Augury is not an easy game. The variables in life, near infinite, can make a sure bet go very quickly sideways. Oh it is easy for the average fella to mumble something they think might happen in the future if this or that also occurs etc. etc. with many caveats and hedges in place. It is equally difficult to stand in front of the world, microphone in hand, and prophesy loud enough for everyone to hear. For everyone to know where the marker is and be able to hold account.
Over twelve years on, Bobby Martinez’s presage there on the sands of New York rings truer and truer and truer with each one that passes.
“I don’t want to be part of this dumb fucken wanna be tennis tour.”
Now he could have said “I don’t want to be part of this dumb fucken wanna be dog show.” Or he could have said, “I don’t want to be part of this dumb fucken wanna be rodeo.”
But he did not. He said, very clearly, “I don’t want to be part of this dumb fucken wanna be tennis tour.”
Surf Fans Bow Heads in Front of Bobby Martinez
Understandable, then, why tributes are pouring in today, praising Martinez, offering fealty to his wisdom.
For hours ago, the sitting World Surf League CEO Cherie R. Cohen (She/Her), who must not like that poisoned title so continues to operate as “Global Chief Officer & Advisor,” took to social media to declare “Our very own, takes the court. So proud of you Sarah Swanson! Excited to collaborate. Surf + turf.”
Swanson held the position as the World Surf League’s Chief Marketing Officer bringing us gems like “It takes a tour to make a title” and the Bailey Ladder Leaderboard.
What cross pollination between tennis and surfing do you image we’ll see as the new season gets underway?
Are you brave enough to loudly predict?
Kelly Slater questions “official narrative” over Hamas’ massacre of Israeli citizens
Briefly, Slater and Rudowski both agreed that 9-11 was most likely an inside job (Zionists, CIA etc.), that Monsanto maybe has their base in Hawaii in case of a zombie apocalypse, that the Zika Virus was caused by genetically tuned mosquitoes, there’s a cancer cure and maybe Kelly has it, and the importance of following alternative media like wearechange.org.
These sorts of interviews used to enliven even my gloomiest day, as if it was a fairy tale about the glorification of pumpkins.
Not everyone was so enamoured by the entertainment. The podcast Surf Simply ran an episode, later pulled down ‘cause everyone got real sad Kelly Slater was being teased, titled Calling Out Kelly.
One of the show’s three hosts Ru Hill concluded,
“(Kelly Slater) is spreading fear, mistrust, scientific illiteracy and guilt because if someone’s getting cancer or getting sick he’s alluded in the past to connections in the past between GMOs and autism. If your child’s getting leukaemia, autism, and then you’re thinking that I might’ve caused this by what I’m choosing to feed them, it’s just… awful. That is the reason why Kelly Slater is no longer my hero.”
In his latest foray into the narrative challenging game Kelly Slater responds to conservative commentator Charlie Kirk’s posit that the under-siege right-wing government of Bibi Netanyahu issued a stand-down order to the IDF for six hours.
“Israel was on the brink of cvil war,” says Kirk.
This allowed bad boys Hamas to go on a wild Jew-killin’ spree, ostensibly as as strike on their Zionist enemy, but also ‘cause Hamas sure do like killing Hebes. In turn, Bibi gets a spike in popularity as country unites to defeat vicious enemy. Wins all round.
“That is a legitimate non-conspiracy question,” says Kirk.
“One thing that really threw me off, and I’ve asked a couple Israeli friends about it to no clear answer… some of the concert goers that got shot in their car but got away went to a military outpost and were greeted only by Hamas militants there who had taken over the outpost (and presumably killed everyone there).
“This car took off and everyone in it got shot but then they sort of got away and the car died. They scaled a ten-foot fence and ran for their lives and hid in the woods for hours.
“How does an outpost get taken over close to the convert hours before the concert and nobody is tipped off? No alarms? No phone calls or texts or anything from a secured area? It makes no sense.”
North County, San Diego has two famous first children and one almost famous third stepchild. Rob Machado and Emily Ratajkowski as the former. Ashton Goggans as the latter during those occasions when people mistake him for Anthony Bourdain re-incarnate. This, here, above La Jolla, below Camp Pendleton, is a simple life where the Hollywood gilt don’t mean much. Hard-working salt of the earth folk who like their bicycles electric and their coffee flat and white.
Except that Emily Ratajkowski.
Ooooooh as much as “the crew” likes to keep it “real,” Ratajkowski’s perfect skin, her pouty lips make them all want to give it up, move to Soho and crush that Loewe game.
BeachGrit regulars will remember when the model-actress Encinitian became single one year ago. Swamis locals crawling all over each other to win her hand first. Chris Cote re-thinking his entire life.
Though she has gone on a series of A-list dates during that time, the San Dieguito Academy alum has yet to settle down and candles still flicker from Del Mar to Leucadia.
Emily Ratajkowski outed as “fatphobic” by Page Six
The svelte 32-year-old posted a photo to Instagram standing in one leg of a plus-sized pair of jeans sending the hoi polloi into an absolute furor.
“What in the fatphobic hell is that second picture … so distasteful and disgusting…. how did anybody okay that,” one wrote.
“Designers won’t make plus sizes unless it’s for a photo opp where a thin person can be quirky,” another added.
Now, North County surfers don’t care about the social implications of all that, but they do wonder if their drinking habits are giving them a leg down in winning her hand.
IPA beer, you know, rules here. The fattiest beverage ever crafted. And now Cardiff Reef rippers are peeling down wetsuits after sessions and pinching tummies, wondering if the shot has been blown.
Wondering if it can be melted away quickly with a switch to hard kombucha.
Paroxysms of self-doubt.
Difficult days ahead.
And sugar-content headaches.
More as the story develops.
Surf-skate prodigy Sabre Norris and fam buy $40 million of real estate in the one Bondi street
It’s a very easy thing to fall under the spell of Sabre Norris and her family, Olympian Daddy Justin, wife Brooke, kids Socki, Biggy, Naz, Disco and Charm aka the Norris Nuts.
Years back, see, I spent a day with the surf-skate prodigy Sabre Norris and her fam. It was two days before Christmas and Sabre gifted me the true nature of family.
While my own house of cards was collapsing in a welter of sorrow, the foundations made rotten by poor husbandry, hers was exalting in each others’ complexities.
Sabre Norris, whose surfing is expressive and features a grab bag of tricks, is also a fantastic skateboarder.
When she was nine, and before she’d mastered riding a bike without training wheels, Sabre launched a thousand worldwide headlines by riding out of a 540 on the monster ramp in her backyard.
In my story, I’d admitted that the kid had become my new favourite surfer and Sabre Norris responded with a hand-written letter thanking me and inviting me to drive up and see ’em, “surf all day” and wrap it all up with dinner at Crinitis, an Italian restaurant famous for its crisp pizza bases and delicious toppings.
At the time, Sabre lived with her two younger sisters and little brother (now there’s two more in the mix) in an industrial estate called Thornton, thirty minutes drive inland from Newcastle.
The apartment was attached to the swim academy is small, maybe fifty square metres. Two bedrooms.
In the main, a mattress hit three of the four walls. In the kid’s room, it was bumper to bumper. Nazzie against one wall, Sabre the other, Biggie and Sockie in the middle. When Sabre got scared at night and she worried that someone was gonna come in and kidnap ’em, she wrapped her arms around her sister to keep her safe.
The main room was an open-plan kitchen and living room. There was one lounge chair, in red velvet, rings hanging from the roof that Justin used to train with, half-a-dozen guitars (the kids busk in Newcastle to raise cash) and the world’s tiniest Christmas tree.
This year, after a wild run on social, 4.6 mill Instagram followers between ‘em and 6.69 mill YouTube subscribers and deals with Nintendo, Mattel, Disney, Lego, Hasbro, Woolworths and the Cartoon Network that nets ‘em ten gees a day, Christmas is looking lil more glitzy.
“I actually nearly didn’t get to meet Derek in real life because a couple of days earlier my Mum wanted to ban Derek from coming to our house,” wrote Sabre Norris. “She thought he was going to cook me in his writing.
“When Mum said he couldn’t come I had to fight for him.
‘Come on Mum, this guy is the inventor of Stab and now he’s inventing BeachGrit! That’s the equivalent of winning two world titles, maybe even equally Kelly Slater’s eleven. Please don’t blow this chance for me.’ With a lot of begging and pleading, mum reluctantly said yes.”
Readers, I’ve never been more thrilled to have new neighbours.
Cultural icon Matt Warshaw lionized, again, by most important magazine on earth for going surfing!
Oh to be Matt Warshaw. Surfing’s premier, and only, historian certainly has it all. Author of best-selling books, past checkered with a who’s who of notable surf personalities, respect from every corner. He is not like us. He is a cultural icon and, such, has been lionized for the second time by the most important magazine on earth.
Yes, The New Yorker, founded in 1925, matters to people who make money and hold power. It employs Pulitzer Prize winning writers, not racist AI bots. The topics it covers are discussed in various salons whilst the well-heeled sip brandy.
The first time, Warshaw was lauded for being the Oxford dictionary’s surf consultant. His caricature appeared thusly.
The second time, just yesterday, Warshaw was praised for going on a surf trip to Fiji. His pasquinade presented so (Warshaw on right).
“The first Zephyr surfboard ever made was made for me,” Warshaw told the writer. “My brand-new Jeff Ho surfboard had been stolen. I was twelve, and heartbroken. I was with Jay Adams, who later became the most famous of the Z-Boys.”
A double-barreled flex that makes Kelly Slater’s various boastings seem downright humble.
Somewhere, Sam George is weeping into a crumpled photograph of Nia Peeples, pleading, “Why not me? Why doesn’t The New Yorker love me? Why doesn’t The New Yorker choose me?” to a silent universe.