The Satanic Bible of the Sport.

The World Surf League, from its birth in 2015 circa 1976 to today, must be utterly confused. Purchased for free by a billionaire and promising more fans than America’s National Football League, the WSL née Association of Surfing Professionals has been met with embarrassment after embarrassment.

Paul Speaker.

Backward Fin Beth.

Erik Logan.

To name but three of many including Jessi Miley-Dyer and Dave Prodan, who allegedly killed surfing.

Dirk Ziff always had his collaborationist surf media though, supporting through shame, buoying false narratives, turning blind eyes to utter nonsense. Hoping, waiting for drippings from that table, were premium surf blog Stab, The Inertia, an absolute affront to anything good or decent in this world, and the remains of Surfer Magazine, which didn’t critique because it was dead.

Months ago, however, the Bible of the Sport reanimated as an AI zombie after shuttering under David Pecker and part of its mission, appears, to include burying the World Surf League.

In a recent social media post celebrating the final Top 5 men, who will head to Lower Trestles sometime in early September to watch Filipe Toledo hoist a trophy* minus one who has a broken back that, for some reason, won’t be recognized, the World Surf League dubbed number five Jack Robinson “Jack Ronbinson.”

Par for the course considering the misprint on Kanoa Igarashi’s jersey as “Igarshi” and also Erik Logan’s entire run.

In any case, Surfer’s weird corpse has decided to pile on the World Surf League, noting the spelling error and putting it on blast.

Proto surf bot penning:

Oops.

In the official Instagram announcement of the upcoming World Surf League Finals, to be held at Lower, Trestles September 8th – 16th, someone made a whoopsie.

Jack Robinson, the west Australian hard charger and pre-heat bellydancer, who had a stellar season with two wins (Pipeline and Teahupo’o) barely made the cut into the one-day, winner-take-all event, despite a knee injury, which forced him to withdraw from his home event at Margaret River. And the WSL did him dirty with an unfortunate typo.

Apparently “did him a dirty” not quite fully understood by the robot.

Surfer, while dead, still has a substantial social following of people who don’t know/don’t care and I feel it must hurt the Santa Monica-based “Home of Professional Surfing’s” feelings much.

When will the buy-off be attempted and how much will John Severson’s once proud organ take to flip Wall of Positive Noise?

I’m guessing $1,000 and next week with the machine being redirected to criticizing broken backs before it is redirected again to praising all things WSL.

Can’t wait.

More as the story develops.

"But the trail of Hilary took an interesting turn Sunday night..."

Southern California is putting itself back together after a historic hurricane, named Hilary, formed in the Pacific and slammed into the state. She was, by then, a tropical depression and maybe named something else but no matter as her terror was unleashed. Green waste trash cans brutally tipped over. Hedges kind of getting bent.

Disaster.

And as I was driving home, after potentially straining social services with an entirely ill-advised sail trip, dodging people driving 40 mph in the fast lane with their hazard lights on while the rain lightly sprinkled, I wonder if this was the center of the storm.

Meteorologists had thought the business might make first hit in Encinitas then travel east but mostly north. In truth, she touched ground in northern Baja then did cruise east and mostly north until Sunday night when… well, let’s let the Los Angeles Times take up this unfortunate tale.

For days, forecasters have tried to determine the path of Hilary as it morphed from a Category 4 hurricane in the Pacific Ocean to an exceedingly rare tropical storm that entered Southern California.

But the trail of Hilary took an interesting turn Sunday night, as the storm made a trek from the Inland Empire to the heart of Los Angeles.

The center of the storm went from being east of Murrieta in Riverside County at 5 p.m. to above Compton around 8 p.m., according to the National Hurricane Center.

Compton, as anyone who watches movies or listens to music knows, is a culturally rich, predominately black community.

The Inland Empire features, mostly, U.S. Open of Surfing attendees.

Racism?

Hard to say but science is science.

More as the story develops.

Red at night, sailors a-fright.

As you are undoubtedly aware, what was once a category 4 hurricane, yesterday, made historic landfall in California. Hilary be her name, destruction and vengeance be her game. Governor Gavin Newsom bravely declared a state of emergency, Los Angeles and San Diego school districts cancelled school. The Soho House, downtown Los Angeles, cancelled a Sunday evening soiree and coffee shops throughout Orange County put signs on doors reading “closed due to weather.”

Headlines across all major media implored people to “shelter in place” and “avoid dying.”

I was accidentally on a sailboat heading to Catalina with my two very best friends. The same very two with whom I was lucky enough to survive post 9/11 Yemen, war-ravaged Beirut, early days of Covid-19 Paris.

This brazen and selfish ignoring of common sense, potential strain put on “the system,” outrageous irresponsibility was not, as in times past, on purpose but only accidental as the trip had been planned for a week and you know how tough schedules can be to change these days.

We had been tracking Hilary, spinning off the Baja Peninsula, when we left Newport Harbor Saturday afternoon. Reports were calling for nearly unnavigable five foot seas and nearly unimaginable 18 mile per hour winds for Sunday.

We pressed on.

The Pacific was near oil glass, the sky lightly cloudy when we hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the jib. A steady breeze pushing us along at a decent 9 knots. We spoke of books and ate Italian sandwiches for lunch, arriving at Avalon in the late afternoon.

The harbor was empty.

We called the harbor master and he informed us that it was, indeed, closed, no mooring balls to be had, and that restaurants were likely closed too in preparation of the storm of the century. We thought of anchoring but had left our dinghy in Newport and if no restaurants were open it would be pointless anyhow.

Stress grew as we only had one more Italian sandwich to split between the three of us and dinner was fast approaching.

The call was made. We would return to Newport and sort out a meal.

The return trip was quick, a steady breeze for the first three-quarters, dying entirely as Fashion Island came into view. The sky turning a brilliant salmon as dolphins leapt, striking terror into the hearts of all.

Red at night, sailors a-fright.

Near the mouth of the harbor, we decided to motor to the public dock, tie off and walk to Restaurant A as we were really hungry and it would be quicker. The time was, roughly 8:30. It was open, we were seated immediately and ordered a butterleaf wedge salad, ceviche tostaditas, 22 oz bone-in ribeye and Atlantic lobster tail, all for sharing.

We washed it down with a Moscow Mule.

Afterward, we returned to the boat, motored back up the harbor to the mooring, fixed the lines then fell asleep on the deck.

At 3:00 am I felt a raindrop on my head and moved below.

It rained all night.

In the morning, we all woke up and it was still raining. We cleaned up then rowed across the channel right as Hilary, then a tropical depression, made its historic landfall.

Foolish jerks.

The end.