And surfboard co-op Channel Islands to replace savaged Fish Beard gratis…

Gav Klein is a twenty-eight-year-old contractor and a shredder who describes his surfing as “a poor man’s Jadson Andre.”

Last Saturday, while surfing at a westside reef notable as the place adaptive surfer Mike Coots lost his foot as an eighteen year old in 1997 (“I remember flying down the road to the hospital lying down in the bed of the truck with blood just pouring out of my leg and down through the tailgate. I got attacked pretty early in the morning—around the same time kids were getting to school—and I remember passing all these cars full of parents and kids. As we passed them, they would look at me in the bed of the truck with my foot torn off and they would just pull over. I’ll never forget the look on their face when they realized what was going on”), Gav paddled straight into a twelve-foot Tiger. 

A pretty sorta day. Two guys out, Gav’s uncle and a grom. Gav remembers sitting up and looking to see if his Uncle had made a wave, and was pushing forward on his board when, he says, he ran into a rock. 

It’s a reef, there’s rocks. 

“But where I was it wasn’t shallow. Six feet deep.” 

Gav looks and sees “this big grey head. No eyes. Super fast. Everything moving super fast. It latched onto the nose of the board. I let go of the board and then floated over its head as it pulled it down.”

Next thing, Gav grabs the board back, the shark has let go, and he climbs onto the flipped board, hands and feet pulled out of the water and starts screaming at the grom to get the hell out of the water.

“That’s when I looked at the bottom of the board and saw the bite. Oh, shit, it really was a shark.” 

Gav says he froze for a moment, figuring the shark was going to come back and finish what he started. When he realised he was gonna have to get to the beach, he paddled hard, yelling at the kid, again, and his uncle to clear the water. 

On the sand, a giant turtle had beached itself. 

“It wasn’t there when we paddled out,” he says. “That the shark was chasing the turtle is a good assumption.” 

Gav didn’t post about the attack until word and photos crept along the grapevine and Channel Islands, via nineties pro Rochelle Ballard, contacted him and said they were going to replace his banged up Fish Beard gratis.

The aftermath of the attack, he says, has been a couple of weird shark dreams, although he ain’t claiming PTSD, he’s surfed hard a mile down the beach since and has no qualms about returning to this wave, and a feeling of gratitude that he isn’t shopping for prosthetics. 

“There was no time to be scared, no anticipation. If I had to watch the shark coming towards me and trying to eat me, that would be terrifying. It was almost like a I bumped into someone walking backwards on the street, like, ‘Oh sorry, man’, and we went our separate ways.” 

“The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables.”

When you think of surf in Europe, how far into the mental rolodex do you have to slide before Italy greases open a neuron?

France, Portugal, Spain are the pillars of surf from the Old World leaving the land birthed by Romulus and Remus as a core destination for foodies rather than frothers,

But, artists, those with an abstract eye, possess the innate ability to blow breath onto dormant or unnoticed things.

After seeing a photo, with its palm trees and water color, that seemed to come from some island near the equator but was revealed to be Italy, a message was dispatched to Italian photographer Andrea Giana to peel some skin off the Italian fruits.

Now, Italy ain’t known for its waves so I asked Andrea how is it to snatch an image that looks appealing? He tells me it’s easy, there’s so many epic lil spots.

Want to tell me where they are?

“The waves here in Liguria are very much on reef breaks, our spot was formed long ago after the war years (World War II), where in a very rainy period there were great floods and where they brought a lot of debris and rubble,” he says. “The locals thought of throwing all the rubble into the sea and slowly with the currents a particular point has formed. All thanks to our elders!”

One of his photos is of surfing at midnight because of Covid restrictions.

“My post spoke clearly and said that you could play night sports but only up to the established hours, because we are very respectful first of all of ourselves but above all also of the others. We hope to soon get out of this situation that is bringing all of Italy to its knees and beyond.”

Gimme me the three best joints to go surfing.

“Definitely my sweet home, then Levanto and Sicily and Sardinia.”

Tell me three things I need to know about Italian surfing.

“Passion, dedication and above all … attention!”

Be real quick! Will be sold etc.

The Irish soccer legend George Best put it best, I think, when he said, “I spent a lot of money on booze, birds, and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.”

Mick Fanning, who won world titles in 2007, 2009 and 2013 before retiring in 2018 after seventeen years on tour, has pissed away his millions on real estate and various business plays, including Balter Beer which sold one year ago for a rumoured two-hundred mill.

Now, Mick, who turns forty in June, is selling one of the three apartment blocks he owns on Boundary Street, Coolangatta, the strip that divides Coolangatta, in Queensland, and Tweed Heads, in NSW, and footsteps from Snapper Rocks’ Supabank.

Mick bought the joint at 213 Boundary Street, Coolangatta, for $3.1 million in 2007 and turned the old red-brick fifties build into something a little easier on potential buyers’ eyes with soothing vanilla interiors, black faucets, wooden flooring and with breeze-block walls enclosing patios.

The agent calls it a “luxurious homestead.”

There are two three-bedroom apartments, each with its own studio or granny flat, two garages, and the building squats on five-thousand square feet. 

The selling agent says y’can rent the big apartments out for eight hundred dollars a week and you’ll get five hundred for the tiny joints underneath ‘em. 

Inspection dates, times, here. 

Be quick.

There’s a fever for real estate on the Gold Coast at the moment, a frenzy bigger than bitcoin or Tesla, with even shitty old houses on streets famous for their cavalcades of human detritus selling for millions. Gonna be sold real quick.

Mick also owns the building next door, which he bought for 2005 for $1.39 million and another two doors down, bought for $1.2 million in 2006.