An ancient wrong gets put right!

Ain’t nothing ever came easy for lil Bondi shredder Pauline Menczer: five two, one hundred pounds, crippled by arthritis, taxi-driver dad murdered, a mama on welfare looking after four kids on her own. 

But she shredded.

Won the world amateur title as an eighteen year old, turned pro and hit fifth in her first year on tour.

Four years later, sponsorless (“I don’t have sponsors, because I don’t have big boobs, blonde hair and blue eyes”), the kid spent twenty-five of her thirty gees in prize money that year just to contest the tour. 

And, won it. 

“Menczer’s 1993 championship remains one of the sport’s great underdog stories, writes Matt Warshaw in his thoroughly indispensable Encyclopedia of Surfing. “Menczer won three of the first 11 events, and had a slender ratings lead going into the 12th and final contest in Hawaii. Two weeks before the event started, the 23-year-old Menczer had an arthritis attack that put her temporarily in a wheelchair; seven days later she began paddling her surfboard in a pool as a warm-up; on the day of the contest—held in windblown eight-foot surf at Sunset Beach—she scraped into the finals, and won the title. “I couldn’t even brush my own hair,” she said of her pre-title attack. “My body just shut down.”

The prize? A busted trophy. 

A little over a week ago, surf industry legends Sophie Marshall and Mimi LaMontagne put together a gofundme with the aim of raising twenty-five gees for the champ, now fifty and driving a school bus in Byron Bay. 

“Pauline helped pave the way for all women in the surf. So, as a collective group of women in the surf industry – who owe everything to these women – we decided it was time we help pay it forward to Pauline. Let’s come together as an industry, as women, and get Pauline Menczer the financial support that she never received!” 

In an episode of Dirty Water last year, the superstar surf journalist Sean Doherty, who is the author of MP: the Life of Michael Peterson and My Brother’s Keeper: the official Bra Boy’s story, described Pauline as his favourite interview.

Listen here. 

And swing to a cinema to watch Girls Can’t Surf, “a wild ride of clashing personalities, sexism, adventure and heartbreak, with each woman fighting against the odds to make their dreams of competing a reality.”

Pauline stars.

“They have always lived through Gabriel's career. Imposing discipline, giving strength and controlling everything closely. Now, he is no longer a boy and shares his life with his wife."

Only one month after wild speculation that Gabriel Medina had formed a loving union with soccer superstar Neymar Jnr, Brazilian media is now reporting on a rift between the two-time world champ and his family after his surprise marriage to actress and model Yasmin Brunet.

Media there is reporting that “Neither the surfer nor Yasmin follow Charles Medina and Simone Medina, Gabriel’s stepfather, whom he always called his father, and his mother. The two also stopped participating in the networks of the model and her son” and speculates that parental sadness over losing their lil man, the ol empty nest syndrome, may have driven the split. 

For those who know the Medina family, Charles and Simone would be concerned about their son’s future on the waves. Although Gabriel opened the 20-21 calendar well, with a runner-up in December, they fear the boy’s focus has shifted.

“They have always lived through Gabriel’s career. Imposing discipline, giving strength and controlling everything closely. Now, he is no longer a boy and shares his life with his wife. It is undeniable how passionate they are,” says a friend.

Yasmin and Gabriel met at the beginning of last year and soon went to quarantine together.

The internship ended at a wedding in December in Hawaii. Without the presence of relatives. Charles and Simone are also afraid, according to people close to them, of the type of exposure that the marriage between Gabriel and Yasmin has.

In a brief search on the internet, most news related to the athlete is about the couple and not their profession. At 27, Gabriel Medina, one of the greatest surfers in the world, still has a lot of waves to catch.

“Their fear is that after so much sacrifice, everything will fall apart because of the marriage,” says one of the sources.

A terrifying new cultural passenger… 

Mid-Length Man lifted his head off the pillow and watched lines of whitewash zip along the inside section of the point, smug with feelings of vindication at the decision to open the Transporter barn doors after his 4:30am piss on the nearby pandanus.

If not for the crochet beanie-wearing guy on the surfboard bench seat partially obscuring his view, his head need not be lifted.

Twenty-one hours earlier, Mid-Length Man was lost in thoughts of high-lining while grinding a carefully measured portion of Campos beans.

8:45… Urgh… Karen would be in soon for her single origin on soy. He needed a break. These cash-in-hand shifts were a great top up to JobKeeper but he needed to reset. The cafe’s patronage had surged when the restrictions were lifted but his stress levels were now peaking.

He needed to escape. A strike mission to Crescent Head.

Mid-Length Man flicked a text his snuggle buddy Sammi. She was keen, but had a shift at the local Mex joint that evening. They would hit the Pac Highway closer to tenand roll into Crescent by two-thirty. He opened the Seabreeze App. Port Macquarie was reading two metres of south east and light sou-west wind for the next three days. He could already taste the coastal estuary in the gentle offshore being funneled out to the point by Killick Creek.

In the muted greys of pre-dawn he could make out three figures sitting at the top of the point. Two wore hoods. The third scratching into one riding a kneeboard.

What would he ride?

A perfect morning for his 7’6″ MOTE twinny. Those channels would bite and drive. Not punchy enough for the Josh Keogh and the Mackie flex-tail, side-cut, long fish he’d packed could wait.

It didn’t feel right surfing it now. It was ordered for the Ments, the Barrenjoy, Lances.

Fuck COVID.

Mid-Length Man quietly suited up in a three-two Need before accidentally kicking over an empty stubby of Coopers Sparkling he’d placed next to the tyre only hours before. Sammi stirred, pushed a mat of golden blonde hair from her face then reached out and closed one of the barn doors. A faint waft of the face balm she applied last night drifted from the van, mango, coconut and jojoba.

Pre-purchase, he had debated internally between the Need four mm boot and the Vans Surf Hi. Need are core but Vans are Vans. Superior grip and that stripe. Even more so the offset white toe jammed perfectly with the volan deck of the MOTE. Look good, feel good he told himself. They slipped on effortlessly and he folded his wettie back down, though careful to keep the checkered pull tab exposed.

Mid-Length Man delicately placed his board on the weathered sandstone at the back end of the keyhole. He tied up his hair in a bun and watched a hooded dad-bod streak down the line on pistachio-tinted Tracker. Probably drives a Kluger he mused. He flex checked his fins out of habit. Torren Martyn keels.

A lump surged across the suck rock and he swung.

Relax. Consider your movements. Stay low. Feel the energy.

A soupy brown wall stood up and he adjusted slightly, aiming down the line.

The kneeboarder hooted and threw a shaka.

Mid-Length Man rinsed off under the public shower behind the surf club and sauntered passed the swelling crowd ordering banana smoothies round front. Two Coastalwatch Dads in Carve tees were setting up their tripods rapping about the Surfline buyout. Their sandy haired offspring – Taj and Kai – waxed their sticker-covered Pyzels. This morning they were to focus on combos.

With any luck, Sammi would have a fresh brew of Kenya Gikanda Kangocho on the portable gas stove.

As he neared the Transporter, there she was, wearing that pastel yellow dress. The lace detail resting on her knees drew his eye to her slender set of warmed brown sugar legs. Barefoot. She wore his denim sherpa jacket. A perfect messy bun of golden blonde hair held together by a tortoiseshell colored clip. Steam rose from the Bialetti capturing the soft morning rays.

She was reading a story about Lee-Anne Curren in the new Acetone mag.

It was Sammi’s turn.

Mid-Length Man sipped from his Huskee cup as Sammi stroked effortlessly into an inside runner.

Her new 9’6″ Gato supplying an ample catwalk for Sammi to traverse.

He could not be further from Sydney’s cafe hustle.

Mid-Length Man tasted notes of plum jam and grapefruit.