Who are the sycophants and acolytes that hitched their wagons to ELo’s toothy, Hollywood dreams?
I’m in a hospital, writing this on my phone. It’s a high dependency unit of a children’s ward in Inverness. My son lies in the bed, the one who celebrated his fifth birthday less than two weeks ago.
I’ve discovered the thing that some of you might unfortunately also know, there can be few things worse than seeing your children suffer.
Life, at these times, seems both overwhelming complex and really fucking simple. In the days we’ve been here, often utterly helpless, the simplicity of it all rings out.
Nothing matters beyond the day you’re living. Nothing matters beyond him getting better.
And nothing in life matters more from this point forward than the health of the people I love, children first.
When suddenly you are removed of agency and choice, all those decisions and desires you fret over seem less than insignificant.
Certainly, surfing doesn’t matter. Certainly my obligations to you don’t matter. My agreement to write something on every day men fight meaningless battles against other men in the realms of professional surfing.
So why do it?
Well, for one, after a hellish few days, it looks like my boy might have turned a corner. We’re not out of the woods yet, but things are working. He’s eating for the first time in a week. He’s talking to us. He’s playing with kinetic sand and the Hot Wheels monster trucks his brother brought him.
And he’s angry. Utterly furious, in fact, about all the wires and needles and cajoling and promises of the things he’ll get to do when he finally gets out of this horrendous place where you’re confined to a bed and children scream and wail all around you, and adults pace and poke and prod, and you understand nothing but pain.
He ripped off the wires used to monitor his vital signs. He tore out a cannula, spraying blood and fury everywhere. He’s had enough, and I don’t blame him. It’s hard to explain that people hurting him are actually helping.
For another, writing things down helps. And as much as I’ve found it hard to respond to messages of support from family and friends, and in many cases just haven’t, somehow it’s easier to communicate with a readership of perfect strangers. Here, on BeachGrit. This odd little community of misfits that can feel at once caustic and caring.
But I’ll confess to not having watched a huge number of the many heats run today in Rio, and you can let me know if there are salient points missed.
And of course, ELo!
I’m terribly interested to watch the fallout of the coming days. Who are the sycophants and acolytes that hitched their wagons to ELo’s toothy, Hollywood dreams?
Who replaces him? Would Kelly do it? A salivating prospect in many, many regards. The only man who would give us more mileage than ELo, who would thrill and titillate us at every turn.
And what really happened? To be axed mid-event, one he was attending on the other side of the world, seems odd.
There’s much speculation and rumour and fun to be had, of course. Never fret, this opportunity to put the boot in won’t be missed. Like a ragged, saliva soaked dog chew, we’re not quite done with you yet, Erik Logan. But all in good time.
It was a day of big names falling. A day of the sort of peaky, mysterious beachbreak that might fade to nothing or offer a tempting section. Hardly classic conditions, but contestable. Some men rode their luck, others whinnied in frustration.
People’s champion Jadson Andre was back in the fold and doing very Jadson-like things in unspectacular defeats of higher seeds. Yellow jersey wearer Griffin Colapinto was first to be decapitated, establishing the trend for the day. Andre would go on to scythe Toledo from the round of 16 and will meet Yago Dora in today’s quarter finals.
The other giant killer of the day was Sammy Pupo, slaying Medina then Chianca. As I’ve said before, I do think young Pupo has a place on this tour, despite losing it after the mid-season cut. If it wasn’t necessarily a day to exhibit quality, it was one for grit, and Pupo seems to have both.
Jack Robinson was sent home early once again owing to a priority interference against Seth Moniz. Of all the surfers on Tour, none looked more assured for a top five placing than Jack Robinson. Now he finds himself outside looking in and praying for good fortune and better waves to round out the year.
Regardless, it might not matter much. He’s a man who might win a world title at Teahupo’o, but not Trestles.
Toledo’s loss today probably won’t see his top five position threatened by year-end, though the axing of Logan makes this year more critical for him. One would presume that the Trestles world title showdown will thankfully disappear into the annals of pro surfing cock-ups, and with it, Toledo’s advantage.
I can’t do the complex mathematics to tell you exactly what the top five ramifications are after today’s results (and it strikes me a new CEO might look to make this system easier to understand) but I do know that with four of the top five gone, and men on the fringes still in the competition – Yago Dora, Leo Fioravanti, John Florence and Ryan Callinan – things will be shaken up.
Unless I missed it, pundits today did not mention Erik Logan. A frankly absurd show of ignorance or psychological conditioning that prevents them from addressing obvious and pressing facts.
However, I did note the following exchange between Joe Turpel and Jesse Mendes, which was either a figurative allusion to the day’s events, or just very simple facts.
“It’s kind of getting dark out there, Jesse.”
“It is getting dark, Joe. We don’t have much light anymore.”
Fingers crossed for more light soon.
