“Who’s surfing? How does the format work? Everyone
had questions.”
I’m at the night session, and it’s the last chance for
Kelly Slater to advance to the quarterfinals. If you’re
ever in a tough situation. As Kelly begins to surf, Pennywise’s Bro
Hymn blares from the loudspeakers. Kelly falls on the right.
Someone will pick you up again.
At the end of the left, Kelly scores a six. It’s a long way from
being enough. Just remember who’s side it is that you’re on.
Around the time the contest started this morning, I wandered
downstairs to buy a coffee. Two espressos. The women behind the
counter looked confused. You want two, double espressos? Yes,
that’s right. Her confusion was not surprising. It’s not the most
normal coffee order ever. I needed all the help I could get.
When I walked through the Surf Ranch gates, the second heat had
begun. Entering as general admission, I arrived at the bottom of
the basin, where the right finishes. Someone was surfing, but I
couldn’t tell who it was. There was no video display or audible
announcer. It was quite peaceful down there, if completely
baffling. I had no idea what was happening.
Very few other people did, either.
Who’s surfing? How does the format work? Everyone had
questions.
Down at the end of the right, one of the best viewing spots,
information proved scarce. Last time I was here, there was a video
screen and commentary. Not this time. On the whole, there was less
of everything — less food, fewer video screens, and fewer
bathrooms.
I fired up my phone and spent the day hitting refresh to see the
scores. It was not the most elegant solution. It was better than
nothing.
For a while, I walked around without a clear direction. I wasn’t
at all sure where to go. Soon, I found a spot near some Brazilian
fans, who brought some life to the whole thing. They cheered loudly
for Filipe and later, for João.
Brazilians comprised a solid proportion of the crowd, which
appeared smaller than previous events. A close second to the
Brazilians were the dads and groms from around California. Many
wore t-shirts from the Trestles final or Vans U.S. Open. I saw a
number of families from San Clemente and other surf mad towns who
had made the trip.
In the middle of the lake, a girl in pink swim goggles stood on
a paddleboard. She had no idea what to do with the paddle, but she
was having the time of her life. Around her, kids laughed and
splashed in the swimming area. Surfing, who cares! We’re going
swimming. Around 15 or 20 adults, meanwhile, gathered for a yoga
class sponsored by Alo. A pile of kids scrambled on a paddleboard.
There was so much laughing.
A crew of bros passed by me, talking earnestly of surfboards.
It’s way better to buy used, one of them said. That way, you can
try them out. I did not expect to receive advice here at the Surf
Ranch. Sorry, Britt, the bros said I have to buy a used board, so I
can try it out first. It was unclear what I was supposed to do if
the board didn’t work. Huck it off a cliff, maybe. Or sell it to my
unsuspecting bro.
Then I saw Sam George. He’s extremely hard to miss. I stood on
the opposite side of the barricades from him, as we chatted. He had
a media pass and VIP credentials. I did not.
“That’s what you get for working for the National Enquirer.”
I have to concede, it was a sick burn, and I was too slow to
send it back at him.
Later, floating in the pool, staring at the sky, I think of the
best comebacks ever. But not right then, not when I needed it. Life
is so disappointing sometimes. Sam told me I should work for The
Inertia. I felt right at home, like you all from the comments
section were right here with me. It was nice not to feel alone.
After the fourth heat, I drove back to the hotel, pulled on a
bikini (blue again), and jumped in the pool. Two groms with WSL
wristbands and their dads have the same idea. It was the time of
day when the heat begins bear down, though it’s much less
oppressive than the last time I came here.
Floating in the pool, I convinced myself that Lemoore is
actually spelled l’Amore. I tried to convince myself I love it to
pieces. I failed.
I made it back in time to see first of the women’s heats. The
crowd had thinned, and I scored a parking spot right up front. I
stood at the end of the right to watch Caity and Carissa.
Predictably, Caity brought the style. Her stall into the barrel
was pure steez. She made the wave her playground, and it’s the rare
surfer who can do that here. Carissa won the heat, thanks to her
combined wave score. But Caity’s surfing is what I will
remember.
I considered skipping the night session. No one will notice if I
don’t write about the night session, right? Surely, I can just skip
this part.
I needed dinner, but I took a nap instead. Chas told me to go
watch a few waves. I stuffed a GoMacro bar in my pocket and headed
out. The setting sun cast a hazy orange glow over the place.
Squinting, it almost looked pretty.
By now, the people working the entrance recognize me, and didn’t
bother to check my ticket. I parked up front again and initially,
it felt like tumbleweeds roll through the venue. There weren’t a
lot of people around.
I walk halfway down the pool to the judge’s tower. From there, I
can see portions of the left and right and the one video screen. I
can also hear the beach announcer call out the scores. It’s going
so well now.
Slowly, the crowd fills in. It’s still not huge, though, by any
means. I end up standing next to a dad-and-groms crew from Santa
Barbara. The oldest grom is a freshman in college and has a fantasy
team.
Kelly is old, he says with brutal honesty. I soon learn this is
his preferred mode of surf commentary. I don’t hate it.
The format works. The grom makes me laugh. I surprise myself by
watching the entire men’s session. The crowd is small, but
determined. When the judges throw John John a pair of seven’s, boos
erupt around me.
I hope in vain for someone to storm the tower. It would make the
best story. Please, someone, storm the tower. Be legends!
As Italo starts his two waves, a song from The Offspring plays.
The night session’s songlist is total chaos. It also seems to have
stopped sometime during the last century. I recognize the song and
idly wonder if they will play the radio version. They do not. Italo
falls on the right’s end section as the song reaches a crescendo of
profanity.
Just one wave left, and it turns out to be classic Italo. If the
final air reverse is a bit low, well, the turns look fire. From my
angle at the side of the pool, I can see his surfing’s speed more
clearly than on video.
I can’t read the scores as they drop. I hear that he advanced,
before I see it, as cheers erupt from the Brazilian fans. They’re
still here. They’ve stayed until the end.
On the way out, I ask the bartender if she has any water left
for sale. The register’s closed, but she hands me a carton anyway.
It’s better in a box, she quips.
You’ve got friends with you ’til the end.
