Inside the brave new world of surf forecasting.
Darian is resting in a green beanbag, familiarising
himself with the #surf hashtag on Instagram, when his iPad
beeps.
The SurfWatch intern is used to a suite of interruptions in his
new role. Camera down. Link broken. Hate speech on a foiling
comment thread needing deletion. He’s quickly earned a reputation
as a Mr-Fix-It for any of the tech problems one would expect from a
web company under rapid expansion.
But this one is different. It’s the NOAA app.
“New south swell approaching; thirty feet, sixteen seconds, 187
degrees.”
Wow.
He shuts Instagram and takes a quick look around the rest of the
office. A handful of hip young twenty-somethings are poised in
similar positions across lounges and comfy chairs, each staring
intently at their own smart devices. He’ll need to deal with this
delicately to avoid causing too much of a buzz.
He steps out into a paved courtyard to Facetime his boss. The
cool spring breeze is refreshing after a day spent in the dead air
of the collaborative work space.
Within three rings a face pops onto his screen, a plump,
soft-featured man offset by keen blue eyes and a viciously receding
hairline.
“Darian, my dude, what’s happening?” the man says, wiping his
face with a towel.
Behind him Darian can make out a pilates class in action.
“Boss, we’ve got something you might like to…”
“Uh ah ah, what did I say about calling me boss?” the man says.
“My name is Connor, just like Coffin. Use it, bro.”
Darian chides himself for such a stupid mistake. He will need to
reflect on it later.
“Sorry, Connor, we’ve got something you might like to see.”
“Yes?”
Holding his iPad in his spare hand he sends Connor the
notification, which arrives instantaneously on the other end of the
line with a ping.
“A new south swell is firing up in the Pacific,” says Darian.
“It looks like it could hit the west coast of central within the
next five days.”
“And?”
“Well, sir, I mean, Connor, based off the data we’ve run on user
engagement with similarly-characterised swells over the last year,
this one is big.”
Connor stops wiping his face and looks directly into the
camera.
“Like, how big?”
“Like, off the charts big. I’m talking…”
Darian takes a second to run some calculations in his head.
“La Flama… times three.”
Even through the pixelated reception Darian can see the look on
Connor’s face change.
“My god. Get everybody on a call now. I’ll be there in
five.”
There’s a mix of in-person and Zoom faces in the tastefully
decorated SurfWatch boardroom. Darian and Connor sit on either side
of the pint-sized Suzie from partnerships. Up on screen is Benny
from the social metrics team. Hutcher, from sales. Aziz, IT.
At the end of the boardroom table sits a lone figure. A
late-middle aged man. Easily the oldest person in the room,
virtually or otherwise. Underneath a torn flannelette shirt Darian
can make out tanned, weathered skin. Dirty blond hair hangs over
either side of his face. A dark pair of Arnette Catfish covers
what’s left.
Darian is not sure if he is even awake.
Weird. There’s not much that happens in this office that he’s
not aware of. He will have to make a note of it for later.
“So, firstly I want to say thank you to everybody for convening
this meeting so quickly,” says Connor as he stands up and looks
around the table. “It really stokes me out to see how responsive
you all are to these swell events and the amazing opportunities
they afford us. Are you all as stoked out as I am?”
Nods of agreement around the room. Except for the mystery
guest the general consensus is that yes, they are all stoked
out.
“As you may be aware we currently have a low pressure system
stirring down in the South Pacific, spinning its way across the
globe from…”
Connor stops mid-sentence.
“Actually, first: a massive shout-out and props to Darian for
picking this one up early by going direct to the source for weather
and swell maps. You might be from Indiana, my bro, but this sort of
tech innovation is true waterman stuff.”
A brief round of muted applause fills the office. Darian feels
his face flush with embarrassment. He thinks he hears a groan
from the other end of the table, soft but distinct enough below the
adoring claps of his colleagues. It must be the restored oak
conference table creaking again. Another task he needs to follow
up.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” continues Connor. “Current forecasts
indicate this is a big one. We’re expecting 20-55 feet faces, just
on the initial pulse. Eighteen-second period. An incredible
angle.”
Connor takes a moment to look each of the staff in the room and
on the call directly. The sense of pride he has in his work is
obvious, as are the expectations he has of his team.
“This, my people, my tribe, could be a La Flama… times
three.”
A hush falls over the room as a screen rolls down the far wall,
reaching all the way to the tiled floor. Connor takes a small
clicker from his pocket and points to it. A mass of graphs and
graphics appear, all in shades of the official SurfWatch
purple.
“Now we all saw how strongly that swell performed on our
channels. Engagement was up across the board and we acquired more
than 10,000 new followers on Instagram through that hashtag
alone.”
“And can I mention,” says Benny, whose arrogant head wobble is
noticeable even through the patchy video link, “that the bulk of
them were from the key male 28-45 demographic, who have shown
remarkable spending habits based off our suggested product
widget.”
“Yes, absolutely,”says Connor. “You’ve hit the nail on the head.
These south swells are our new unicorn, people. Our value
proposition. Our core business model.”
He looks out the window at the imported Frangipani tree in the
courtyard. It’s just starting to bloom.
“We did so well with La Flama. I was so proud of you all. But we
need to build on that. Seize the opportunity. Continue to maximise
this space so we can position ourselves as the official content
owners of any major swell events along the continental coastlines
of all of the Americas.”
Suzie chimes in with her perfect English accent. “Magnificently
put, Connor. Such vision. I couldn’t agree more.”
She’s standing now, too.
“What I would like to see this time is a content partnership
with this swell. It was a massive opportunity we let slip for the,
uh… flame. If we want to play with the big boys like Disney and
Netflix, this is what we need to nail.”
“Here’s a cool idea,” says Connor, feeding off her energy.
“Let’s try and leverage something through our existing arrangement
with the WSL. Have we had an official water bottle and drinkware
sponsor for a swell yet?”
“No.”
“Then get on the line to HydroFlask.”
Suzie feverishly takes down notes on her iPad.
“I want blanket coverage from Pavones to Mavericks for this
event,” Connor continues. “I want interactive timelines. I want a
user-generated content feed. I want every surfer along that
three-thousand mile stretch to be champing at the bit to surf this
swell at our key camera locations. If they don’t surf yet, make
them want to. And I want it all done yesterday.”
“What about board sales?” asks Hutcher. “Which model do we want
to pump up for this?”
“Well there’s the CI mid as a no-brainer,” says Darian. “Pyzel’s
are also trending hot following John John’s performance at
Margarets. Plus, Mayhem have just been dying for another push.”
“Great. Let’s do all of them. Segment the audience targeting by
surfing skillset. If they’re true surfers they should include that
info in their social bios. But let’s try and avoid those Central
American countries that haven’t yet realised their purchasing
potential… we all know the ones I’m talking about.”
“We also saw a strong response to the twenty-hour hour RSS
feed,“ says Iziz, quickly cutting off his boss before he could take
that line of thought any further. “It was a bit of a spend to
promote it through non-endemic channels but we really saw an ROI
through the user journey conversions. We spent one-hundred thousand
but easily doubled that in returns on click throughs. I was
thinking a… five-hundred thousand spend for this one?”
“You know what, Zizi? Double it.”
Connor is practically thrusting his hips in excitement.
“Ok, ok, this is all great. But we need a name.”
They all stop to look up from their devices in unison. The
universal corporate signal for being deep in thought.
“How about Code Green?” says Darian after a while. “That’s the
colour of the swell map currently off California, and it looks
really neat.”
“Also Green is, like, environmental,” adds Hutch.
More nods of agreement.
But then it comes again. Another groan from the end of the
table. More definite this time. It must be from the mystery man,
thinks Darian, even though he is in an apparently catatonic
state.
“Sorry, were you saying something, Dammo?” asks Connor, who has
also turned his attention to the incursion.
“No,” growls the man, his lips barely moving.
“Ok. Let’s…”
“You can’t call it green.”
Connor sighs.
“Sorry, I thought you weren’t saying anything? “
“Yes I was,” says the man, his growl beginning to take on the
rhythm of an old engine warming up on a cold winter’s morning. “I
was saying you can’t call it green. That’s fucking stupid.”
The man takes off his sunglasses and straightens his back.
Considers each of them there with him in the room, as if he has
just woken from a deep sleep. He has the thousand-yard stare of a
war veteran, but looks like he’s never had day of regiment in his
life
“And it’s ‘Damo… day-mo,” he says. “Not Dammo.”
“And why, pray tell, is calling it the ‘Green Swell’ fucking
stupid?”
“It just is.”
“Ok. Noted.”
Connor turns his attention back to the team.
“Well, anything else?
“How about The Gerry swell?” offers Suzie, pronouncing it with a
hard ‘G’. “After Gerry Lopez. He’s in town. Could be a great collab
with Wavestorm. Plus we could film some…”
“Nup,” says Damo. “Gerry’s an old kook, plus unless it’s
Pipeline or Padang he isn’t gonna give two shits about some
hyped-up beachbreak swell”.
“The Sunday swell?” asks Hutch. “Machado has his new Firewire
mid-length out which we could leverage…”
A fart noise from Damo.
Suzie shoots him a furiously English stare.
“Sorry Connor, but who is this guy?
Another deep sigh from the boss.
“Everyone, I would like you to meet Damo. As part of our
takeover he was brought on board in an advisory rule. A cultural
ambassador from Australia, if you like. His speciality is grouting,
don’t ask me, I have no idea, but he is also a lifelong surfer.
Corporate thought it might help to make sure we keep in line with
our ‘core’ audience.”
“Core, like apple core?” asks Darian. “Is that a sustainability
thing?”
“Anyway, he’s here now,” continues Connor. “A valued member of
the team. I would like us to welcome him as such. Plus, we told the
old owners he was allowed to have a job with us as part of the
condition of sale. I think he has some compromising photos? Or
something. Who knows.”
Damo pulls an unlit cigarette from his pocket.
“I dunno what you’re talking about there, Conna. But I do know I
was told to sit in on these meets you’re having and just speak my
mind.”
He throws the cigarette into the air and catches it in his
mouth.
“So here goes,” he says, cig dangling from one side. “How about
you just don’t hype up the swell in the first place? It’s still too
far off to know if it’s going to deliver. Plus all you’re doing is
blowing out the lineups and increasing tensions over what is an
already finite resource.”
Damo lights the cigarette.
Darian stands to try and stop him, but Connor places a hand on
his shoulder and subtly shakes his head.
“You might be making a quick buck in the short term off this ad
revenue bullshit, but in the long run you’re only going to harm the
culture. Overcrowded line ups. Breakdown in hierarchy. More
turmoil. For that you will pay a heavy cosmic price.”
He blows a smoke ring towards Darian, who is just quick enough
to duck underneath it.
“Plus you’re championing sustainability while plugging the sale
of these pop-out boards. Do you know how big the carbon footprint
is for a single Firewire? What’s wrong with buying a second hand
Dahlberg for fifty dollars off Gumtree?”
“Sorry, a Dahl-what?”
“Gum… tree?”
“The beauty of surfing is doing the work yourself,” continues
Damo uninterrupted. “Tracking a swell off your own bat. Chasing it.
Maybe scoring. Maybe not. Or surfing the one spot all of the time.
Over and over. Regardless of conditions. Getting to know it on
every angle. Every tide. Every wind. That’s how you learn to surf.
Through trial and error. And time. And not telling the whole
fucking world about it. That’s true satisfaction. True respect. You
can’t manufacture it. It has to be earned.”
The team is silenced. Darian is not sure what to make of the
display. None of what Damo has just said makes sense to them on any
level. Yet Connor said they should listen to him. For the first
time in his corporate life he is experiencing a true conflict.
Damo wraps up his impromptu presentation.
“Instead you’re just spoon feeding this shit to a bunch of
idiots who don’t know any better. The whole thing is fucked, mate.
Fucked.”
He flicks the cigarette out an open window towards the
Frangipani tree.
“Anyway, that’s my two cents”.
More silence, except for a small cough from Suzie who has just
inhaled a mouthful of smoke.
“Hmm, thanks for your input,” says Connor as he regathers
himself. “I really like where you’re going with your thinking. But
also, we are probably not going to do that.”
Damo shrugs.
“Fuck, whatever then cunts. I’m going surfing.”
He walks out of the room, kicking a loose tile from the floor on
the way out. The team waits until he is out of sight before
erupting in laughter.
“Oh! Em! Gee! What an idiot that guy was!” says Connor as he
wipes a tear from his eye. “Sorry about that one team. I’ll be
having a stern word with corporate after this. Can we please never
hear from him ever again?”
“Thank god,” says Darian. “I was getting worried there for a
second.”
He makes a note on his iPad to cancel Damo’s security pass as
Connor launches back into his presentation.
“Now, how about Biggest Wednesday…”
