Troubling.

Yesterday found me in quite a state. There I was, in Munich’s perfectly utilitarian flughafen, lightly jet-lagged and tragically without sunglasses. I had, hours earlier, lost my favorite pair of Garrett Leight’s at ballet rehearsal along with my wig and hat. Those were later found, in a pile, just in time for a fine performance, but sunglasses gone and no time to acquire new before flight.

What to do?

Duty free sunglass shopping is rife with potential impulse disaster. With display Tom Fords featuring bent arms that slip right off the bridge of nose or garish Guccis that feel right in the moment but do not reflect the personal brand outdoors.

Well, as luck, or fate, would have it, I stumbled upon a pair of Le Specs while almost falling into that classic Ray Ban Wayfarer trap. They were inexpensive but stylish-adjacent, did not broadcast anything good nor bad and would do perfectly for the quest I was about to undertake.

The German male’s lower leg has haunted me, you see, since it had been discovered as the perfect tool in measuring wave height. Kept me up at night. For decades upon decades, our kind has stumbled over the most basic task. How big are the swells we ride? Shall me gauge in Hawaiian? Meters? Stathams? The World Surf League’s forecasting tool Surfline has made matters that much worse by introducing utter absurdity into what should be neatly scientific.

But then German Sebastian Steudtner broke the official world record for “largest wave ever” and a crack team of scientists stumbled upon the German male’s lower leg as the perfect calibrating tool.

I lay awake in bed, fevered, pondering, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. If the holy grail of wave measurement is hiding in plain sight, in Germany, what else might be there?

After six days, I could take no more, bid my beautiful family auf wiedersehen and booked travel to Deutschland for this most important crusade. And, now, with sunglasses, I am ready to see great and concealed truths that will allow our beloved surfing to reach heretofore unknown states of bliss.

Outside of Germany, things are bad, for our surf industry, and getting worse. In wild protest over its state, and possible lack of waves at the G-Land Pro, a Florida man walked into a local surf shop and made a mess on the floor.

According to the Treasure Island Police Department, Gary Peter Bush, 69, walked into the Surf Style shop, located at 10701 Gulf Blvd., exposed his genitalia and proceeded to defecate on the floor near the dressing room.

Witnesses told police Bush wiped himself with a shirt belonging to the store, creating a biohazard out of the top.

Bush was arrested later in the day after being recognized by the store manager.

According to the arrest report, Bush told officers, “I was at the store earlier to get clothes. I returned to the store to get more clothes. I bought an outfit.”

Troubling.

My next stop, anyhow, shall be the Black Forest where fables spring from the ground.

“That was heavy,” says Nathan Florence.

A couple of days back, Teahupoo was big, skis and boats everywhere, drivers’ faces wet with spray and sweat as they manoeuvred photographers into position to shoot the wave’s extravagant barrel in a game of potentially fatal choreography.

Pretty rare for a boat to go over, or lose a passenger, especially in the hands of the experienced drivers who work the two-lever steering wheels, forever treading an ultra-fine line between deep water and the slightest incline of reef that’ll drag ‘em back into the hole.

In the incident below, Ted Grambeau, possibly the best, definitely the sweetest, surf photographer ever to draw breath, and Chris Bryan, the high-def video gun for hire, for whom the phone tolls every time a studio wants the finest in surf-cinematic vision, are tossed from their vessel, along with their lunch baguette, only seconds after recording an epic ride.

 

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A post shared by Keana Rivet (@keana.rivet)

The Tahitian driver is catlike in a scenario that would have most leaving wet web stains on the front of their red bunny pyjamas.

Also sunglass help, please.

I am currently sitting in Munich’s functional flughafen, in transit, and needing to purchase sunglasses. The very fine pair I had became lost over the weekend’s ballet rehearsal leaving my eyes squinty and tired but I don’t want Maui Jim and and I don’t want Police so I am going to have to search, quickly, and impulse sunglass buys are always regretted later.

Speaking of, I wonder if the World Surf League is, now, regretting their decision to cut the waiting period along with the field after Margaret River? The story developing around the exciting return of G-Land is becoming, more and more, WSL incompetence. Oh, the League cannot nor should not be blamed for the surf quality but they can and should be blamed for both timing of the event and winnowing the window.

Derek Rielly just wrote, “With waves that will be lucky to crest a man’s eyebrows predicted for the next week, and an eight-hour cycle of the event being “on hold”, come back in three hours etc, surf fans are becoming a little frustrated.”

Fans of professional surfing lashing out etc. I am certain a bunker mentality is taking hold, within WSL brass, maybe taking hold in an adjacent room to Tyler Wright’s Covid quarantine quarters. Everyone, haters, grumpy locals, derelicts always wanting more etc. and the League may be right within that bunker but the distinct hatred growing for its core audience doesn’t bode wonderfully.

Sunglasses.

Ray-Bans?

Prada?

Ugh.