“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.

"It was sort of a blind, stupid feeling, but I had all the goddamn confidence of a rhinoceros.”

The legend of Californian big-wave icon Greg Noll, one of the first surfers to charge Waimea Bay and who famously quit surfing in 1969 after riding a thirty-five footer, then the biggest wave ever ridden, has now been expanded to include his role as a 2SLGBTQ+ pioneer. 

According to the AI showpiece ChatGPT, 

“Greg Noll, a legendary big wave surfer from the 1960s, is also known for being openly gay. His contributions to the sport and his activism have left a lasting impact on the surfing community.”

Did you know? 

Earlier today, and as is my wont, I asked, “Who are some famous homosexual surfers?” whereupon Noll, who died two years ago aged eighty-four and who was noted for his enjoyment of pussy and whose joke about getting fur balls down your throat from so much pussy eats brought the house down at the 2016 XXL Big Wave Awards, was awarded the 2SLGBTQ+ pioneer badge of honour by ChatGPT.

(The OCWeekly was less impressed by the pussy joke reporting from the XXL Awards,

Though you hear hoots and hollers from the audience at the end, female attendees who spoke to the Weekly were disgusted. “It was such an insult to Keala’s speech to have Greg say his stupid joke,” one surfer said. “Here she was pouring her heart out, and then she was so disrespected.”

“Typical OC surf bro mentality,” another added. “They couldn’t be serious for an evening, or let us ladies have the spotlight; they had to just make us out to be tits and pussies as always.”) 

The great surfing historian Matt Warshaw describes Noll as “Boorish but charismatic … A loveable blowhard, hustler, raconteur, and bullshitter. But not an outright fabricator. His big-wave cred, furthermore, extends from here to Valhalla. He led the opening charge at Waimea in 1957, and for the next 12 years rode anything that came his way, fearlessly. ‘I was overwhelmed by a feeling that there wasn’t a wave that God could produce that I couldn’t ride,’ he said. ‘It was sort of a blind, stupid feeling, but I had all the goddamn confidence of a rhinoceros.”

Not gay, howevs. 

It ain’t the first time ChatGPT has got it wrong. Two months ago, Keala Kennelly and Tia Blanco were described as surfing’s most well-known transgender surfers.

One of the most well-known transgender surfers is Keala Kennelly, a professional surfer from Hawaii. Keala came out as a transgender woman in 2018 and has been open about her experiences as a trans woman in the surfing industry. She is a big wave surfer and has won several awards for her surfing skills.

Another notable transgender surfer is Tia Blanco, a professional surfer from Puerto Rico. Tia is a non-binary surfer who has competed in the World Surf League and has won several national and international surfing competitions.

Star of television flop The Ultimate Surfer, Puerto Rican-born Filipino-American Tia Blanco is as binary as they come, recently announcing she was pregnant with the baby of the TV personality Brody Jenner, son of, and here’s the irony or maybe the bit that tripped up AI, Caitlyn Jenner, once Bruce Jenner, Olympian etc.

KK, a former world number two surfer turned DJ and actor, is “openly lesbian” as they used to say, but ain’t on the transition train.

Noll also”earned a reputation as a drinker and a brawler, with a sometimes-macabre sense of humor. A Greg Noll Surfboards employee once cut off his thumb while on the job; after Noll took the man to the hospital and found out the thumb couldn’t be reattached, he returned to the factory and placed the severed digit in a cup full of resin to make a paperweight.”

"I make no promises that I will watch every wave. I might get distracted by the yoga class or the SUP races. The schedule is so packed."

I’m floating on my back in the pool, staring at the sky. I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. I’m not entirely sure where here is. There’s just the pool’s cool water and the sky’s endless blue. My bikini’s blue, too.

But there’s something about a pool. It’s tickling the edge of my brain. I’m here about a pool, I remember. Not this pool, not the pool where I float aimlessly, staring at the sky — this isn’t the pool I came here to find.

Somewhere near Pismo, I almost turned around. I could go home. It’s Memorial Day weekend. I could turn around and go back to my nice life with the comfortable couch and the cute cats. Right there at Spyglass, I could have gotten off the freeway and turned back.

But I promised. Also, there was the bribery. If you go to Surf Ranch, you can buy a new board. I bribed myself. That’s the real truth right there.

Later, I run into Britt Merrick. I tell him I’m only here so I can buy a new board. He laughs at me. At least, I can make someone happy.

Reaching Paso Robles, I made the fateful turn east. There was the sign to Cambria right there. The coast, it’s so close here. But I turned east, and well, then it was entirely too late. There was no turning back.

That’s where I saw my first Trump flag truck. They’re so familiar, and yet still so strange. It’s always a pickup truck. Sometimes, the truck is flashy and expensive, the performance of being working class more than the reality. But just as often, the truck has seen some days. It’s battered and old.

An American flag. Trump 2024. There was a third flag, too, but I couldn’t see it. Is it annoying to have flags flapping in the back of your pickup? Nothing is too much for the cause.

As I drove east, the rolling green hills turned gold. There’s a lot of places in between in California. It’s not much more than 40 miles from Paso Robles to Kettleman City, but it feels like forever. I pass through the terrain twisted and torqued by San Andreas fault. Jumbled hills surround wide flatlands. I feel like I’ve driven off the edge of the map.

As I approach Kettleman City, I see a sign pointing to Los Angeles. There’s one last chance. You can still go back. Go ahead, make the turn.

I imagine my new surfboard. I stop for ice cream. Then I follow the straight line of the road.

I catch my first glimpse of the California aqueduct with rows of almond trees planted next to it. It’s nearly full. As I drive, the bypasses and channels that parallel the road brim with water. On the long, straight roads, the horizon never seems to come any closer.

The Sierra Nevada’s record snow pack has begun to melt, sending water downhill. Just south of here, the ancient Tulare Lake returns to life. Signs along the road call for more dams. Fire Newsom, they say, in reference to the current governor.

Accounts of early California describe the Central Valley as a lush wetland. The demands of thirsty cities and industrial agriculture have changed all that, but at the time, Tulare was the largest of the Valley’s lakes. In fact, it likely submerged the area of the present-day Surf Ranch.

If this were 1880, I wouldn’t have to be here. There would be no Surf Ranch. I could float in the lake and stare at the sky. If it were 1880, I could go home. It is not 1880.

One day not too long ago, I stood in chill, dry air of Santa Barbara Mission’s archive. My friend, the former archivist pulled out a drawer, and inside lay an eighteenth-century map of California. The cartographer had carefully traced out the boundaries of his known world in precise black lines.

So far, the dykes have held at this end of Tulare’s ancestral lake bed. I drive past the Surf Ranch. It’s still there. It’s not underwater. At least, not yet. My last hope dissolves.

Somehow I find my way here without consulting a map or any directions at all. I am not proud of this feat at all. It’s a sign that I’ve been here too many times.

I send Chas a picture of the Tachi Palace. He writes back: Welcome to hell, now go to hell.

I pass wildcard Alyssa Spencer in the lobby. Carrying her fresh boards with her bright blonde hair, she looks like the perfect surfer, and perfectly out of place. I recognize Gabriela Bryant, but I can’t think of her name.

My brain melted somewhere out there. Hello lost and found? Yes, I think I lost my mind. It was out there between the Trump truck and the ice cream. Think you could find it? I think I might need it.

I’m sitting in the lobby again now. There’s plenty of people to watch. João walks past with his new Red Bull hat on backwards. He heads to the coffee shop, as though he needs more energy.

Caroline Marks comes in from training with Mike Parsons at her side. Caity Simmers rushes past, and looks even smaller in person. The sprays on Gabriel Medina’s boards pop even more in person.

The slot machines sing their siren songs. Someone wins. A man visits the ATM near my table. He yells at it. This thing shorted me $20! Pulling on my headphones, I decide not to learn what happens next.

Tomorrow, the Surf Ranch gates swing open at 6am, and the men’s heats start at 7am. I can’t promise to be there when the gates open. But I will drink so much coffee and try so hard to get there before it’s too late.

Should we talk about the format? Sure, why the hell not. The opening round features four-surfer heats. The winner advances directly to the quarterfinals for men, and to the semifinals for women. The loser goes home.

At night, there’s a winner-takes-all second round. Each surfer gets two waves. The top two scores for men advance. For women, only the winner of the evening session continues.

That’s it. No second chances. No do-overs. Will there be tears? There might be tears.

I make no promises that I will watch every wave. I might get distracted by the yoga class or the SUP races. I could even go shopping! The schedule is so packed.

I could also go to the pool, float on my back, and stare at the sky.

It’s too late to turn back now. Here I am.

Welcome to hell, now go to hell.