Tougher than diamonds, rich like cream.

The power of love is a curious thing, make-a one man weep, make another man sing. Change a hawk to a little white dove, more than a feeling, that’s the power of love. Tougher than diamonds, rich like cream, stronger and harder than a bad girl’s dream. Make a bad one good, make a wrong one right, power of love will keep you home at night and also, quite possibly, fuel a World Surf League Championship Tour title.

Brazilian Gabriel Medina’s run through the entire year was tres magnifique. One of the best seasons, start to finish, in professional surfing’s 45-year history. He could do no wrong, carrying the pressure, the weight, the stress with an easy smile, a laconic interview style never before seen.

The surf public immediately credited his new wife, the extraordinarily beautiful model Yasmin Brunet, with the transformation.

Gone was the dour of step-pappy Charlie. Ever-present the warm hazy glow of blonde Brunet et voila.

Championship.

Olympic Gold medalist and erstwhile World Surf League Championship Tour winner Italo Ferreira was paying close attention, also crediting Brunet, and has, allegedly, sought to rekindle his own romance with the equally beautiful Maria Azevedo.

An inside source has confirmed “something happened” in the relationship after Ferreira won the 2019 crown, then Azevedo always by his side (read here). She wasn’t seen during the just-wrapped tour but the couple is famously tight-lipped even to friends.

Still, the source says, since Medina’s win Ferreira has been reaching out to Azevedo and the two have long nightly phone conversations covering “heavy topics.”

“Don’t be surprised if you see Maria at Italo’s side when the 2022 season begins in Pipe.”

A battle of gorgeous Brazilian power couples?

Peak surfing.

First time you feel it, it might make you sad. Next time you feel it, it might make you mad. But do be glad baby when you’ve found that the power makes the world go ’round.

All the world's a stage.

It was a mere three weeks ago I made the uncomfortable realization that I had fallen into a morass of mental, physical inertia and purposed to fight toward greatness once again. The impetus? Watching my young daughter toil under the heavy yoke of classical ballet, the greatest artform ever gifted our undeserving world.

Tendu, arabesque, rombe de jambe, pirouette.

Unlike our surfing, there’s no “almost good enough” in ballet.

No “close.”

Ain’t horseshoes nor hand grenades in the greatest artform ever gifted us from Italy, France, Russia.

Every sinew is either properly aligned or else it is properly not and if it is properly not then angry barks rain down from unrelenting masters.

Perfection demanded.

I watched her grit, felt  my deep shame, purposed to knock Ashton Goggans out in the greatest trilogy fight of the decade but a funny thing happened on the way to the octagon.

I was asked to play Mother Ginger in San Diego Academy of Ballet’s upcoming performance of The Nutcracker.

Originally choreographed by the legendary Marius Ivanovich Petipa and scored by the even more legendary Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, The Nutcracker has become one of the most iconic ballets ever.

A pure work of art.

WHOOP.

And there I was, taking young daughter to days’ long rehearsals, endless classes, watching her reach levels of talent that I had never even sniffed when the call came in.

“Would you be Mother Ginger?”

For the boorish, uninformed, Mother Ginger is a pivotal character in The Nutcracker. She shuffles on stage, garishly, in the second act during the “Land of Sweets” arrangement. She is pure divertissement, enjoyable diversion, entering stage with a host of Bon Bons, or tiny dancers, under the broad folds of her skirt whom emerge, dance, get scolded, slide back under her dress while she shuffles off to rapturous burst of applause.

Historically, Mother Ginger has been played by a tall man in drag as it takes a tall man to support the skirt folds necessary to hide many Bon Bons, and it was my destiny to be this tall man… in drag.

Sensing the important kink in my road to greatness, I accepted at once showing up to my first rehearsal with ever-present WHOOP strap affixed, twenty-odd Bon Bons scrambling, giggling, choreographer exhausted, me, in skeleton of broad skirt, trying not to step on them, trying to vamp appropriately.

Artistically.

Perfectly.

In my premier, and much-loved, WHOOP missive telegraphing that pivot to greatness, the august Travis Edgar suggested, “Maybe just do ballet with the kid” instead of training to fight.

He had no idea how stressful, how taxing, how completely impossible the whole business is.

Sweating.

I was sweating profusely whilst trying not to step on Bon Bons whilst attempting to remember my choreography whilst waving my arms, garishly, fabulously, whilst hoisting my skirt skeleton.

A fitness bonanza.

My WHOOP measured a heretofore record 9.8 of strain.

The most strain yet and I defy you to come close, challenge you to affix a WHOOP strap to your own wrist (an unheard of fifteen percent off if use the code BEACHGRIT at checkout).

I was just also cast as “Party Dad” in the equally iconic Party Scene.

Strain numbers through the roof.

Gogganses running for the hills.

Black dance shoes ordered.

More as the story develops.

Ticket information forthcoming.