“She died as she had lived… in the smallest, bleakest orca tank in the world."

Back in 1970, halcyon days when Nixon was prez and Vietnam was getting lit up by Napalm and even before Kelly Slater existed, a little killer whale calf off the coast of Washington State was snatched out of the ocean and delivered to the Miami Seaquarium, one of the oldest fish zoos in the US.

And there, labelled Lolita, so-named after Nabokov’s famous nymphet, she lived, miserable, alone – her one companion, Hugo, killed himself by belting his head against the wall of their shared tank until he died in 1980 – until her death yesterday.

Lolita’s enclosure, measuring 80 feet by 35, offered the twenty-foot mammal minimal room to swim, interact and express natural behaviors.

“She died as she had lived: After spending more than five decades imprisoned by the Miami Seaquarium in the smallest, bleakest orca tank in the world, deprived of any semblance of a natural life, the long-suffering orca Lolita has passed away,” wrote People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) in a statement. “Kind people begged the Miami Seaquarium to end Lolita’s hellish life in a concrete cell and release her to a seaside sanctuary, where she could dive deep, feel the ocean’s currents, and even be reunited with the orca believed to be her mother, but plans to make this move came too late, and Lolita was denied even a minute of freedom from her grinding 53 years in captivity.”

The lingering existence of Lolita had ignited fierce debate surrounding the ethics of keeping intelligent and social creatures like killer whales in captivity. Advocates argued that orcas are highly intelligent, emotionally sensitive, and have complex social structures in the wild.

In captivity, these traits are often stifled, leading to physical and psychological distress. Lolita’s case came to symbolize the broader issue of marine mammal captivity, prompting calls for greater awareness and changes in animal welfare practices.

Now, Kelly Slater, a man rarely one to mince his words, has called for the immediate imprisonment of her captors.

 

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In a comment posted to @Dolphin_Project, he writes “Sad. They should be jailed and fined.”

Commenters were universal in their praise although one had the misfortune to post a laughing emoji, raising the hackles of the world champ.

“Why do you find that funny?” he replied to Simone Gross, a young woman with 178 followers.

Marine parks, zoos, those drive-through African theme parks with the threadbare lions and defeated giraffes, reminders of the cruelty of man, I think.

I’m with ol Petey Singer when he said,

“To protest about bullfighting in Spain, the eating of dogs in South Korea, or the slaughter of baby seals in Canada while continuing to eat eggs from hens who have spent their lives crammed into cages, or veal from calves who have been deprived of their mothers, their proper diet, and the freedom to lie down with their legs extended, is like denouncing apartheid in South Africa while asking your neighbors not to sell their houses to blacks.”

“Filipe’s deal is un-spinnable. I feel crushed by what I saw. He isn’t ready for prime time at Teahupoo"

A byzantine selection process for the 2024 Paris Olympic Games has been slammed as “absurdist” and branded a “colossal failure” after Filipe Toledo, whose fraught relationship with Teahupoo ain’t no secret, was selected for Team Brazil over Gabriel Medina and Italo Ferreira. 

In an ironic twist, it was against Ferreira in 2015 where Toledo suffered the ignominy of becoming one of only two surfers in pro surfing history to paddle in from a heat without a wave being caught. 

“Fail-wise, it was just beyond epic,” the surfing historian Matt Warshaw told BeachGrit. “And so very public… Filipe’s deal is un-spinnable. He isn’t ready for prime time at Teahupoo… I’m his biggest north-of-50 fan, and I feel sort of crushed by what I saw.” 

Seven years later, Toledo almost reprised “his brave act of cowardice” in a heat against middle-aged veterans Kelly Slater, fifty, and Nathan Hedge, forty-three. 

As Chas Smith reported, 

Toledo, with reputation for not enjoying the Teahupo’o battle, would certainly spear naysayers in the throat by dropping in to infamy, no? Apparently no.

Slater and Hedge traded waves, big and perfect, one after the other after the other with Toledo holding priority well out the back, refusing to paddle, one after the other after the other.

Slater, barreled, unable to contain smile.

Hedge, barreled, unable to contain smile or beat, smartly, boss.

Toledo, un-barreled, holding priority for fifteen-odd minutes while Slater and Hedge swapped beneath him.

In the dying seconds, the King of Saquarema swung on a baby tube then punched board in channel.

Again, this year, Toledo “bobbed, holding priority, while (wildcard Mihimana) Braye paddled, dropped, became barreled and was spat into applause. There he took off on a small closeout just to hand that priority over and not be forced into actually trying. There he lost 15.50 to 5.73. It was a shameful display and would be semi-forgiven if Toledo finally, and for the first time, admitted that Teahupo’o terrifies him.”

Now here’s the twist.

Thanks to the Olympic selection process where the top ten-rated CT surfers of 2023 are granted automatic passage to the event with each country permitted a max of four surfers (two men, two gals) unless their country wins the ISA Games in which case they get a couple more, something Brazil probs ain’t gonna do, Filipe and Joao Chianca are gonna be Team Brazil.

Australia, Jack Robinson, Ethan Ewing.

USA, John John Florence, Griff Colapinto.

JP Currie noted the contrast in his Tahiti Pro analysis, 

“The masters of this are Jack Robinson, Gabriel Medina and John Florence. Teahupo’o is their element, and their mastery is unmatched. The contrast between these three men and the one (Filipe Toledo) sitting atop the rankings is jarring. For the layperson or those new to pro surfing fandom, it would be hard to explain.”

Hope does loom for Medina, at least, on the horizon. Literally. A six-foot plus swell may appear next year and the lil man whose Teahupoo campaigns rival your ol pal DR’s (five trips, zero tubes) will be happy to sit it out and gift his card to Medina.

Or will the chance of Olympic gold awaken the famous Lion beneath the tattoo?

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"He wanted to share his love. To teach the teacher in Wisconsin the thrill of a cutback. The farm boy from Ohio the glory of a barrel-tube."

The man walks down the sunlit Santa Monica street as if in a daze. It’s a midsummer morning, early August. The air still has a dry, suffocating warmth. Birds drift on the breeze overhead like passing thoughts.

The man is walking slowly, measuring his every step. Thinking about all he had. All he lost.

Around him the the world continues on as if nothing ever happened. Tourists roll back and forth, camera phones out and necks askew. A dump truck hisses as it deposits another load in its belly. Bums hold their hands out in pity, as if they’re the only ones that deserve it.

It’s what gets to him most. His world had been turned upside down, inside out. Torn from him in the most callous of ways. Yet out here on the street, you wouldn’t even know. Life goes on.

It’s been three weeks now since It happened. Three weeks since he had seen his Lion. Three weeks since it all disappeared.

The man wears a bright, short-sleeved button-up and tight-fitting chinos. His short brown hair is greying at the sides and his five o’clock shadow is tastefully trimmed. He could be any office worker or creative type, off to their morning coffee.

But he wears no shoes. His feet are grubby and brown. He hasn’t so much as toed a sock since he had been home. Hasn’t felt the need for them. It’s his freedom. It’s his silent protest. The soles make a pleasant soft, thud every time they connect with the grimy sidewalk.

There was another beloved prophet who once wandered the earth barefoot, he thinks to himself. Who was nailed to a cross for imagined sins. Lord, he knows how he felt.

Up ahead of him, there’s a group of surfers heading towards the beach, a couple of blocks to the west. They’re carrying softboards and backpacks. Their wetsuits half hanging from their pale torsos. Laughing. High-fiving. Living their best lives.

They don’t know, the man says to himself. They don’t know who he is, or who he was. They don’t know who he still could be.

He can see a slither of blue between the buildings. The ocean.

It was once his domain. Once his kingdom. He ruled the waves and everything in them. World champions, sponsors, support staff, all kneeled to his mighty rule. All rubbed their nose to his. All felt his mana! All felt his love!

And he wanted to share his love with the world. To teach the teacher in Wisconsin the thrill of a lip-line cutback. The farm boy from Ohio the glory of a barrel-tube. The synergies. The vectors. The cross-cutting synchronicities. Those ripe, taut bodies. All there for the taking!

But it’s all gone now. All turned to shit.

And they will never know.

Something awakes him from his reverie. Somebody’s calling his name. Could it be one of the surfers? Might they finally recognise him? Might they be there to offer him a shoulder to cry on? A word of consolation? We know its not your fault! We know you were only trying to help them!

ELO… ELO…

Oh wait, that’s not it.

Hielo. Get your hielo. Is muy frio!

It’s that god damned Mexian selling shaved ice cones. Can’t he get a better job?

He spits on the footpath. Turns his back to the ocean. Heads for the liquor store instead.

It all seems like a distant memory now. Some fevered dream. But he knows it happened. He knows it was real. As real as those few items he was able to grab before they herded him onto the plane back home. Before they so ruthlessly excommunicated him from his role.

These were his keepsakes to saviour. His reminders of a better time.

He takes them from his pocket. The Apple Watch. The tube of Shiseido sunscreen. And the strand of hair, so curly and black and thick. He holds it to his nose, sniffs. He can still smell the Lion’s scent.

He will have it all again, he says out loud, though nobody is listening. His soft feet thud towards the liquor store’s neon lights. He will have it all again. Some day.