There are not many rules in surf journalism. It is, generally speaking, a literary Wild West where there can be spelled their, roll can be spelled role and Selema Masekela can. Now that I think upon it their are no rules, save one.
Thou shalt not misidentify professional surfers.
A photo of Ace Buchan marked as a photo of Jodie Cooper, for example, would have required the head of the caption writer. Him being paraded out into the parking lot, stripped of Billabong shirt and guillotined in front of cheering editors, associate editors and editors-at-large.
While print publications have all but died, along with their editors, associate editors and editors-at-large, fidelity to knowing a Conner Coffin from a Parker Coffin has remained.
Or remained until the re-animated corpse of once-proud Surfer Magazine was jumped to life by The Arena Group and turned into an Inertia-inspired house of horrors. The “Bible of the Sport” might have been forgiven for hiring a Tennessee resident who enjoyed “strong coffee” to cover surfing from the shadow of the Smoky Mountains.
It cannot be forgiven for calling Nathan Florence Nathan Fletcher.
Nathan Florence Nathan Fletcher.
OMG Surfer. Pull it together.