isn’t out of the picture.

Despite the injury, Doyle is using her new-found profile to raise money for a marine charity via crowdfunding.

The hashtag?

#punchingforhealthyoceans.

“We’re not suddenly shark evangelists,” says Doyle. “But they are a keystone species and we want our kids to have a nicer environment. I’m actually proud that Australia has marine systems that are healthy and sharks are an integral part of that. Having sharks means you have higher densities of fish, and so we should be proud of that.”

Read full story here. 

The fascinating insider machinations of a lawsuit between surfer and one-time sugar daddy…

Back in January 2017, fresh off his second World Surf League Men’s Championship, John John Florence entered into a three-year agreement with Monster Energy Company, formally Hansen Beverage Company (quite the pivot there).

The agreement was slated to run from January 1, 2017 through December 31, 2019.

The agreement granted Monster the right to use “Florence’s name, imagery, nickname” among other things. Florence in part agreed “to promote and endorse these beverages” in return for a minimum of $500,000 per year, which consisted of a base salary of $350,000 plus an additional $150,000 per year for a “media production recounting Florence’s pursuit of the world surfing title.” Florence also could have made an additional $150,000 in incentives.

The agreement is notably devoid of any mention of the commercialization of Florence’s trademark goatee/neckbeard hybrid.

In May 2017, Monster allegedly sent a new draft of the original agreement which stipulated that Monster would only pay Florence $150,000 during the first year of the contract for the media production.

The initial complaint, filed May 18, 2018 in California state court, alleged that after “Monster’s refusal to honor the 2017 Agreement,” Monster continued to use Florence in its advertisements, “causing Florence . . . embarrassment, humiliation, and emotional distress.” Monster allegedly used Florence’s name into 2018 “and possibly later.”

The complaint further alleged that Monster’s misconduct “was undertaken with fraud, oppression, and malice . . . with the intention of causing and/or reckless disregard of causing Florence to experience embarrassment, humiliation, and emotional distress.”

In Monster’s answer filed September 20, 2018, Monster denied “each and every allegation of the Complaint, both generally and specifically.”

Monster challenged the suit and the validity of the purported contract on numerous grounds.

Among them, Monster asserted the doctrine of unclean hands, which bars relief to a party who has (allegedly) engaged in inequitable behavior, including fraud, deceit, or bad faith.

Monster also asserted that “Monster was unaware that Florence concealed or suppressed material facts and would not have signed the contract if Monster had known such representations by Florence were false.”

The answer did not substantiate what the alleged suppressed material facts were.

For context, Florence sustained a knee injury in early 2018 before reinjuring that knee in 2019.

Much of the litigation is confidential, as the parties stipulated to a protective order in May 2018.

On August 5, 2019, the parties reached a settlement agreement for an unknown sum.

The case was dismissed the following month, leaving several highly technical legal questions unanswered.

What did John John allegedly misrepresent?

A noted health nut, has John John ever actually tasted a Monster Energy drink?

What was John John so embarrassed about?

Many LOLS…

It’s a hot Tuesday in August.

Three bare-chested men stand around an old green council park bench overlooking The Point. The bench has half its seat missing and ‘LOCALS ONLY’ carved in all caps across the front.

A weak windswell ambles down the headland under the mid-morning sun. But the men, all in boardies or with wetties hanging around their waists, are paying no mind to the waves.

“…and that’s why I’ll never do a job while there’s a tiler on site,” No Nose, a tall kneeboarder with deep brown skin and hair like Iggy Pop, is saying. “They’re all fucken queer cunts.”

The other two, both short and bald, nod in firm agreement as a lone seagull zips between their feet and under the shade of the bench.

The faint threat of an onshore hasn’t yet upset the morning glass and the pale blue sea stretches up and into the sky in one continuous fade. A couple of learners loll on the inside on their bright red soft-tops, more impressed with their postcard vista than the barely breaking surf.

No Nose turns to reach for his board, ready to call it a morning.

Just another day on The Point.

Then, like a cloud across the sun, Marco appears.

Marco’s barely five foot tall, an impish build with sporadic facial hair and narrow, sad eyes. He could be fourteen, he could be forty. Nobody’s quite sure. Indeterminate stains blot his faded Pennywise tee and the loose cargo shorts that hang from his round hips.

He stands just behind the group. Materialising from some unknown corner. Close enough to be in their space but not quite close enough to initiate conversation. Not that it stops him.

“Check out all of these bloody blow-ins, where do they come from?” he drones, motioning to the near empty line-up.

“Yeah, I’m not too sure, Marco,” replies No Nose.

The seagull edges out from under the bench towards Marco and he kicks at it with a dirty bare foot. It lets out a squawk and jumps up and onto the half seat, so that it obscures the ‘LY’ in ‘LOCALS ONLY.’

“Out there, Marco?” No Nose asks.

“Me? No way. My board’s getting repaired, plus I wouldn’t bother with this garbage.”

He spits out his words like he can actually taste them in his mouth.

Gaaarbage.

An awkward silence. The group, four of them now, turn in unison to watch the surf.

“I’m thinking of going up to Angourie next week,” says Marco finally. “It’s a classic curling right, that wave, like you see in the books. I think my surfing’s suited to it.”

He picks at his fingernails, kicks the dirt some more. Then he looks No Nose in the eye.

“You know, my economy of movement.”

“Oh yeah, right… Angourie,” says No Nose, struggling to keep up with Marco’s staccato rhythm.

None of them have ever actually seen Marco in the water.

“You surfed it before?

Marco looks to the ground, at his dirty feet, then back out to the line-up.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t think these banks like the low-tide anyway. So I wouldn’t even bother surfing until high.”

No Nose shoots a confused sideways glance to the short baldies.

“What time’s high?” one of them offers.

Marco stares at the baldy as if he’s speaking Cantonese. The onshore is picking up now, carrying with it the smell of seaweed from the exposed rocks lining The Point.

“Look at these bloody blow-ins. I really don’t know where they all come from,” says Marco again, even though the learners are making their way in over the inside shelf.

“It’s enough to make you want to pick up and leave this shithole altogether.”

“Like, to Angourie, you mean?” asks the second baldy.

Marco shakes his head again.

“Why would I want to move to Angourie?”

More silence.

Baldy #1 attempts to help his mate.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to…”

No Nose cuts him short with a silent glare. Some roads just aren’t meant to be travelled down.

Out on The Point, the northerly is ripping through the line up now like a wildfire.

It’s going to be a long summer.

Marco walks off, still shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

The seagull shifts its position on the seat again so it reads ‘LO–LS ONLY’ and the three men pick up their boards, ready to go home.