He was just a boy with a wetsuit of armor and a dream.
I was standing on the dusty set of a horror film, deep in the Sierra Pelona mountains just north of Los Angeles, when Derek Rielly texted “Elo sacked!” A nasty bug was biting my ankle. My young daughter was in a cabin nearby, lit by a special effects fire, wearing a bonnet and eating a pork chop that was supposed to be the flesh of a human soldier.
“Well there we have it,” I thought quietly.
My heart didn’t race, like I might have expected it to, nor my mind explode with self-congratulatory fireworks. I have felt this was in the cards for a minute now, publicly stated multiple times in the past few weeks, and now the moment was here.
The question that pinged, though, was “why?”
Why was he culled so brutally, so openly, and right at this moment?
The statement, itself, was shockingly terse.
Today, the World Surf League (WSL) announced that CEO Erik Logan has departed the company, effective immediately. As the WSL begins the process of identifying a new CEO, Emily Hofer, WSL’s Chief People and Purpose Officer, and Bob Kane, Chief Operating Officer and Chief Legal Officer, will jointly lead the company and continue to drive the WSL’s mission to showcase the world’s best surfers on the world’s best waves as the global home of competitive surfing.
That it happened in the middle of an event Logan was, himself, attending, stunning.
That Chief of People and Purpose plus Chief of Legal taking the reins, jointly, telling.
Erik Logan did something, or as the great Jen See surmised, “Someone from legal and someone from HR? Feels like some heavy custody. Like, cleanup aisle 5 vibes.”
Now, with complete lack of communication from the World Surf League, itself, i.e. no mention on today’s broadcast, surf fans will be left to speculate wildly.
Did he commit murder?
Rob a bordello?
Wear the skin of a professional surfer and dance seductively to the strains of a gorgeously melodic tune?
Goodbye horses.
But let us stop, for a moment, and consider the real villain.
Professional surfing’s owner Dirk Ziff.
Ziff hired Logan in the first place, an Oklahoman SUP enthusiast by way of Oprah Winfrey. Ziff then promoted Logan after he massively failed at his first job and even though signs of erratic behavior were extremely clear. Ziff then humiliated Logan by axing him whilst on the job in Brazil, a place he should have never been in the first place after publishing an ill-advised missive enraging that community, making Filipe Toledo take his shirt off, being an overall weirdo.
Dear Erik Logan was a symptom, yes, but he was not the disease. Just a boy with a wetsuit of armor and a dream.
Today’s silence from the booth regarding the matter is Dirk Ziff continuing to treat his only audience like a pack of dolts. Imagine the NFL’s Roger Goodell or FIFA’s Gianni Infantino getting the boot mid-season, right before a game. General reasons would be given, commentators would speculate, some form of honesty would prevail.
In professional surfing, though, a seething hatred of its fanbase by a billionaire is what we have.
Well, we’ve got three scalps on our belts now. Paul Speaker, Backward Fin Beth and sweet Erik Logan.
Dirk Ziff, yours is next.
And now back to your regularly scheduled programing.
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Slum it with the plebs … nah, I can’t see that
Idle time and high caffeination. This is where fate seep’s into the cracks of broken souls. Too down to be motivated, too motivated to be down. The mind tick’s and the body must move to quieten it. The dreaded stuck van, it’s observed. He doesn’t like the stark sunlight away from the solace that the tree canopy around the river has provided. The dreaded stark sunlight has also baked the previously soft mud hard. Thoughts of a discarded cell phone are simultaneously pleasing and tormenting. His sup is yanked loose. It was once babied. Now, just a jewel in the crown of his downfall.
So cumbersome, so easily utilised to insert oneself into a scene. So fake.
He paddle’s down stream. He spots fish in the shallows. No rod, he slowly builds a rock wall and fences a dozen in. One is caught, then two and three. With his bare hands. The same filthy hands that tried to free a van from mud and the very same hands that scrubbed his anus. Three fish are undercooked and left tasting like fire lighter fumes such is his unknowing eagerness for protein. He only has lemon juice and cranberry sauce to add but they are an unlikely combination to behold in such a situation. With his tent balanced on his craft in a garbage and his backpack on there is a journey further downstream beckoning. Firstly the trap is dismantled and the remaining fish will slowly leave. The destination is not known or even pondered, sitting still brings a stinging reality.
His boots are laced to his shoulder straps. Jeans cuffed twice sitting nicely above his calves. The narrow stretches are cobbled and gushing. The deep wide ones inspire empty contemplation. Thoughts are abandoned where once they would be busy conspiring a new post. There is no new post, the is no narrative to slide into. Only fishy breath atop of furry teeth. Taking a rest they are rigorously taken care of. Manually. No electric brush here. Twenty minutes of scrubbing like a man would. He is rising. He feels the black coffee is staining. He doesn’t care. A camp is made. The damp tent assembled without fuss. A fire dries it enough and warms the sleeping bag placed beside. A cap of bourbon is tipped into a mug of lukewarm river water previously boiled, tolerable. Another cap added. Bitey yet muscled down. A cigarette to push away intrusive thoughts. Teeth brushed again to justify his indulgence. Sleep comes easy. As does rising, he pisses the remaining life out of the fire that warmed his feet through the still night. It was instinctively done but should have been used for his shake and bake pancakes. Water is tipped regardlessly and shaken and consumed chased with the intended banana. He floats by with an airy aimlessness that somehow brim’s with direction. He floats. He moves. His mind as empty as the sky yet full like the river that has become.
let me pause you there. chop it up~or i will!
sick. from stickman~
STRIKE!
if ESPN is only an indicator. both are firing the wrong guys~also tax collectors~universal judges~
2nd draft…As the biggest celebration of surfing on tour, Rio is as much about the
fans on the beach as the surfers in the water. Their adoration for the
Brazilian athletes is unrivaled and there’s no setting like this in the
sport. It will be a test for Gabriel Medina, Tatiana Weston-Webb, Filipe
Toledo, and every surfer on tour to block out the pressure and focus on
the fight for the WSL Final 5. (ELO’s final words, no?)
I agree and say we perpetuate it until it is announced clearly and fully.
Easy mistake to make. Xox
Don’t forget ol Gil! I’m available as CFO. Chief Fluffing Officer. If that’s been filled, I’d also make a great Deputy Junior Vice President of BBQ Operations.
Let’s face it pro surfing has run its course , the only fans are old white dudes living in the past reflecting on the 80s n 90s , or boardtlrider club members who never made it to the big stage , just let go dudes it’s gone it’s over all that is left is a hoodads version run by kooks and financially supported by non surf related entities mainly government run tourism organisations , real surfers should just turn there backs on the whole shitfight , don’t support the WSL don’t by boards clothing or hardware that is sold by companies aligned to the WSL take a stance let your wallets do the talking FTWSL.
An accurate summation at this point as anyone will ever read.
we’re still a cottage industry. who wants Tijuana?
The 200 kids under 16 at this weekends occy grom comp would probably disagree that pro surfing is dead and the more non surfing companies that support surfing the better
Taken there by middle aged parents mainly dads that never made the majors dreaming of suckling on surfing’s teat which unfortunately is just about all sucked out.
Mate your so sad.
A grom contest is not a pro contest.
Professionals get payed .
Money ruins everything
it truly does.
You’re a bad boy, go to my room!
You are clearly wrong – he def was a vital part of the ‘disease’. And this ‘disease’ is permeating our sport.
Surfing is not pro surfing .
99.9% of surfers have nothing to do with contests
Taking aim at a billionaire is a good way to get in a “fatal accident”
I”m not sure if this is the appropriate forum to post my candidacy or not, but if KVF can audition for the Hallmark Channel during the writers strike, why not?
Senor Ziff, I, the Hippy, want the CEO of the WSL job. Life long surfer, student of the many tours, the answers to questions that haunt you are very simple and easy to implement. It may feel like change for changes sake at the onset, but you will see the results immediately. This tour has been running on the wrong premise for decades, time for a fresh start and to make the most photogenic sport also worth watching heats. Slice the hubris off the smoldering pig and you’ll find your true audience, guys just like me. We will start by engaging our only audience and continue blazing new trails toward the only thing we all value, surfing.
Sure, I’m going to axe most of the tour stops. Yes, rumors confirmed that our new league offices will be stationed at Kandui Villa’s, which you now have to buy for my entourage.
Most likely 3/4’s of the tour will contest in the Southern Hemisphere and we won’t need a mid season cut because we will only carry 16 men, no wildcards. Ever. Sorry Kelly.
No non elimination heats. No beach presence courted. New broadcasting team that aren’t trained parrots. Secluded judges without peer pressure. 2 day run times, no monster infrastructure traveling circus.
I’m waiting by the phone, not so patiently,
Hip
Sir, you have a call. Thx I’ll take it at the bar…
“No Reservations. AMEX has cancelled your card.”
Well at least now there is someone running the show that knows about surfing. Also Chas’ any chance of a re-post of that letter?
Standby.
Live by the sword, die by the sword….
Or SUP paddle?
amazon has no swords n’ spears, but some bitchin’ walking cane handles.
Fucken hope so
Probly failed to bone his daily WSL quota of tranny hookers. I believe its 5 per dia.
Either that or he slept in on tree planting day
Purgatory must be hell for you
Dave walks into Santa Monica office and pauses in the hallway, the sound of muffled whimpering and faux-sympathetic-there-there like shushing you would expect to hear a parent offer to a child not their own coming from the back stopping him dead in his tracks. Dave makes his way back towards Erik’s office, which has become a jumbled maze of stacked bankers boxes filled to the brim with miscellaneous junk littering the floor and making it nearly impossible to walk, and places his condiment-stained work satchel on the overturned papasan chair in the corner.
“Hey there, Erik,” whispers Dave, as he reaches out to touch him sensitively on the shoulder.
“Oh, hi, Dave!” ejaculates Erik in his signature brand of ever-fake exuberance, some spit ejecting from under his tongue, his tone betrayed by the snot curved upwards towards his ears and the undried tears strewn across his tomato red and puffy face. “Wha..wha..what brings you here today?” he asks while trying to steady his breathing from the cry fit.
“I came because she asked me to be here,” answers Dave, pointing to a brunette figure in the corner.
“Oh, right, Emily asked you to come in,” sighs Erik. “She had to call you in because we don’t have security.”
“Excuse me, Erik, he’s here for the exit interview.”
“Exit interview? You thought I was going to do that?… and that still doesn’t explain Dave being here,” scoffs Erik.
“You’re the one who asked to explain yourself, to talk with Dirk…”
“Ooooee, I get to speak with him?!” squeals Erik. “Times haven’t been quite as fun since he sold (forced, offensive Latino accent) Manalapan.”
“Here, let’s start taking these boxes,” proffers Emily, who walks over to a box on the desk and places her hands on top, as if she is going to actually help move it.
“OK,” says Erik as he wipes his eyes, the rivers of tears having been dammed up almost immediately.
He grabs the boxes and starts stacking them in Dave’s arms.
“Whoa, hold on a second, I have a dolly in the car, let me go grab it,” Dave says, placing the boxes down on the ground delicately. Dave scurries down the hall leaving Erik with Emily.
“Oh, that’s really why you called him… I forgot we don’t have any sort of equipment…” states Erik, who watches Emily uncomfortably squirm near the box everyone knows she’s not going to be carrying or picking up. “It’s like that, huh?” questions Erik in a terrible “Mafia” accent.
Dave comes back with the dolly and starts stacking up the boxes onto it. “There are only two more boxes. I can roll this out and you two can each take one of the remaining,” asserts Dave out of breath from the intense cardio.
“Oh, shoot, I’m getting a phone call,” claims Emily. “I’ve got to take this,” she says starting to walk out of the room. “Meet in the conference room when you’re done moving the boxes,” she mouths exaggeratedly, the fake person on the other end clearly being able to hear her every word had they existed.
“Dang, that was lucky of her!”
Dave picks up one of the boxes and hangs it low on his hip while pushing the dolly down the hall. Erik grabs the last remaining and carries it outside to his buggy.
“Wait, you didn’t bring your car?” queries Dave.
“Of course not, silly goose,” giggles Erik through sniffles that seemed to have popped out of nowhere.
Dave puts the boxes in the golf cart and hugs Erik. “Let’s go back in and do that interview.”
“OK.”
The two walk into the conference room where Emily has set up her computer. She motions them over to chairs sitting right next to her, as there is no big screen or conference phones or anything like that. More than a few moments pass before another user enters the Zoom meeting tab on the screen, the name reading “ZifferTITZ” quickly changed to “Dirk” before their very eyes.
“Hello?” says the voice from the user.
“Hi, Dirk!” Erik excitedly vomits.
“What is this for again?” the user asks.
“Dirk, Emily here. This is the exit interview we were going to be doing for Erik since we officially terminated him yester….”
“Wait, why am I part of this? Why do we need an exit interview? The guy is a complete bozo!”
“Well, sir…” starts Erik.
“Ugh, fine, but I’ve got important stuff to do.” A few moments elapse without anybody saying anything. “If you must know, I have an important meeting with Gil Hanse about a new golf course….”
“I love golf!” cries Erik.
“Jesus Christ.”
*clearing her throat* “So, Erik…”
“Again, please call me ‘ELo’.”
“OK, um, ELo, what could you have done differently at this job?” asks Emily.
“Keep it!” laughs Erik. “No, you see, the real question is what are we not doing to appropriately scale viral methodologies for engaging with an underinflated customer base to deliver collaboratively developed multidisciplinary technologies that results in the result of creating uniquely e-enable empowered vortals…”
“What?” says the voice from Zoom.
“You’re a successful businessman, so I think you would get what I am saying!”
“No one does.”
“Really?” asks Erik, looking around to Emily and Dave, who shake their heads confused.
“Well that’s swell!” cackles Erik at saying “Swell” because he thinks he’s being clever. “Now let me ask you a question, what did I do wrong?”
“You’re not serious are you,” answers Zoom.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, first off, you’ve failed with everything.”
“Like what? I should get examples…”
“We don’t need to provide those,” says Emily.
“No, let me handle this,” interjects Zoom. “We are not going to provide you examples, but you came in and sold us on Entertainment, creating content that people will actually want to watch, not Ultimate Surfer… such fucking slop… plus, you are NOT Dana White, so stop pretending to be him. You look stupid. You’re not a personality. In fact, you have none! That letter was absolutely stupid…”
“Well…”
“Also, you clearly are personally benefitting by spending my money to go on vacations to Fiji, pay for first class flights, and a charge to your hotel room for ‘Blue is the Warmest Color’ TV package. What the fuck is that?!”
“Let me explain…”
“No, you suck at your job, which is bad enough, and something we should have fired you for, but you also did that thing with Toledo. A shirt with nipples?”
“It was fun!”
“No, it…”
“Did you consider yourself friends with fellow employees?” asks Emily timidly running through her checklist questionnaire.
“Of course, hehe, you all are my friends, as well as the surfers, they love me!”
“No, they do not,” says the former ZifferTITZ. “You lost every single last one of them.”
“Even Jaddy?” asks Erik, through powerful sobs.
“No, not Jaddy,” relays Dave, who adds, “but he likes everyone, even Italo.”
Erik uncontrollably weeps, taking huges gasps of air between each hurling cry spit cough. Out of nowhere, he starts laughing frenziedly.
“What is so funny?” ZifferTITZ asks.
“Dave really is a cockroach. Hahaha, I mean, he’s going to outlive us all here!”
“Probably,” says Dave with a shrug.
“OK, we’re done,” the figure from Zoom says, exiting quickly.
“Hahahahahaha, bye, y’all, hahahahahahahahahaha,” bellows Erik down the hall to the exit on his way to his buggy, likely never to be seen again, even considering he knows Oprah.
Dave and Emily sit in the conference room staring at each other clumsily.
“Wow, that was weird,” maintains Dave, breaking the awkward silence.
“Yeah, it was. Certainly the weirdest acting experience I’ve ever had to perform.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I’m a hired actor. Some rich dude asked me to play an ‘Emily Hofer’ character.”
“Ohhhh, I did think that was a little weird, seeing as how I’ve never met her since I’ve been here.”
“Yeah, anyway, you’re cute, in like a doughy hairy faux-Turkish, Oscar the Grouch sort of way.”
“Sorry, I’m taken.”
“Ha, I do improv also!”
“Oh, ugh, alright… wait, did Dirk pay you?”
“Dirk? Maybe. I do know that wasn’t him on the Zoom.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t ‘worth his time, as he had a date with the Dersh’, at least that’s what the scheduler said. Anyway, I’m going to go…” she says, slinking out the door into the Southern California sunshine.
Dave walks back into Erik’s office to grab his satchel, which he carries back into his kitchenette office. He pulls out his lunch, a homemade Gatsby sandwich and knock off Squeez It drink he bought from the dollar store.
“Jesus Christ.”
Very good
confidential memo: sped read it. who’s emily? who’s producing..? not WSL…poon cartoon? can i get a tissue…for ELO? EYESPIT~
http://media.cagle.com/73/2…
“Well, we’ve got three scalps on our belts now. Paul Speaker, Backward Fin Beth and sweet Erik Logan.”
Thumbs up for bringing Monty Python into the mix.
amazon delivering cheese and dead parrots to you on tuesday~also hiring lumberjacks!