What does it mean?

Days ago, and after lightly teasing exciting spots, the World Surf League announced that it would host 2022’s championship crowning day at the same wave that hosted 2021’s championship crowning day.

Lower Trestles.

Now, Lowers is by no means a dog. Southern California’s “skate park” provides “thrilling” sections for homeschooled e-bikers to throw many and varied “aerial maneuvers” but championship crowning? Difficult to take seriously when Pipeline, Teahupoo, G-Land dot the tour calendar.

In any case, what’s done is done and the World Surf League’s Global Chief Revenue Officer and Advisor Cherie R. Cohen took to Facebook to share the news, writing “The Rip Curl WSL Finals will return to Trestles, CA!” including a video in the announcement.

Surf legend, 1977 champion, Shaun Tomson was quick to respond albeit entirely cryptically, penning, “Time to bust down the door!”

Bust down the door?

The phrase is most commonly associated, in our surfing, with the film Bustin’ Down the Door wherein Tomson and a pack of brash young Australians including, but not limited to, Wayne “Rabbit” Bartholomew and Ian Cairns, traveled to Oahu’s North Shore, surfed well and infuriated the locals.

So what is Tomson meaning here?

That the World Surf League’s top 5 men and women are going to go to Lowers, surf well and infuriate homeschooled e-bikers?

It’s the only analysis I can muster.

Help?

"...this doesn't have to happen."

Lineups have been, undeniably, more choked in these the Covid years of our lives than any time previously in surfing’s long and sordid history. Everyone home from work/school, everyone looking to add fitness to weary lives, the ocean providing natural social distancing except at places like Cardiff Reef, Malibu, Noosa where soft rollers beg to be feasted upon by the VAL horde.

Well, an Australian man recently became scaled whilst out in the aforementioned Noosa and has calm but serious words for his perpetrator.

The scene is laid when Derek Symons decided to take a summer day’s surf and he picks up the story from here…

“One person cut me off and knocked me off a wave, and then while I was recovering and trying to untangle everything, his partner or friend caught the next wave and just ploughed straight over the top of me. It’s just stupid actions and people don’t think about the consequences but it could have been way worse. Honestly I hope next time she seriously thinks about all the people out there and doesn’t snake people and cut people off. I am a capable surfer, a strong paddler and have been surfing in Noosa for over 20 years now. To go out there and not turn when you could have easily gone around someone — why would people purposely want to hammer someone? Lucky it was on top of my head and not my face or spine. Surfing is supposed to be fun. Please watch out for others out there especially when it is pumping … this doesn’t have to happen.”

That top of his head required seventeen staples to close but how wonderful is his attitude? I would be spitting expletives if I had been scalped but he calmly offers advice.

Not the hero we deserve but certainly the hero we need.

Buy here.

Almost one year ago, to date, or maybe six months, I strapped a WHOOP band around my wrist, logged on to a technical breakdown by the WHOOP team and bathed myself in an unhealthy skepticism. The media attache was bubbly and fit, excited about how the personal digital fitness and health coach had changed her life, excited about how it would change ours.

Except dubiousness reigned in my foolish heart.

What she said made sense, sure, but I was ok, didn’t need no help, would never need help.

WHOOP was for someone else. For the generally unfit, lightly out of shape. The Gogganses of this world.

Still, I kept the sleek neoprene strop around wrist and even began checking in with the easy to navigate cellular telephone application that marked just how much my life had succumbed to a pitiful inertia.

Movement, actual movement, heart-pumping, blood-pulsing movement a rarity.

Well, I committed to changing that, slowly, at first, with a rapid uptick once I realized how much better I felt when sore, when physically tired, when actually pushing myself.

How much better I surfed.

And so I started jogging and checking my Strain numbers. I started dancing ballet and checking my Strain numbers. I began sleeping when told, resting when warned, surfing more.

And better.

All of a sudden, the active, healthy life was mine though without some major reckoning but rather simple daily reminders, tips, data and statistics.

I began plotting even more ballet performances, a path toward climbing Mt. Everest, under 6 minute mile time, session at the  legendary wave that crowns surfing champions.

Lower Trestles.

WHOOP, at the end, is a dream maker and while you may remain skeptical, dubious, foolish, I dare you to try to break your own dismal inertia for we all know inertia is death.

Embarrassing demise.

Buy here.