"If I’d listened to the people who said surfing wasn’t for me due to the melanin my skin possesses, I’d have a different existence."
I doubt if there’s one person who’s ever met Selema Masekela, apart from Chas and Circe and I’m not exactly sure what happened there, some sorta heated legal poison although I don’t dare ask, who doesn’t walk away firmly under his spell.
Let’s take a snapshot of the first time I met the extreme sports identity. It was 2017 and, along with Chas, I was visiting the Kelly Slater Surf Ranch in Lemoore, California at the invitation of the WSL’s Dave Prodan.
Occupying one of the bench seats in the Surf Ranch’s heated jacuzzi aprés after our allotted waves was Sal, he was Sal back then, and just as I was about to enter the swirling maelstrom, heated to a pleasing one hundred degrees and offering needed respite from the winter cold and a possible cure for a dreadful hangover, his telephone rang.
Sal asked me to rummage through his colourful outfit which was bundled on a barrel, enough clothes to suggest, or was I hoping, he was nude in the tank, and to pick it up.
It was Kelly Slater.
“Answer it,” he commanded, which I did. Kelly remained silent when he heard my voice, an early portent of the blood feud that would simmer for the following six years.
After a howl of laughter and some chortling Sal hung up. Despite an expanded adiposity, he gobbled protein bar after protein bar, informing me of the health-giving properties of the foil-wrapped chocolate chip treats.
Stories flowed like a river of honey and I left, like everyone who spun in his orbit that day, a fan for life.
View this post on Instagram
I didn’t heard from Sal again, only knew in passing that he’d transitioned to Selema, but today I saw that he had turned a ripe old fifty-two and to mark the occasion had written movingly of his life as a surfer.
Picture number one was taken 35 years ago by my Mom @b2bharmony. Picture number two was taken last week by @patstacyfilm. Today, August 28th, is my 52nd Birthday. The 17 year old in the first slide had no idea where the board under his arm would take him. All he knew was that the moment he stood up for five seconds on that first wave at Cherry Street in Carlsbad, California 1988, his life was changed forever. Addiction ensued.
Since that day, a relentless pursuit of ‘the feeling’ has taken me beyond my wildest dreams and transported me to oceans and seas across the planet. It’s given me deep, meaningful, life long friendships with some truly magnificent human beings and helped me create and evolve a storytelling career I continue to enjoy now more than ever.
On paper, none of this was supposed to happen. I’m from the St. Marks Apartments in Staten Island, NY with a brief cameo in Attleboro, Massachusetts. I’m the son of a South African political exile and a Haitian immigrant. Surfing wasn’t supposed to happen to me but it did. If I’d listened to the people who said surfing wasn’t for me due to the amount of melanin my skin possesses, I’d have an entirely different existence.
There is no box other than the one society works overtime to put you in. Get weird, try some shit that’s not supposed to be for you and see what happens. Oh, and while you’re at it… JOYFULLY TAKE UP ALL THE SPACE YOU CAN.
Ain’t that the truth!
Readers, contribute your Sal stories below. Chas, not you.
Commented on Disqus? Log out, tap the Disqus button, and your old name and comments come back. The box is ours.
Your comments are still here. Every one of them.
Twelve years of BeachGrit comments came across from Disqus. Connect and we will show you how many are yours. We get your username, nothing else.
Connect Disqus to reveal.
St. marks si has the best view of the NY skyline. Pete Davidson lives near by. Poor S
al. Had to take the ferry to his private school in Manhattan.
“Son, jazz it up all you can.” Hugh Masekela. A trumpeter known as the Father of South African Jazz.
Just you wait! We’re doing a Black Girls Surf tee!
BeachGrit x SurfEquity(?) collab?
Is that a block of wax in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?
JenSee said that?
Glad he ignored those
South Africans and Haitians
Parents are the worst
Or his peers.
The phrase…”why you acting White™️” is a staple in the community.
Uncle Sal…
Ouch!
only in jest. he’s a pro’s pro!
bro’s pro…
Salazar Masekela surely?
Bet there ain’t a thing Sal doesn’t have a story about. All centred around his authenticity, of course.
Tell us more about the Slater blood feud…
You see the JP shout out from Lewis Samuels over at STAB?
As one of the few who has Neg’s “i have black friends” badge I must opine that I have nothing to add here. But I do have a college buddy who transitioned 15 or so years ago and she is happy…did I miss the point of this article?
I did not. Fill me in…
something ’bout ‘the most hated man in surfing.’ by Pedro.
Saw it now. Amazing who skulks around at BG, as you well know. Even if they’re not sure it’s a credible platform!
Pedro Ramos ring a bell?
No
In his early years he was a wood craftsman and provided The Chart House with the wooden menus. Inspired by Joey Cabell’s surf lifestyle he took to the keyboard and began a series of “Who’s The Most Hated Surfer?” Can I forward you an authentic 1970s menu where a full meal of steak, scallops, an artichoke and mud pie for two cost only $17.99?
All good, there’s a whole World of menus outside of California.
Bet there ain’t a thing JP doesn’t have a story about. All centred around his own misery , of course.
Pretty good coming from a bundle of joy like yourself.
One of my favorite Sal stories from a few years back:
“Sal sits on the couch, MacBook resting on his ever progressively protruding belly, caused by the result of his being in a perpetual “bulking stage,” like a personal table, worried about his upcoming Zoom session with Kelly. Initially scheduled as personal hangout by Sal in order to temporarily sate his incessant need for his much more successful friend’s attention, Sal is anxious about more important business: are they going golfing together on Tuesday?!
While he knows Bobby told him that he needed to block 100 people on Instagram between now and then before he would commit to going golfing, Sal, concerned about Kelly’s lack of posting on his stories, really needs a progress report. He sees Kelly’s name pop up in the meeting, no picture, just a black screen for several long seconds.
‘What is going on? I need to see him!’ thinks Sal, to himself.
Just as he is finishing his thought, Kelly’s Ronald McDonald nose enters his vision. Kelly sits back (he was leaning too close to the screen) to reveal his gloriously bulbous bald-ass dome.
Sal: Yooo, Kelllaaay… what’s happening, my man? Long time no talk.
Kelly: I literally talked to you a day and a half ago.
Sal: I know, amigo, I was just wondering… anyway, what’ve you been up to?
Kelly is staring down at his phone, not bothering to look up. In the extra three seconds of silence, Sal notices the music playing in the background from Kelly’s room, which he identifies as ‘Cruel Summer.’
Sal: Hey, man, what’re you listening to? Sounds like ‘Cruel Summer’… I can’t remember who sings that…
Kelly: (not looking up from his phone) Bananarama.
Sal: Oh, yeah, weren’t you telling me you got at Sara Dallin in the early ‘90s…
Kelly: (finally looking up) Yes. Now stop for a second, I need to concentrate, I’m in the zone.
Sal: What’re you doing?
Kelly: I’m blocking people on Instagram.
Sal sits in silence for the next sixteen minutes, while Kelly fiddles around on his phone. The song is playing on a loop. Apparently it helps Kelly focus on laying the atomic IG bomb of the almighty block (which no one who it happens to cares about) on people. Suddenly, the music stops and Kelly looks into the screen.
Kelly: So, what’s up?
Sal: Haha, well, first, I would like to say how truly inspiring watching you do your thing right there. Block all the fools who dare say anything bad about you. You’re the GOAT, Vishnu incarnate, the love of my li… my best friend.
Kelly: All true.
Sal: So, I wanted to know if we’re still on golfing on Tuesday? I was thinking maybe Rancho…
Kelly: I told you I would need to block 100 people by then.
Sal: What is your current number?
Kelly: 49.
Sal: Wooo yeah. Lay the hurt! You should make it no problem then.
Kelly: Yeah, I don’t know if I will make it. I might stop Instagram for a couple days.
Sal: But you’ve never gone even 16 hours without it.
Kelly: I know. I kind of just don’t want to go golfing with you. You understand.
Sal sinks further into his couch, depression’s dread washing over him in waves running from the tip of his crown on his head down to his anus. Kelly whips out a guitar by his computer and starts to play unstructured, janky chords and singing monotonously off-key. Sal thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever heard. Twenty minutes go by, nothing, Kelly’s playing or nonsensical singing, gets any better. He puts down the guitar.
Sal: Hey, would you like me to bring you some of your favorite chia-flaxseed-hemp-virginal urine and fart drink?
Kelly: You live so far away.
Sal: So? I’d be more than happy to bring you some. Where you gonna be?
Kelly: I’m taking my Chinese girlfriend out to San-O to surf. I’m talking about Kalani in this instance, (winking) not the real Chinese one from the spa we keep secret.
Sal: Right on! I’ll be there as fast as I can.
Kelly: No, as much as it’s tempting to get free stuff, we’ve seen each other enough today. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Skype me, not Zoom.
Sal: But Skype isn’t the cool way anymore. Zoom is. (Pointing to the screen at Kelly) And only the coolest for God.
Kelly: Fine, you take care of it.
Sal: Then we can really nail down our plans for golf Tuesday?
Kelly: Fine.
Sal: Aweso…
Kelly leaves the meeting, leaving Sal to sit there incapacitated by his couch and increasingly girthy body. Sal is absolutely giddy. One step closer to golf with the Champ. One step closer to intimate hugs. One step closer to the smell of sweat mixed with Hugo Boss Tonic emanating from behind Kelly’s neck rolls.”
he might be annoying on air but he’s nowhere near Chas’ league. or Drek’s. plus he’d pop Chas or Drek like a zit.
Fuck, Marry, Kill. Chas, Derek, Selema?
Fuck Derek! He must be in fine form currently!
Kill Sal, you couldn’t fuck him and a sexless marriage is a death itself, imagine him talking after sex. Yuck, Sal talking.
So you have to marry fucking Chas.
I wouldn’t wanna fuck Chas, but I think I’d rather marry Derek. It’s a tricky one
I think Chas is the pick here. He is a writer and seems to come from money.
Fuck Chas (obviously), Marry Sal (he seems gentle), Kill Derek (Australia doesn’t have the death penalty, right?)
And he surfs better than any of the writers here
Sal’s old man must be a terrorist (freedom fighter in today’s standards) if he was a political exile from South Africa.
I hear things are going great in South Africa these days…
Depends on what part your living and the amount of melatonin in your skin.
I don’t know Jo’Burg but it sounds like the areas with nicer hotels aren’t even safe.
A British Airways pilot was stabbed a few weeks ago and the company basically said that it was his fault for going “outside the wire.”
After watching District 9 Joburg is a major no go zone for me.
Yeah, instead of electricity South Africa has progressed to using paraffin lamps, TVs etc
Musician.
Very dangerous to authoritarianism .
https://www.youtube.com/wat…
I’ll watch it at happy hour. thx!
sting me w/ synchronicity
The both shit me, so no. Sorry.
Fucken do it you pussy! Xox
headcheese/
Dad is a rover~
donuts…raspsberry
Bring Sal Back!
he’s always gone by episode 2….a theme before the equity subset
Chas’ Sal story or GTFO.
He was kind, generous and impactful when narrated a documentary I co-directed with Sam George, “The Lost Wave: An African Surf Story.” Dulcet tones and deep understanding.
A twofer – 2 of Chas’ favorite ppl in one comment
God, what a truly awful concoction. How’d you get a word in?
My old man used to open beer bottles with my butt hole.
But that hasn’t stopped me coming out and and identifying as a inkjet 5000 printer that calls everyone a cunt on Beachgrit.
The cunt life chooses you, not the other way around
It’s pretty obvious that you’re a bottle opener you cunt.
Not anymore, my dirty balloon knot is to flogged out
Haha oh man fuck xox
eat a burrito, Ben Dover…and flic ur bic…
they are cheap…