Remember when super-producer Harvey
Weinstein and billionaire Dirk Ziff launched the new-look world
tour to universal acclaim in 2014?
By Raul Caliente
So much potential!
It is not a stretch to understand that many surfistas
like to watch the best surfers in the world, well,
surf.
These dedicated viewers ignore the consistently inconsistent
judging, the noise from the commentary booth, the lay days, poor
conditions and odd hours, only to see the truly best in the world
get relegated by surfers not only of lesser ability and talent, but
also less interesting to watch ride waves. This is defeating the
purpose in the words of my papa, Julio.
The reality is that since its inception pro surfing has only had
moments or stretches, at least upon appearance, of being stable,
established and well, professional.
If scrutinized with objectivity the tour has the feel of a
hand-to-mouth scenario and has year after year and decade after
decade. Yes, true that Parko and a few others like Fanning even
more so, have cashed in and cashed up muy larga. As in, literally
millions of dollars of wealth.
Then there’s the rest.
Those really good surfers, super talented, raw, gifted. And year
after year get within a cactus needle of qualifying but don’t quite
make it over the line. Eventually they say ‘puta madre to this’ and
unceremoniously disappear off the radar forever.
Especially when they were on the receiving end of yet another
bad or poor or questionable call from the judges, which cost them a
shot at the show and it happens every event.
But Raul is not writing this to make amigos y amigas if you
catch the drift. The rest of the people watching and trying to
enjoy these events work actual jobs and have different
struggles.
However, there is an Achilles’ heel for the company. It’s the
world wide web and the heat analyser and Raul uses this to my
advantage.
It’s the cut to the chase, watch only the scored waves and avoid
the incessant and often punishing babbling from the commentators
and administrators, which like Red Light District workers appear
willing to sell their souls for a paycheck and tread very lightly
on any judging issues.
Part of what inspired this discourse was seeing the small waves
at G-Land and how it was reminiscent of the often wildly inaccurate
fantasies of the early days of the original pro surfing body, the
IPS. The event gets run no matter what.
The dream tour? “We’re on the clock and that costs!” the cry
heard echoing down the hallway of the corporate office.
If you look at the events from the nineties at G-land, the 2022
version was laughable but at the same time sad. I suspect that most
watching were expecting some epic conditions for the comp,
no?
Reportedly the party was the only part that resembled the events
held back then.
Many reading this have been to the iconic Grajagan and likely
more than once. Watching Juan-Juan knocked out in gutless,
lacklustre three-foot waves somewhere between Launching Pad and
Money Trees was no bueno. Jadson Andre knocking
out world title contender, 2x world champion and the best surfer in
the world in beachbreak-like junk, was a head shake combined with a
shoulder shrug as in wtf, over?
Was it the former Oprah producer now CEO (she gave the world Dr.
Oz as well amigos, just be sayin’) brainstorming how to make the
company’s product profitable?
“Lets bring back the mid-season cut! It’ll save money, we can
get in and out of events faster and it’ll be more entertaining, you
know, get rid of the deadwood like Coffin and Callinan and that
rookie of the year kid what’s his name … and we can package it and
sell it to the misinformed and clueless and maybe cable! Dirk will
be happy and the bonus will be ours!”
Hombres, I ask you this:
A world title decided where the fifth-placed overall surfer
after a season of competition could win it and be considered the
World Champion?
The pro surfing tour has had the air of desperation before but
never like this. Not where a person worth an estimated $5 billion
owns it.
But instead of embracing it as one would a first love, hands it
off to a former TV exec with a SUP who treats it like a foster kid
that he beats with his paddle. It all looked so promising when Ziff
started backing surfing.
This tour in its present incarnation feels all too corporate and
has the air of bad karma.
Bobby Martinez saw pro surfing for what it was becoming and said
“no, gracias.” Actually he said “I don’t wanna be a part of this
fuckin’ dumb wannabe ASP tennis tour” referring to the newly
introduced mid-year cut.
For my hard earned dinero he is a prophet.
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World Surf League nears critical level of
maximum absurdity as Asia-Pacific general manager Andrew Stark
declares just-wrapped G-Land event “The best of the year so
far!”
By Chas Smith
Mach crazy.
Last evening happened to find me watching Top Gun:
Maverick in a fine open air theater under a German
sky. I have come, again, to find surfing secrets hidden in plain
sight, like an archeologist in Egypt circa 1922, not even having to
dig. So far, it has been determined that Kelly Slater is not the
best surfer in the world and that Elvis Presley is preferable to El
Salvador and, thus, it was time to rest.
The sequel to Tom Cruise’s 1986 iconic airplane banger far
exceeded my expectations and I sat, stars twinkling overhead, in
awe of how the pilots pushed themselves to the very brink of what
the human body can endure. To the brink of insanity itself.
Well, the World Surf League, never an organization to be bested,
decided to speed toward the brink of absurdity but instead of
pausing at its wobbly edge blew right through.
Plengkung Beach, known to surfers worldwide as G-Land, in
Banyuwangi, East Java, hosted an event on the World Surf League
(WSL) Championship Tour, the most prestigious surfing league in the
world, from May 28 to Saturday. As the event drew to a close, WSL
officials praised the event in Banyuwangi as one of the best on the
WSL international tour. WSL Asia-Pacific general manager Andrew
Stark said the event in Banyuwangi was one of the best so
far.
“I hope to come back here next year,” Andrew said during the
ceremony, which was also attended by Coordinating Maritime Affairs
and Investment Minister Luhut Binsar Panjaitan and Banyuwangi
Regent Ipuk Fiestiandani. “We are very happy in Banyuwangi. This is
one of the best WSL events so far. We received a very lively
welcome here. Thank you Banyuwangi, thank you Indonesia for the
support,” he added.
2 foot runners and infinite holds the best event of the
year?
Top Gun: Maverick, in any case, was wonderful and worth
a watch.
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Long Read: “One single wave can epitomize
or encapsulate everything imaginable or possible in a surfing
life”
By Andy St Onge
"The wildest, craziest wave I ever caught or
somehow managed to ride and survive to tell the tale."
Caracsse, tu trembles?
Tu tremblerais bien davantage, si
tu savais, oú je te méne.
(“You tremble carcass?
You would tremble a lot more if
you knew where I am taking you.”)
— Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, Le Vicomte de
Turenne1
There’s big days, good days, scary days, and crazy days.
And there’s days that are all that (and more) in one session,
indeed one single wave can epitomize or encapsulate everything
imaginable or possible in a surfing life.
For me, there’s a session that stands out in memory. Perhaps the
wildest, craziest wave I ever caught or somehow managed to ride and
survive to tell the tale.
It went something like this: About ten or twelve years ago (my
guess is 2010 or so, late season, maybe February or March), it was
big.
Not giant, but easy 15’-18’ plus and light Kona (SW)
winds.
Sunset Beach was closed out and washing through from the Third
Reef. The Bay was crowded and junky, kind of onshore and bumpy; not
appealing at all. The outer reef down at the end of the street, on
the other hand, was working and looking good. But it was overrun
with jetskis and tow-teams and I couldn’t find anyone to surf
with.
I was amping to surf though; and after walking down to check the
surf for the third or fourth time in about an hour or so and pacing
around my house and yard like a maniac, I just decided to paddle
out solo. It felt obligatory, a matter of both principle and
fate. I was out there no matter what.
I grabbed my trusted 11’7” pintail, threw a leash on the board,
waxed up, stuck a swim fin in my shorts, and made my way down to
the beach at Backyards like I had done for over
half my life, it’s a short walk (about a football field in
length).
Outside Kaunala was pumping. Also known as
“Phantoms,” there were giant A-Frames coming out of the NNW
(kind of a weird direction for Phantoms — a West
or WNW is preferred), standing tall, throwing top-to-bottom, and
walling up across the reef about ¾ of a mile out to sea.
It looked relatively clean — conditions are crucial (really
everything) out on the Outer Reefs. Too much wind and it gets
really challenging; the risk levels rise drastically with every
knot and gust. It’s a thin line between love and
hate (cue: Pretenders).
That day, however, light Konas groomed the peaks with offshore
plumes (Ehukai) misting 50’-60’ above these
Leviathans. Glorious.
And: There were no jet-skiis out there anymore
for some reason. Lineup was empty. Stoke! This was
my opportunity — the Fates seemed to smile upon me; and my timing
was perfect (or so it seemed) . . . .
Little did I know that while I was pacing manic circles around
my house in a fit of anxious anticipation, moments before there had
been a giant clean-up set that washed everyone in — in fact, the
photographers (Larry Haynes and Hank “Foto”) had been caught
brutally inside at “Twisted Sister” (a.k.a.
“Generals” — the inside corner on a wide West bowl) and
impacted directly, resulting in a complete loss for Larry (his ski
was demolished) and Hank had to rescue him.
Everyone else, apparently, chose to exercise caution and call it
a day. Discretion is the better part of valor when
it gets hairy like that.
Yet, of course, I was totally oblivious. I passed my neighbor
Dylan Aoki who was sitting in the bush. He’s a fireman. He said:
“Be careful out there! There was just a big set — it’s
gnarly!”
I was like: “Yeah, man! Thanks.”
I didn’t really hear him — I was 100% focused on my objective:
hitting the water and paddling out to the peak. In all honesty, I
was wishing I had someone to paddle out with.
At the water’s edge, it did look gnarly — ominous and
foreboding. I felt it in my gut. Of course, it is always best (and
frankly more fun) to surf with at least one (or a few) other
person(s); it’s a lot easier psychologically and seems safer, too,
when I’m with another surfer.
But my wingman (Davis) wasn’t around, I think he had moved back
to the mainland at that point. So, I was on my own. Truth
is: you’re on your own out there anyway. There’s
really not much anyone else can do for you if and when shit gets
real. That’s the bottom line in Big Water a mile out in the
ocean. Solo mio.
The rip was roaring — the first real indicator of what’s
happening and what could (and probably will) happen. Torrents of
water moving fast and strong, chops were easy 6’-8’ and I got
pulled out there in a raging slipstream, like Class V white-water
rapid, lickety-split.
I made sure to give “Twisted Sister” (a.k.a.
“Generals”) a wide berth, as that’s a zone one can easily
get caught inside and destroyed (e.g., Larry Haynes). In big surf —
whether it’s Sunset Beach, Waimea Bay, or the Outer Reefs — the
paddle out alone is as thrilling, challenging, and dangerous as
anything else one will encounter.
And it takes a solid strategy, follow-through, and execution to
make it out unscathed. It’s the first test. You gotta be
loose, move with the water, alert and
aware: it’s a process of give and take —
“like a Willow Tree,” Roger Erickson told me once (they
bend, don’t break in the wind). My mind was racing with
exhilaration and the proverbial “butterflies” were
fluttering Big Time!
I just knew viscerally by how fast I was moving (getting sucked
out in the roaring rip) and by how the water was looking and
feeling (so much power and energy popping all around) that this was
going to be full-on.
As I passed “Twisted Sister” a set unloaded and went
square — top-to-bottom — and spit hard like a massive cannon-shot.
I thought out loud: “It’s big, man. Bigger than it looked from
the beach!” Again, I secretly wished I had a partner . . .
I paddled way outside. The state of the ocean was
just breathtaking. Truly awesome. The grand
expanse of the Phantoms lineup is spellbinding:
dozens of acres of water (almost a square mile I’d estimate) of
raw, wild ocean, raging rips tearing in and around mountainous
peaks and walls and gaping, spitting barrels that would consume a
Greyhound Bus.
From where I sat, I couldn’t even see the beach anymore. It took
everything I had to get a sense of things, get my bearings and
orientation. I was way the fuck out there on the
Northernmost corner of the North Shore (then as now, it never
ceases to amaze me) — almost a mile — “a Norway mile” as old
seamen say — all alone, observing the backs of 15’-18’-plus waves
(30’ – 40’ faces) breaking at outside, Third
Reef Backyards running all the way to Sunset (to
the West); as giant freight-trains could be seen stacking from
Outside “Revelations” (to the Northeast) walling up across
the Phantoms reef — the “channel” was
gone. There was no Revelations channel.
“That’s unusual,” I thought.
The swell direction was super steep out of the North-Northwest,
also unusual. From where I was sitting on the far outside at the
“top” of the reef (wherefrom I could see Haleiwa to my left
and Turtle Bay to my right, and the big white golf-ball satellites
above Kawela: what we call “Epcot Center” — that’s
when/where seasoned Phantoms surfers know it’s big and you’re on
the outermost reef: lineups don’t lie) it looked like the channel
between Phantomsand Backyards was also
closing out!
That’s CRAZY because the Kaunala drainage is
the deepest natural channel (a submarine canyon) on the entire
North Shore (easy 60’-80’ deep). Not a good
sign. On top of that, there were
multiple whirlpools of water sucking and
twisting in ways I had never seen before (or
since). The waves were BIG. Easy 20’.
I thought of Edgar Allan Poe’s “A Descent Into The
Malestrom”:
The collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and
reflux . . . in
the immediate vicinity of the vortex . . . I felt a
sickening sweep
of descent . . . Never shall I forget the sensations of
awe, horror,
and admiration with which I gazed about me . . .
. Here the vast
bed of waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand
conflicting
channels, burst suddenly into phrensied
convulsion-heaving, boiling,
hissing-gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and
all whirling
and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which
water never elsewhere assumes
except in precipitous descents . .
. 4
In all my years in the ocean, I have never seen anything like it
— “the prodigious suction” — with my own eyes. And I
was scared. No question: I was in way over my
head.
“I should not be out here,” I said out loud.
This kind of empty, lonely, undeniable, and inescapable feeling
of despair. One can’t indulge it for long otherwise one
paralyzes. I don’t often get or feel like this in the ocean (I
don’t like being scared and typically I manage or overcome fear
with the healthy diversion of fascination and focus — “pure
will-less knowing” as Schopenhauer puts it re: “the
sublime”); but I didn’t have the time or luxury for such
philosophical indulgence since I was
terrified and, furthermore, because I understood the
severe gravity of the situation and moment. “Happiness and
unhappiness have disappeared,” sez Schopenhauer, “we are no
longer individual; the individual is forgotten; we are only pure
subject of knowledge; we are only that one
eye of the world which looks out from all knowing
creatures, but which man alone can become perfectly free from the
service of will . . . neither joy nor grieving is carried with us
beyond that boundary.”
In other words: Think. Get a plan of
action. Pronto!
There’s no swimming in when it’s like this, no way.
Get caught inside? Certain you lose the board (no question); and
doesn’t really matter anyway since you’ll probably drown if you do
get caught at impact by a wave that’s 50’ plus on the face buried
under many tons of water in the dark abyss of “Davy Jones’
Locker.”
This was years before so-called “flotation” and
inflatable vests and all that, by the way. There’s no paddling in
either at this stage: no possible way anyone can paddle against
that rip (pulling seaward at 8 to 10 knots easy); and even if you
could, there’s a very strong possibility of getting caught inside
and losing the boards and/or drowning. No thanks.
All I was thinking was: “Get the fuck out of here!” But
how? . . . The only way in is to catch a
wave. A set wave.
At that moment, the horizon shifted on
the Revelations side (Northeast), which, again, is
extremely unusual as the standard indicators are rather more on the
Western horizon coming from the Sunset or Haleiwa side (on the
proverbial “West Finger Reef” according to the old-timer
Pioneers of this reef: Flippy Hoffman, Steve Bigler, Mike Taylor,
and Roger Erickson preeminent among them — I’ve surfed with them
all); not at this moment, however. Every atom of my being
was intensely focused. On survival.
A set was coming — INCOMING! These giant
blue Leviathans marched toward me at 60 mph (or faster) and all I
could do was paddle as hard and fast as I could to meet them and
hopefully — Dear God! — not get caught
inside.
. . . but in the next moment I cursed myself for
being so great a fool
as to dream of hope at all . .
. 7
It’s so true: There are no atheists in the impact
zone! But caught inside it looked like I was going to
be as I stroked vertically up the face of the first wave that was
already feathering and beginning to throw. I just barely got over
the top of the first one and free-fell airborne over the back
(which is super hairy as the impact of the board can knock the wind
out of you, bust your jaw, or just plain knock you out — I’ve
gotten stitches in my chin twice (16 total) from the impact of this
kind of thing before) and slapped down without missing a
stroke. I was horrified by what I saw before me in the airborne
instant coming over the crest of that Behemoth: at least 10 more
waves stacking, each bigger than the one before it. I was
doomed.
But the intelligence of the body (i.e., instinct) overrode my
desperate pathetic mind and did what only it could
do: paddle like a demon. Again, I found myself
crawling, pulling with everything I had vertically up the face of a
wave (Eight? Ten strokes?) that was easily five or more
board-lengths tall — a veritable drive-in movie screen, bigger than
a telephone pole or coconut tree and feathering for what seemed
like a mile — “a Norway mile” — in either
direction.
At that instant, a little voice said: “You can catch this
wave.” In that nanosecond, I recognized that not only could
(must!) I catch this wave; but if I didn’t, I would most
certainly be caught by the next one (or the next one, etc.). I was
already anaerobic (totally winded and running out of oxygen), so I
whipped it and . . .
Caught the wave. A miracle in and of
itself! I was right on a little ledge (some call it a
“chip”) that gave me a rather smooth easy entry. I was up
and in a low crouch — then the wave jacked and flared and I went
vertical over the ledge: straight down. I sort of plowed into and
through another ledge as the wave jacked even harder and at that
moment my board disconnected and I was in a full on
fin-out freefall for probably a board length (11’
or 12’).
And I’m free, free fallin’
Yeah I’m free, free fallin’
Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’
Now I’m
Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’
I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
I’m gonna free fall out into nothin’
Gonna leave this world for a while — Tom Petty
I landed and reconnected relatively smoothly without losing any
momentum. The voice spoke again: “There’s no going right or
left. Just make the drop!” This was a drop that seemed
to never end; I might have even disconnected and got
airborne again, I’m not sure. It was straight up and down; and an
experience in aquadynamic physics like I’ve never had before or
since.
The wave was sucking out so hard that it took me a few
seconds to get down in the trough (the proverbial
“pit”) whereupon I knew the whole thing was going to
close-out and probably destroy me. I was at full hull-speed (45
mph, maybe faster, combined or compounded by the mass and the
velocity of the wave itself I might as well have been moving at 75
or 80 mph, do the math someone please) as fast as one can go on a
surfboard that’s for sure.
My peripheral vision told me that what seemed like the entire
Universe was closing out all around me. I prepared for the
worst.
Utterly consumed. Engulfed by an explosion of cascades of
whitewater, a literal avalanche, yet, somehow, I was still on my
feet. Immediately I leapt down prone on my belly and grabbed the
rails and got ready for the whitewater adventure. Then the second
explosion blasted like a Hydrogen Bomb detonating — blowing me and
my board into the air (still consumed by mountains of whitewater);
at one point I even lost hold/grip of the board and then again
(somehow) reconnected and landed only to be blown out in front of
the closed-out deluge.
Instantaneously, I jumped up to my feet and found myself coming
over a massive double-up as the wave reformed (as it moved into
another section of reef) and transformed from a mass of whitewater
into a titanic wall of blue (easy 40’ plus on the face) that
stretched before me into Eternity.
It was beautiful, sublime — I was surfing! And it was
fun!
Flying at Mach 2 in full forward trim across the highline, I
assumed I had made the transition from the Outside Reef to the
middle section (what we call “Outer Freddies” — outside the
surfspot “Freddyland”which sits several hundred
yards inside Phantoms in the middle of Kaunala
Bay).
This is where the waves often reform into these long, drawn-out
walls that will have a couple/few hollow sections that can be as
challenging as they are thrilling to negotiate.
But this aquatic transformation wasn’t Outer
Freddies — unbelievably (and I didn’t know it yet at the
time) I was streaking across the outside section (what they call
“Chevrons” because one can see the Chevron Gas Station down
at Kammieland from this spot)
of Backyards itself — which means (for those who
know or care) that I had taken off at Phantoms and
miraculously (against most all odds) blasted across the channel
(which simply doesn’t happen!) to Backyards . .
. Insane.
But, as I said, I didn’t know what was really happening yet. At
this point my fear and anxiety had metamorphosized
into PURE STOKE as I strobed across a giant,
perfect, blue wall that stretched into the horizon.
In the approaching distance, I saw a big Left coming (a
spinning barrel) toward me, throwing top-to-bottom, so I
prepared to prone out and dropped to the bottom of the wave and got
low in anticipation of another, final close-out, with an eye for
the shore where I aimed for the beach.
I felt the water getting shallower; could see the reef whizzing
by beneath me. Where and when I caught the wave (which seemed like
a lifetime ago at the point — a million miles behind and away from
me) was probably 60’ deep (or deeper); now I was in water maybe 15’
deep and getting much shallower very quickly. There was a
torrential side-shore rip running at this stage, which is normal
when conditions are like this since all the water pushed in by the
big surf has to escape back out to sea. When the wave closed out
(again) I laid back down prone on my board just to play it safe
— I was going to the beach!
As the whitewater backed off a little, I stood up again for a
final time and directed myself toward shore. As I did so, I looked
at all the houses (which I assumed were at Velzyland,
a.k.a. “V-Land”) and thought to myself: “Boy, they sure
have built-up and developed V-Land!” (V-Land used to be the
North Shore “ghetto” — low rent, dilapidated houses, but in
the ensuing decades it’s become gentrified, transformed into a
bunch of trophy houses (mostly empty boxes) for the rich and
famous: e.g., Sean Penn, Eddie Vedder, et al.)
But it wasn’t V-Land I was looking at — it
was Sunset Point! (Nearly a mile — “a Norway
mile” down the coast.) I almost fell off my board in shock! At
that moment, I realized what had just occurred: I had ridden a wave
from Phantoms, across Backyards, all the
way to Sunset, where I was proning in at the
“Boneyard” right in front of the old drainage pipe (it’s
gone now). Beyond incredible — IMPOSSIBLE!
As the aerial photo above indicates, Sunset
Beach (or Paumalu)
and Phantoms (Kaunala) are two distinct
drainage and reef systems separated and clearly divided by a huge
channel (the deepest on the North Shore) and a headland (known
as Backyards and/or “Sunset Point” — where
I live).
In other words, there’s not only at least two channels (the one
separating Phantoms and Backyards and
another
separating Backyards and Sunset) which
are the result of freshwater rivers (Wai) draining out from
the Koolau Mountains: headwaters of
both Kaunala and Paumalu streams,
as well as an entire surfbreak (Backyards) that actually
consists of at least three different, distinct
sections.
Moreover, given that I caught this wave about a mile — “a
Norway mile” — out to sea (from the beach/shoreline) and that I
also covered a distance of approximately another half mile (or
more) — like 6 or ten football fields) between Phantoms and the
Boneyard as Sunset, I rode for something like a mile and a half (or
more) on one wave in less than a
minute. Truth.
Again, someone please do the math here, I’m not that good at
physics (at least not when it comes to the numbers); but it seems
to me I was moving pretty fast — and far. I was
dumbfounded as I steered to shore and stepped off my board on to
the sand. I can’t tell you how good that felt.
There were two guys walking with their guns (both Fire Engine
Red Owl Chapman single fin pintails not unlike my board — although
mine is kind of a custard yellow and a little longer): Kalani
Chapman (Owl’s nephew) and Christian Lewis. They were longtime
roommates, living at that time on the Point. And they
were headed down the beach to paddle
at Phantoms.
They stared at me incredulously and asked: “What were you
doing out at Sunset!?!” Mind you, Sunset Beach was totally
closed out and washing through from Oblivion way, way
outside.
I said: “I wasn’t surfing Sunset. I just caught a wave at
Phantoms and washed down here . . .”
I barely got the words out, knowing how ridiculous
—how IMPOSSIBLE — what I just said sounded.
These are both veteran big wave riders. Kalani (a pro surfer and
Pipeline Master) was born and raised (literally) on the sand where
we stood. He looked at me like I was crazy; but he and Christian
also know me well enough to know that I can surf, too, and maybe
(just maybe) I wasn’t bullshitting them.
We walked together back up the beach. It took a while. The
profound sense of relief I was experiencing mixed
with what the shrinks would surely call the onset of PTSD (Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder). Like surviving a plane crash, a
nuclear blast, an avalanche, or a bear attack or something very
extreme and deadly, I was in disbelief but also subconsciously and
slowly coming into a clearer consciousness,
acutely aware of the severity, gravity, and
unbelievable luck of everything I had just experienced.
As we made our way past the stone walls fronting the beachfront
houses at Backyards, we noticed the detritus (flotsam and jetsam)
of the remains of Larry Haynes’ jet ski littering the shoreline. It
had been totally destroyed: pieces and scraps of it everywhere,
evidence of what had happened less than an hour prior.
Rounding the corner, as the beach rises and transitions into
Kaunala Bay, we could see Phantoms breaking a mile
out to sea. It looked treacherous. Those guys looked at me like:
“You were out there?!” I honestly couldn’t believe it
myself. It looked dangerous, death defying really, and not at all
inviting (suffice to say: they didn’t paddle out). And when we got
to the spot where I had paddled out, there was Dylan (the fireman)
in more or less the same spot I last saw him — a veritable lifetime
ago for me it seemed.
He looked at me like I was a ghost. Which, in a manner of
speaking, I guess I was (or should have been). He said something
like: “What happened to you? I saw you paddle out and then you
just disappeared. I thought you might have
drowned!”
Once more, I attempted in vain to describe (I couldn’t explain)
what had just happened. I don’t think he believed me or it didn’t
register or something — it was IMPOSSIBLE. But it happened. I know
I paddled out. Dylan saw me. And I know something happened more or
less as I describe herein (in that I caught a wave way
outside Phantoms and came in at Sunset Beach at
the Boneyard after riding — surviving — that
wave). Yet it all seemed beyond the realm of possibility.
I was tired. Exhausted. Totally drained and feeling
this weird kind of dissociation from myself and surroundings. I
wanted to sleep, take a long nap. So, after a warm shower and maybe
something to eat or drink, I lay down on my bed and crashed.
A couple hours later, now early evening, I awoke. Startled. I
shot up with the full recognition and comprehension that I was
extremely fortunate (yes: Lucky) to have survived what I
simply shouldn’t have. I was in utter disbelief with the
realization of the extremity of the circumstance. Nothing a
beer or two won’t cure! After which I had some dinner and
gave my shaper, Owl, a call.
I told him what happened as best I could. Owl listened and then
declared: “I’ve done that.” It was actually very
reassuring to hear him say that. It meant that it could happen! It
was possible after all. I wasn’t crazy. Owl did it too. But I
learned in the next sentence, he did it on a windsurfer — in
25’ surf by himself, he told me. That’s a little (maybe a lot)
different because he had wind power and a harness and boom to hold
to assist or facilitate covering such a Grand Expanse of water.
Nevertheless, he did it and he explained to me how it probably
happened.
As noted, the swell that day was extremely North (a
North-North-West) which means the surf was coming from the other
(really the opposite) side of the reef from where the waves
typically arrive (West). The swell was on the rise — rapidly — and
the tide was also on the rise: flooding. Given that the reservoir
of water for the North Shore extending
from Revelations to Waimea is
contained in that deep trench I mentioned (super deep, like a lake
one might say), when the tide is flooding (or rising to High Tide)
all the water moves from Northeast to West, literally spilling out
of a proverbial bowl downhill; likewise, an ebbing (lowtide) pulls
in the opposite direction, filling the bowl back up
again.
Thus, what probably happened was that I paddled out and caught
(or, more properly stated: was caught) by the High Tide
Set of a peaking swell combined with the flood of the high tide
slipstream/rip where everything (all the ocean forces) pushed
across from East to West. A rare — once in a
lifetime — but plausible scenario. Not only could it be
done (I guess) in theory, it was (at least twice: by Owl and
me).
So it goes. Believe it or not, but it’s all true.
And I concede that to this day — this moment as
I type these words — I am haunted by the memory of my experience.
My blood runs cold every time I think about it.
For years afterwards, I would have dreams (a kind of ominous,
foreboding nightmare) of everything that could (should?)
have gone wrong: had I been caught inside by that set; had I not
made the drop; had I been blown off my board (etc., etc.) — I would
most certainly been lost at sea given the
overwhelming forces of nature that afternoon.
I don’t think for a second that I would have been able to swim
through those waves, the surf zone, and rips. I would have either
been buried and drowned almost immediately or sucked out to
sea.
And given the fact that Dylan lost sight of me almost
immediately (and he was watching me) and that there were no jetskis
in the water, I was on my own. No one would have rescued me. I
could have easily just disappeared . . .
One inference that can be drawn from this tale is that my
board saved my life. No doubt about that. It’s interesting to
note that, over the years, Owl often remarked in the shaping room
as he hand-crafted my guns: “Kid, this thing’s gonna save your
life one day.” Fuck’n A Right, Owl.
Mahalo Nui Loa!
But the moral of the story, I suppose, is to be
more careful and exercise discretion.
Be prepared for the worst. This realization is
hardly a revelation. But it’s an essential one. Know your
limits. Study the conditions very
carefully, think twice (or more),
and err on the side of caution.
I was 40 years old (or so) when this happened. I wasn’t a
stupid, reckless kid. I was and remain a big-wave rider with
decades of experience at this break (literally my Backyard) where I
have surfed, swam, paddled, sailed, and dove for 30 years. But I
won’t make that mistake again.
I’ve seen people disappear out there. Jim Broach in
1993, for example, paddled out on a big windy day never to be seen
again. No body. No board. Nothing. Gone.
The guys he paddled out with — Boogs Van Der Polder and Rusty
Moran, a couple intrepid Australians and two of the better big-wave
riders at the time — barely survived themselves (they never even
caught a wave; they just got mercilessly caught inside) and
when they came in, they packed their bags and split.
I never saw (or even heard about) them again.
(SEE: Surfer Mag cover shot of Boogs at
Phantoms above.) I know other surfers — surfers better than me —
whom I respect and admire that have sworn off Phantoms after
enduring near-drowning experiences out there. One guy, a Hawaiian,
told me: “I promised to God that if he let me live I’d never
paddle out there again.” And he never has.
Finals day analysis, Quiksilver Pro G-Land,
“It was misery. Misery I had subjected myself to. Faced with no
choice but to keep going, I began to understand jungle fever. Time
slowed, and there was no escape once I was in it!”
By JP Currie
"While you were watching Grajagan climax live, I
was on a grim death march along the Trotternish Ridge on the Isle
of Skye…"
Apologies for the delay. While you were no
doubt at your leisure, prone or proud, watching Grajagan climax, I
was on a grim death march along the Trotternish Ridge on the Isle
of Skye, wishing I was anywhere else in the world.
Much like G-Land, it’s a dream location that can descend into a
nightmare driven by a weather forecast.
In low visibility or with the most innocuous of missteps, a
tired stumble, a caught toe on a rock, you might find yourself
plunging over sheer cliffs to the east and dashed to pieces on the
rocks below.
To the west the slopes are rough and boggy. Too far that way and
you’ll find yourself slogging for arduous hours over difficult,
featureless terrain.
In clear weather, it’s a landscape difficult not to be awed by.
Real Lord of the Rings stuff. The ridge, stretching twenty miles
south from the northern end of Skye, is the product of geological
oddities. There are deep, grassy valleys, dizzying cliffs, and
lanceolate pinnacles of rock. It’s the product of a post-glacial
landslip, the largest in Britain.
In 1865, Scottish poet and essayist, Alexander Smith, called it
“a nightmare of nature”.
Yesterday, for those who like running in mountains, it should’ve
been a dream. And that’s how it started, at least. As part of the
Scottish Hill Running Championship this year, nearly two hundred of
Scotland’s finest hill runners (and me) gathered in dazzling
sunshine at the start line. It was a brightly coloured, slim and
taut thrum of fitness.
But it went bad. Really bad.
The heat crippled me. I searched desperately for water, drinking
from stagnant pools in peat bogs, heated by the sun to the
temperature of blood. Whether that or the initial dehydration
caused my stomach cramps I don’t know.
It was the longest five hours I’ve ever experienced. In that
way, it was very similar to what we’ve just seen at Grajagan.
Somehow, a reduced field turned into an event that felt like the
longest yet.
I’ve done my due diligence and watched the replays.
Nothing stood out in the quarter-finals bar Kanoa’s surprisingly
twitchy and off-the-pace backhand. It seemed choppy, forever behind
the section. Perhaps it was just in contrast to Robinson, whose
turns were far more composed and drawn out with a calmness that was
to bear more fruit as the day progressed.
Robinson’s semi against Medina was an odd affair that probably
should’ve been the final.
It was a battle of divine proportions. God got busy early,
gifting Medina multiple scoring waves for more than forty minutes
while Buddha kept his powder dry.
Even watching the replay, knowing the result, I couldn’t fathom
how Robinson was going to come away with the victory. He’d only
attempted four waves, and still needed a score when Medina used his
priority on a set wave with just seventeen seconds left. He surfed
it well for a deserved seven and his best score of a heat in which
he’d never been threatened.
There can’t have been more than two seconds on the clock when
Buddha instructed Jack to go on the next wave. He made two critical
backhand snaps, the second worthy of comment, then finished with
the briefest of cover-ups. He fist pumped and pointed at the
judging tower as he kicked out. Buddha, having been impressed with
his composure up til now, surely shook his head and tutted.
But the judges bought it, 7.83. In a comp lacking any drama,
they were certainly doing their best to manufacture it.
Toledo surfed to a solid but not entirely convincing semi
victory against O’Leary, who’s cannon fodder, really. I’m not sold
on Filipe’s backhand either. It seems an odd thing to say, given he
made the final, and he surfs so fast that it’s still more exciting
than most, but it’s not a patch on his forehand.
This event brought home again how unjust the calendar is. It was
interesting here to see some lefts that required turns, and it did
highlight some strengths and weaknesses.
We ended up with two regular-footers in the final, regardless,
and the world champion is goofy, both of which might make my
argument seem null and void, but in my eyes there’s a necessity to
have a down-the-line left as a regular Tour feature.
God and Buddha faced off once again in the final. God had a
different strategy for Toledo this time. Borrowing from Buddha’s
playbook, he instructed Filipe to catch only three waves. Right
until the final seconds they were enough.
Really, the final was a pretty dull affair. The waves were slow,
the rides uneventful. Toledo and Robinson sat apart like distant
satellites, each searching for signs of life in the Grajagan
line-up.
“All that intense-cipation,” said Joe.
Jack Robinson does not feel intensecipation. If you believe him,
he doesn’t feel anything.
Buddha instructed that he should remain still until the very
last moments once again. With three seconds on the clock and
needing a 6.67, he scratched into a smaller inside wave, surfing it
with a competency that was immediately forgettable. Judges in the
tower by this point were clearly blissed out and levitating with
crossed legs. He got a seven. Another overscore at the buzzer.
Robinson the victor for the second event in a row, up to number
two in the world, Buddha the new Glen Micro Hall.
How do we feel about this? Has he been a standout? I’m sure the
bulk audience for the WSL in Australia are loving it, but in my
eyes every decision has gone his way, including some that shouldn’t
have. Nothing about his performances have struck me.
In his post-heat interview with Strider there was some “thanking
the ocean…trusting the ocean…etc” before, mercifully, the sound cut
out. We saw Jack talking, but heard nothing. I’m almost certain we
missed nothing but more cosmic mumbo-jumbo.
You very much can script this.
What do we make of Jackie Robinson’s act? Maybe I’m just cynical
and unenlightened, but personally I’d call it a schtick rather than
an act. His “I’m not thinking about anything” trip is wearing me
down. I’m sure he believes in it. I suppose, in a sport based on
fleeting moments of chance you to have faith in something, even if
it’s nothingness.
Speaking of empty minds, Joe Turpel is even more painful when
you’re not watching live. It’s because you could put a stop to it
at any moment, but you have to keep going.
I had a dig at the tone of Luke Egan’s voice in my last wrap,
but listening to the contrast between his considered delivery vs
Joe or Strider is incomparable. Often he brought Turpel’s unfocused
wandering back to sensible commentary, and that’s something I
deeply appreciated.
Strider, Joe and Kaipo remain a scourge, albeit a smiling one.
Disposing of them would be like killing puppies, but sometimes
harsh actions are needed. In Seamus Heaney’s poem, “The Early
Purges”, the speaker is six years old, and watches in horror as a
farmhand drowns unwanted kittens. But over the course of the poem
he grows. “On well-run farms, pests have to be kept down,” he
instructs us conclusively at the end.
What to take away from G-Land? Despite the location, despite the
promise, it was, at times exactly like my race yesterday, a grim
death march to the finish.
Up there on the ridge, as the sun beat down, my heart rate
spiked to nearly 200, and I ached for water, I swore I was never
racing in heat like that again. It was misery. Misery I had
subjected myself to. Faced with no choice but to keep going, I
began to understand jungle fever. Time slowed, and there was no
escape once I was in it.
That’s how it goes sometimes. Pressure and pain is good for
you.
Today, things look brighter. I know what I did wrong. I know
what I can do better.
Thinking about surfing got me through. The blue of the sea to
the east and west has never looked so inviting. I should be down
there, I thought. Not up here.
I thought of G-Land. What it once was, what it is now, and what
it’s been this week.
I wondered what bonds have been forged in the lazy jungle heat?
What rivalries may have festered in the moist air? No doubt we’ll
find out in a future installment of Make Or Break.
I wondered if the MOB crew can remain objective in their
ensconcement. When do they simply become part of the bandwagon? The
shiny, happy caravan of professional surfing where nary a negative
word is said, lest the spell be broken and they need to wake up and
live normal lives like the rest of us.
El Salvador next. Do you know it?
“J-Bay in boardshorts,” was what Luke Egan called it. Let’s hope
it delivers.
Toledo, still in the yellow jersey, must see the stars
aligning.
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Medina, a pleasure to consume at Desert
Point.
Blood feud: War between Desert Point
filmers and Medina camp heats up, “Permission? Permission? To shoot
anyone in my waves? We are ready to defend our home!”
By Gareth Lynch
"You pro's make alot of money from coming to my
home. I tell you and all your friends the filmmakers that you can’t
make money off us anymore."
Despite the adoration Gabriel Medina justifiably
received over at G-Land, outrage and controversy continues over at
Desert Point on the Indonesian island of Lombok.
At one point the Medina team supposedly told the local shooters
to “Go ask Rip Curl for permission”.
One local responded, “Permission? Permission? To shoot anyone in
my waves? My Home? Fuck you, this is how I support my family.”
Heated texts were also the order of the day.
“So Medina or whoever don’t want to support the local community?
That is fucked up, bro. You pros make alot of money from coming to
my home. I tell you and all your friends the filmmakers that you
can’t make money off us anymore. We are ready to defend our home.
And tell Medina and all his filmakers that they can forget getting
any transport to here too”.