Jonah Hill’s spurned ex Sarah Brady maintains rage as attack on proud new father moves into fifth day, “I finally get to paddle out not feeling like I’m the surfer girl who dated Jonah Hill”

“So fucking freeing…”

After yesterday’s stunning coup de grâce where the ex-girlfriend of Jonah Hill proudly shared screenshots of Hawaiian locals promising hell if the Hollywood star ever returned to Kauai one might’ve assumed that was that. 

However we must stroll back three hundred years, to dialogue in playwright William Congreve’s three-hundred-year-old play The Mourning Bride, Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d, Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d, to realise that this is a story without end.  

As any divorced man quickly learns, a spurned woman will only stop when the ruination, the utter destruction of her ex, emotionally, financially, is total. 

If you’re coming in late, here’s the play so far. 

Five days ago, Brady lit a very public fire, dumping a series of what she said were private texts between the pair on Instagram. Brady claimed to be a “survivor” following the  end of a relationship with a man she described as misogynistic and a narcissist. 

Brady said Hill was made sad by her posting bikini shots, the inference being these languid poses suggested sexual availability.

The world quickly sorted itself into two camps, leftists siding with wronged woman bravely navigating the horrors of a controlling or to use the language of the day “coercive” man and conservatives taking the hand of a shell-shocked actor who, again, is stung by the dark side of fame. 

Yesterday, Hill, who is a keen surfer, was banned from surfing one of the world’s great waves, Hanaeli Bay, on the north shore of Kauai, where he had holidayed with Brady during their ill-fated relationship almost two years ago. 

Brady posted a message from a supporter who wrote,

“Will do my part to make sure he’s clipped from surfing on Kauai. He was a hazard in the lineup when I saw you guys out at the bay and the only reason no one said anything to him was cause he was with you and you were shredding. There’s enough toxic masculinity in surf culture already, glad you are free of him so you can keep shining and elevating women’s surfing without his bullshit holding you back!”

Brady replied, 

“Thank you!! That was my original intention, to make sure no one was still calling him into waves because they knew him through me haha kinda petty but…

“He got mad at me that day, because I paddled up the point and he was too scared to follow me.”

It was Brady’s most emasculating posts thus far although today, as the imbroglio moves into its fifth day, Brady has now shifted gears into Ludicrous + acceleration mode, posting a whopping seventy Instagram stories including this contradictory message, 

“Now, I finally get to paddle out there not feeling like I’m just the surfer girl who dated Jonah Hill. So Fuckin freeing. Might sound weird to you guys cause I still am that but now it’s not like people associating me with him and him as a nice person who I still have to talk nicely about.” 

I think after five days of I’m-Jonah-Hill’s-wronged-ex, along with an avalanche of press coverage she will be forever prefixed as Hill’s girlfriend, yes? 

And, question, has any man here been able to safely exit a relationship with a woman and not feel the sting of her wrath, even if her idea, new stud etc?

Surf Equity (insert) pausing attack on women.
Surf Equity (insert) pausing attack on women.

Incel-friendly Committee for Equity in Women’s Surfing’s brave assault on women stalls on all-important day two!


The surf world was stunned, yesterday, when the incel-friendly Committee for Equity in Women’s Surfing, or Surf Equity, opened up yet another front against women. The non-profit, which accepts all races, cultures, sexual orientations, gender identities, national origins, abilities, socioeconomic backgrounds, gender expressions, countries of origin, ethnicities, religions and genders, loves nothing more than protecting the vulnerable by lowering its howitzers and firing, point blank, into the ranks of gay women, women with disabilities and women in positions of power.

Keala Kennelly, Bethany Hamilton, Jessi Miley-Dyer have all been bravely targeted and brought low, gracing Surf Equity’s exclusive Racist Anti-Trans Wall of Shame etc.

And, yesterday, flaming liberal feminist Circe Wallace was marched upon, tarred with the boldly libelous and defamatory “writing and publishing” of “misogynist trash about the surf industry on their website BeachGrit” even though the extreme sport agent, one of the very few women in that game, has neither written nor published anything on the relatively evil BeachGrit.

The surf world, starved of drama in these hard post-Erik Logan years, went to bed wondering who might be next on Surf Equity’s kill list. The universally adored Hawaiian star Carissa Moore? The ghost of the activist Rosa Parks?

Mother Theresa herself?

In a tactic not seen ze Germans stalled outside Stalingrad during World War II, Surf Equity has paused its assault and is, seemingly, losing advantage, posting nothing on its lightly trafficked social media, letting stale air fill the room.


Falsehoods being gathered on Margaret Atwood, Gloria Steinem, Jane Fonda, Betty Friedan, Hillary Clinton, Oprah Winfrey, Maya Angelou, the memory of Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Barbara Bush your mother and grandmother to vanquish all women everywhere in order to decimate in one fell swoop?

More as the story develops.

Robinson (right) having life sucked out of him. Photo: Erik Logan
Robinson (right) having life sucked out of him. Photo: Erik Logan

Corona Open J-Bay kicks off in surprisingly inviting surf with onetime prodigy Jack Robinson continuing “the most dramatic fall from grace from one end of the season to the next!”

But John John Florence on the come up!

I was not expecting to be greeted by azure, inviting J-Bay first thing this morning. Forecasts had led me astray. I’m at a bit of a loss these days with the dissolution of Magic Seaweed into Surfline. It’s amazing how something as simple as a software interface can throw us off kilter. I can’t get used to Surfline, and I haven’t found a good alternative.

For WCT forecasting I’ve come to rely on the pre-event Swellnet updates, but it, too, was some way off.

I’d woken up on the couch, partly because I hurt my ankle yesterday afternoon and had it iced and strapped, and partly, well, for other reasons men might sleep on couches in their own homes.

The ankle injury was comical and karmic. I’d set-up a tarp by a little stream in the woods beside the house. It’s a delightful little spot. Perfect for me and the kids to have a fire, eat some charred sausages, and go to sleep to the sounds of trickling water and wind-rustled leaves.

If not for the wasps.

The nest was discovered when my youngest stood on it. The screams were the first we knew about it. The wasps were in his clothes, stinging at will. We whipped off his trousers and t-shirt and whacked at the insects and tried to calm him down. After that he wanted to go home, understandably. Me and the older one braved it, but wasps under the tarp made us bail later.

So I went back yesterday with my standard toolkit for disposing of wasp’s nests – half a gallon of petrol and a lighter. You’d be amazed how long a nest will burn.

There I was, dousing away and feeling slightly guilty as flames licked and wasps buzzed furiously, trying to find a way back to their queen. I tossed more petrol nonetheless, far too casually as it turned out.

The flame leapt up to the container in my hands, and in fright I threw it into the stream, flaming petrol flying through the air as it sailed into the water. Now the tree beside me was on fire, most of the undergrowth beside the stream, and the container drifting away. I jumped off the bank to try and submerge it, folding my ankle in the process.

It was so bad I got that nauseous, dizzy feeling you sometimes get after an injury related adrenaline dump. But after the initial shock I couldn’t help but laugh, collapsed in pain, surrounded by flames and agitated wasps.

Karma indeed.

So it was a day to relax into a CT event with decent looking waves and hope the world’s best wave artists might provide some fine entertainment on the type of canvas most surfers salivate over.

The waves were not pumping, but they were clean and desperately inviting. If they started a bit small, they seemed to pulse a little through the mid part of the round, before the wind ruined the final heat of the day and competition was called off.

If Kelly Slater had his way, it might never have been called on. He’d made his disgruntled voice heard when the comp was green-lighted this morning, said Pete Mel.

But on it was, and Slater, multiple event winner in his pomp, would go on to surf one of his worst heats this season, in a year where there have been a few to choose from.

I missed the first heat, won by Joao Chianca, and also missed betting on him as I’d intended, thinking I’d have more time. Bookies had Chianca well down the pecking order, something like 25/1 to win, and that seemed generous.

Ethan Ewing, last year’s winner and a man in possession of a J-Bay game if ever there’s been one, was among the favourites. But he was to be pipped at the post in the opening round by Rio Waida, who surfed just two waves at light speed to take the win.

Filipe Toledo was similarly economical in his heat, though clinical might be a better word. He waited a long time to put his first score on the board, an 8.50, backed up by a high six.

Kanoa Igarashi seemed frantic by comparison, and Toledo never really looked threatened, even when he was behind. He can afford to be selective at J-Bay, such is the precision of his surfing. He almost never falls. Rarely does he lose speed, much less mis-time a turn.

Also finding the J-Bay flow today was Griffin Colapinto, comboing Slater and Liam O’Brien, courtesy of an 8.50 for a particularly stylish grab with a straight air.

Yago Dora took some of the panache from his Rio victory and followed Griffin’s lead. Trailing Connor O’Leary with a minute and a half on the clock, he launched a huge full rotation on his backhand, scoring a 9.27 that iced the heat and was to be the highest score of the day.

Is Yago currently the best aerialist on the WCT? You’d do well to argue otherwise.

But if style was evident in the water, not so much in the booth. Paul Evans and Strider Wasilewski dressed up like toy soldiers for the event. Evans opting for full khaki, whilst Strider dressed head to toe in sand camo.

I felt it necessary to message Evans via WhatsApp, flagging the faux-pas and pointing out that communication between broadcast professionals really needs to be better.

“Condor was pissed he didn’t get the ranger cosplay text”, he replied.

Both men dressed down as the day went on, again in sync with checked shirts, the uniform of the man trapped in the smart-casual netherworld of middle-age.

Pete “Condor” Mel was once again left wanting in a glum, plain black t-shirt.

But it was good to have Evans back in the booth. He did say “spanks” a lot, in reference to top turns, but he brings a modicum of intelligence at the very least, and some different tones. Quite English tones, it has to be said, but different. He’ll be even better once he thinks future employment has been secured and can cut loose a bit.

It was mainly the goofies that really cut loose today. As well as Dora, Callinan, Medina, O’Leary and Ferreira all looked superb. Don’t be surprised to see one win here. Backhand surfing is very en vogue right now.

John Florence also looked great, edging Italo to take the win, both counting excellent scores. In his post heat interview Florence attributed his recent improvements to relaxing a bit, not taking winning so seriously, and just surfing like he did when he was younger. He spoke of letting go, enjoying where he was at.

It’s easy to see with the naked eye when Florence is in rhythm. But the thing about peak performances, flow states, if you will, is that they exist on a razor’s edge between effort and relaxation; challenge and ease.

It’s a mistake to think an athlete in flow is cruising, or it’s just about being present. Rather, it’s a fine balance, and it’s all too easy to slip off either side. John Florence doesn’t always hold this line, but when he does, he’s unstoppable.

But that was the best of it. By the final heat of the day the onshore wind had blown it all to shit, and Leo Fioravanti made the most of it to take the win over Jordy Smith and Jack Robinson.

Poor Jordy. The one event on Tour he might be capable of winning in his veteran years, a wave he knows so well, and he’s served mush when everyone else had prime cuts.

As for Robinson, he grows ever more hapless as the season progresses, and I can’t remember a more dramatic fall from grace from one end of the season to the next. He could well pull it all back if Teahupo’o is pumping. And if he exits in the next round at J-Bay, it will be his only possible way back to the top five.

Onward we go. If anyone’s got a credible forecast, or a more humane way of getting rid of wasps, please let me know.

Comment live: Corona Open, J-Bay!

So many projection floaters!

Noted female sports writer on the horror of “Weird Men” she encounters at gym and in the surf!

"Avoiding eye contact is a very important rule to follow when encountering weird men in the wild."

Ever so often, Derek will email and ask if I’ve seen any weird men lately. The answer is pretty much always yes. Simply by leaving the house, a girl inevitably encounters weird men. It’s wild out there. Men find so many ways to be weird.

The other day, I went to the gym, where I do dumb jock things. There I saw a guy on the stairstepper on his way to nowhere. His shorts were cut so very short. They just barely skimmed over his butt, leaving not much at all to the imagination. I’m not sure how everything stayed in there. I think you’ll understand when I say that I did not stick around to find out.

You would have thought that would be enough for one day. But no! Over at the free weights, there was another weird man! He was doing a set of curls or some other important weightlifting thing. Suddenly, seemingly at random, he took off his shirt and flexed in front of the mirror. Who even does that? I avoided eye contact, which is a very important rule to follow when encountering weird men in the wild.

I would love to imagine that our favorite pastime was safe from weird men. Sadly it is not. After so much flatness, some meager surf appeared in my neighborhood last weekend. It was nothing special, but enough to float a surfboard, which is enough for me. California, it’s been slow around here lately.

As usual, the forecasts proved far more exuberant than the reality. Only a fool trusts the forecasts at this point, so my expectations were low. I stared at the horizon and watched the ocean’s colors shift. I felt the breeze of pelicans skimming over my head. These are essential parts of surfing, as essential as the wave-riding itself.

Then I saw him. Dims Guy. You’ve probably seen him, too. He’s the inquisitive shark circling the lineup. You can try, but once he has you in his sights, there’s no escaping him. He doesn’t want your skull. He wants your dims.

What are you riding? He’ll ask the question like it’s the most original thing in the world. It is not, but if I’m feeling nice, I like to uphold the pretense. A little gift.

Are you the kind of person who knows your boards in all their beautiful fractions? Do you have all these numbers tucked away in your tidy brain? I am not this kind of person. My brain is a dumb mix of bad jokes, discarded sentences, surfboard fractions, and the millimeter increments that divide the right saddle height on a road bike from one that is completely wrong. And yes, if you were wondering, road bikes are stupid.

Whenever I encounter Dims Guy, I wish I could rattle off all those fractions without even pausing. I imagine his expression if I succeeded in this feat. The surprise! The joy! I feel like surely he must live for those moments when we can tell him exactly how big and how wide and how thick our boards are, down to that last, perfect sixteenth of an inch.

I do not live for this kind of thing. Like a normal person, I have surfboard measurements stuffed in my phone. They’re right there next to an archeology of grocery lists, that important thing I forgot to do, and what I needed at the hardware store last week.

And you know what? It’s fine. This is a fine way to go through life in my opinion. But I do feel like I am disappointing Dims Guy every time.

So there I am, sitting in the bad surf, waiting for the waves to come. Surfing is so much waiting and so much optimism. Of course, another set will come. It might not come today, but it will come. There will always be good times if we wait long enough for them.

In the meantime, bad waves and long lulls are Dims Guy’s time to shine. Without all that surfing to get in the way, he can cruise the lineup with impunity. Eventually he’ll get us all, one by one.

I see him coming from a long way off. I hope for the escape a set might offer. But the ocean is not feeling generous. The ocean wants me to talk to Dims Guy. The ocean doesn’t care that I can’t remember any of the fractions. The ocean is an asshole.

I’m riding my weird, little twinfin that’s pure joy even when the waves are total despair. We should all have a board that makes us laugh in shit waves. Depending on where you live, you may need more than one, in fact. Lately, I have been thinking that I might need one for every day of the week.

As Dims Guy approaches, my mind flashes back to Surf Ranch. Not now, brain! Like the ocean, my brain is also an asshole. Reluctantly, I recall a spirited discussion with Sam George at Surf Ranch.

Is my 4’10” twin a surfboard? Emphatically, Sam said no. It is entirely too short to be a surfboard! I did not know until right then that there were rules about such things. A shaper (hi Christine Caro) designed it to be a surfboard! With the right rocker and everything! I ride waves on it. Also, I have short legs. Surely this is enough to win the argument.

It was not, but I remain convinced that if you can stand on it, and ride a wave on it, it is a surfboard. If Ryan Burch rides an unglassed blank, that chunk of foam magically, in that moment, becomes a surfboard. Italo Ferreira famously learned to surf on his father’s cooler lid. That improbable floating object, too, became a surfboard once he put it under his feet and rode a wave.

While my brain replays this whole Surf Ranch ordeal, Dims Guy approaches. Suddenly he’s right there next to me. Here comes the inevitable question: What are you riding?

I flip over the board and gesture vaguely. He likes the moontail, and tries to guess the dims. What is that, 22 or 23 wide? My brain, still stuck at Surf Ranch, freezes. Come on brain, we got this one. Just say a number. Any number will do. My brain refuses to generate a number. Yes, I say.

Oddly, Dims Guy looks satisfied by my answer which wasn’t an answer at all. Nice board, he says. I tell him it’s my anti-asshole shield. It keeps me from being an asshole. Being the earnest sort, he doesn’t quite get it. He’s here for the numbers, not the jokes. I do not know how to go through life without the jokes.

As Dims Guy drifts off, a set comes. I scrap into a corner and stand up on my surfboard that isn’t really a surfboard. We glide along for a time, just vibing. Then I do a little turn and throw baby spray. It’s cute.

As I’m paddling back out, I remember that Sam gave me a coin from Indo. I don’t know why he had an Indonesian coin in his pocket at Surf Ranch, but at the time, it made as much sense as anything else I’d encountered out there. I remember looking at it, and sliding it in my pocket. Like sure, why the hell not. The coin says 500 on it, which sounds like a princely sum.

Maybe someday, it’ll buy me a wave somewhere. A girl needs her dreams. But I’m sure wherever I go, a weird man will be right there waiting for me. Even with a magic coin in my pocket, there’s no escape.