Sudden divorces make for real estate bargains… 

The three-time champ Gabriel Medina has listed his swank beachfront mansion, complete with swimming pool and sauna, following his withdrawal from the tour’s opening event and split from wife, the Sports Illustrated model Yasmin Brunet. 

The five-bed, six-bathroom joint is at Maresias, one of the prettiest beaches in Brazil, a five-click stretch of yellowish sand and lightly shadowed by mountains, one hundred miles from Sao Paulo city.

Medina, twenty-eight and with eyes so dark they look like they’ve been stolen off a gingerbread man’s face, moved out of the house after the split.

According to Brazil media, Brunet, who is thirty-three, refused to leave and put towels over the security cameras so no one could see what she was doing. Allegedly etc. 

The house is for sale for eight-mill Brazilian reais, around one-and-a-half mill US, occupies a couple thousand square feet of floor space, has a pool, sauna and comes furnished.

Five days ago, Medina cited “emotional issues” for tapping out of the tour’s opening event, the Billabong Pro Pipeline. 

“Recognizing and admitting to myself that I’m not well has been a very difficult process and choosing to take time to take care of myself was perhaps the hardest decision I’ve ever made in my entire life,” Medina wrote on Instagram. “I’ve wondered a lot lately if I should make this public or keep it private, but it’s only fair that all of you who have always rooted for me know the moment I’m facing. Mental health is very important. I need to be 100% mentally to compete again.”

It’s been a wild couple of years for Medina who became estranged from his mama Simone and step-daddy Charlie over his marriage to Brunet.

The feud went nuclear a few months ago with Simone’s allegations of a wild sex tape of a real young Brunet from a drunken party in Rio. 

Ironically, despite everything, Medina had never seemed happier.

Gone were the flashing glances, the disagreeable tone, the tears etc.

He even reunited with his real daddy, Claudinho, and moved him into one of his houses.

Photos of the joint are pretty rough, maybe ‘cause it’s a hurried sale etc. 

 

Easy to play, limited numbers, three thousand bucks and three boards to the champ…

Let’s take a trip back to a different time. Let’s go back to early 2020. There was something in the air.

Kobe died. North Korea was launching rockets. Trump had just been impeached for the first time. There was a mysterious airborne virus making its way through the world, causing cruise ships to be held at bay and countries began to lock down. Chas was gallivanting around Italy.

Right in the thick of the chaos, on March 12, 2020, BeachGrit launched The Surfival League.

Like a North Korean rocket, it was airborne for a glorious minute and then promptly crashed down to earth when the WSL canceled all foreseeable events on March 15, 2020.

Need a quick Surfival League refresher?

It’s simplified fantasy. No tiers. No points. No teams.

Just pick one surfer to advance past the Round of 32.

If they advance. You advance.

You can’t pick the same surfer twice in the season.

Back to last season.

The Surfival League, through fits and starts was able to complete its inaugural season with a construction boss from Colorado narrowly beating out World Champ CJ Hobgood for the Surfival Crown. The Coloradan took home a thousand bucks and a custom PANDA surfboard.

This year we’re upping the ante.

The Surfival Winner will get three gees, American, and a custom three-board quiver from PANDA surfboards.

All you have to do is Surfive.

SIGN UP IS NOW CLOSED.

"Join me for the joy and the pain of the tour's opening gambit. Isn’t this the whole point of it all? Because without one, how might you recognise the other?"

Shortly after Longtom flew the coop, Derek asked me if I’d consider taking on his contest writing gig.

I was hesitant.

Hesitant to the degree that my first reaction was Fuck No.

It’s a cold and poisoned chalice, of course. I know that Steve turned comp reporting into art, and I appreciated it as much as anyone. Some of his contest wraps were more entertaining than the heats themselves, and I’m not even sure that’s hyperbole.

Most events happen at entirely unsociable hours for me. It’d be whisky, caffeine and insomnia for the duration of the comps, I’d need to accept that.

This probably isn’t conducive to patience for two yowling, scrapping toddlers at home or 100-odd volatile teenagers on a conveyor belt each day at work. I’d need to brace for that.

Then there’s the challenge of shouldering the dull ache of so many hours of pro surfing, especially with the nasally cadences of Joe Turpel as a soundscape.

Is this something akin to military grade torture? Did I want to find out?

And of course this melting pot of boredom, sleep-deprivation, whisky and lust for risk would be a catalyst for once again descending into deep, black gambling doom.

As many of you know, I am a hopeless addict.

This gig was surely a spiral to full relapse?

But, in the same way when you’re a kid you might hold your hand over a candle then keep going back to do it longer, I was a bit curious to see what happens when I simply threw myself into the flame.

And so I thought I’d give it a punt, because I like writing, and I like Derek, and I like (most of) you, too.

I love a creative challenge. So dead man’s shoes it is.

I must not gamble. I must not gamble. I must not gamble.

I. Must. Not. Gamble.

This is my mantra for the season. If for nothing else, stick around and watch me fail in a blaze of glorious self-loathing.

Join me for the joy and the pain. Isn’t this the whole point of it all? Because without one, how might you recognise the other?

I’m considerably less excited without Medina in the mix, of course, but I’m looking forward to getting a handle on the new guys. It’s ripe for someone unexpected to shine this year I reckon.

Anyway, let’s face it, there’s no way Medina quiets his inner beast for more than a couple of comps. He’ll have whittled all the sticks in the forest before long. It’ll be super fun to see him swing in from behind and start decimating people’s dreams in a ruthless game of catch-up.

And of course, lady and gentlemen, let’s not forget about one Robert Kelly Slater.

In what might or might not be his final year on Tour we can expect peak Kelly, in all his mad, mad glory. There’ll be no escaping him. Every narrative will lead to Kelly. He’ll make sure of it.

There’ll be a Netflix series worth of material over the course of the next year, and I can’t wait.

Slater will hit the half century a few days after Pipe finishes. Fifty. Five-O. That’s remarkable. I love to hate Slater, but the fact he’s still in the mix at the highest level bears repeating time and again.

He has approximately zero chance of claiming a twelfth title, but if the waves are big and barrelling he could absolutely take out a comp. And if he makes a final in decent waves I’ll be cheering him as loud as anyone.

Kelly Slater is a magnificent juxtaposition of genius on water and madness on land, and I’m here to celebrate all of it.

Oh Kelly, we’re going to have some fun, aren’t we?

Are you looking forward to it?

I am. I’m here for you, Kelly.

Let’s dance.

(P.S. I’ve already stuck 20 quid on Ivan Florence to win at, get this,  125/1! Clearly a bookie error in the early odds since he’s now dropped to 20/1. Well I wasn’t going to pass that up, was I?)