World Surf League (left) pictured gatekeeping. Photo: The Dictator
World Surf League (left) pictured gatekeeping. Photo: The Dictator

World Surf League total control over big wave records exposed as frenzied Guinness-Gate thrusts into third day!

More like "Guinness-Gatekeeping!"

The surf world is now fully staggered as the duplicitousness, the deception of the World Surf League has been further revealed. Three days, Laura Enever, the “Angel from Narabeen,” was delivered a historic Guinness World Record for “largest wave ever paddle-in (female).” What should have been a glorious celebration of heroics has, instead, devolved into further proof of the “global home of surfing’s” evil ways.

The World Surf League, which took control of professional surfing in 2015 circa 1976, has done its very best to own and control every facet of this “Sport of Kings.” Champions suspended for speaking out.

Records changed via fiat.

A totalitarian power gobble not seen since Nicolae Ceaușescu insisted he owned Dracula.

Wanting cover for the, frankly disgusting, control, the World Surf League turns to respected organizations like the Guinness Book for cover.

The august beer maker, though, merely a pawn in a dark game.

For, according to the rules and regulations, probably world record waves must be delivered to Dublin via the World Surf League’s El Segundo veterinarian office in order to be considered.


Per the bold fine print:




Also, by law, not allowed to make fun of the WSL in submissions. All videos are judged by World Surf League paid “scientists” too.

Ominously, all of the “rules” have been disappeared.

Gatekeeping, or controlling access to something that should, by rights, be open, is considered a real modern faux pas. Racist and such. France’s Justine Dupont recently felt the World Surf League’s boot on her neck.

You might be next.

David Lee Scales and I spoke about all of this in greater depth on today’s weekly chat. We also discussed a surf podcast host who may or may not be anti-Jewish. Can you guess who?

Have fun playing.

The old wooden tower built on the Teahupoo reef.
The old wooden judging tower that had served the WSL for many happy years. | Photo: WSL

Paris 2024 organisers may swap Teahupoo’s “Wall of Skulls” for beachbreak following tower furore!

Christmas comes early for small-wave world champion Filipe Toledo!

The president of French Polynesia has made bombshell comments that may force the surfing of the 2024 Olympics to take place at an insipid beachbreak rather than at the world-famous Teahupoo reef. 

Much heat, you’ll remember, surrounds the building of a magnificent aluminium judging tower on the reef at a cost of five-mill US. Paris 2024 demolished the old wooden structure used by the WSL for years citing safety issues.

Local surfer Tahurai Henry, who organised a mass protest against what he regards as rich man’s folly, wrote, 

“This judge’s tower project will completely destroy a large part of the lagoon in the face of the most beautiful wave in the world! A construction worth over 500 million francs for 3-4 days of competition that won’t be reused for our local surfers!”

French Polynesian president Moetai Brotherson, who also supports independence from France, told the Pacific Islands Forum that by moving the three-day event to Taharuu, forty or so clicks back towards Papeete, “would have enabled us to avoid the problems we have today. At the time, it wasn’t possible. In view of the issues at stake and the protests today, perhaps we can revise this option.”

Teahupoo just beat out Taharuu as the choice for Paris 2024 following a visit by delegates in 2020.

In a response Paris 2024 organisers said in a statement,

“Tahiti was chosen because of the Teahupo’o site and its legendary wave, one of the most beautiful in the world.

“As our president, Tony Estanguet, recently pointed out, our priority today is to find a solution that will enable us to organise the surfing events of the Olympic Games in Tahiti, at the Teahupo’o site, in the best possible conditions.

“Discussions and studies will continue over the coming weeks to find a solution for organising the events on the Teahupo’o site. Along with all the stakeholders, and the Polynesian government in particular, Paris 2024 will continue to listen to all possible solutions to further improve the project. Dialogue and work will continue with environmental associations and local residents.”

So, yeah, still Teahupoo. For now.

Bad news for Filipe Toledo, whose struggles at Teahupoo have been well documented.

But with a little more heat applied maybe the Paris 2024 organisers lose their nerve and black sand Taharuu becomes the site of Toledo’s greatest triumph, Olympic gold.

A developing story, one imagines.

World’s best surfer Nathan Florence admits “I was afraid” after waveless session in Portugal!

See the waves even Nathan Florence is too scared to catch!

Two weeks ago at the Big Wave Awards, Nathan Florence, brother of US Olympian John John, officially become the alpha male of the Florence squad, which also includes little brother Ivan and shredder mom Alex.

The cups for Surfer of the Year and Ride of the Year were both awarded to Nathan Florence, and only nine months after he was rushed to hospital following a wipeout during a twenty-foot day at Jaws.

You’ll remember Nathan Florence took to social media to credit his powerlifting routine for saving him from a life in a wheelchair.

“Deadlifts are to thank, I believe,” he said.

Despite recent revelations Kainoa Igarashi has started to read, Florence, who is almost thirty and named after the son of the Hebrew King David, is widely regarded as the “world’s smartest surfer”.

(It ain’t the highest bar. Like the best white linebacker in the NFL or best Jewish sprinter.)

Anyway, Florence likes to be out there at the edge of things. He approaches big waves with steady unfaltering movements for he knows fear releases power. 

But even the Surfer of the Year sometimes hits a wall, where fear of the unseen menacing beast, tusked and terrible, overcomes his terrific lust for waves. 

And, so, we find Nathan Florence at a wave called The Cave in Portugal.

“The whole reef shelf comes out, the wave is dangerous at any size but especially at dead low,” says Florence. “It’s a mix of Backdoor, Off the Wall, but more shallow and heavy with a big reef chunk in front of it.”

Alone, he paddles out, a twitching pulse beating in a bladder of bones and skin.

Waves are examined, avoided. The sea breathes like a stinking dog.

Eventually, Nathan Florence, surfer of the year, paddles in without catching a wave.

“I’ll admit I was afraid,” he says.

But then, redemption as he returns to surf the wave with friends, for he knows that to share fear is the greatest bond of all.


Surf virgin Adrian Fernandez reimagined as Tarantino's Cliff Booth from Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.
"Generations of the starry-eyed, deranged and hallucinatory have made a pilgrimage to The Golden State, pulling pipe dreams with them, only to end up cleaning pool filters, slingin’ lattes to the entitled and surgically mangled, or worst of all, obtaining a real estate license and hawking condos to the newly divorced and desperate." | Photo: Sony

Surf virgin admits “I came to the West Coast to chase a dream, like swarms of delusional folk before me” 

"I worried that this whole move-to-California-become-a-surfer thing might have been a mistake."

This surf virgin woke up in his truck bed to the sound of crashing waves and an orange glow on the windows.

I’d made it.

Last night’s sand in my boots. Ocean in front of my face. Saltwater destiny. The Pacific.

After feeding the dog breakfast and using the passenger-side door for cover while I took a piss that couldn’t wait, I loaded up and hurried out before a State Parks employee could collect a camping fee.

Driving down the coast, I watched water whiz by and felt elated, but a bit childish too, due to the realization that I couldn’t be more of a cliche in that moment if I tried.

I came to the West Coast to chase a dream, like swarms of delusional folk long before me. 

Generations of the starry-eyed, deranged and hallucinatory have made a pilgrimage to The Golden State, pulling pipe dreams with them, only to end up cleaning pool filters, slingin’ lattes to the entitled and surgically mangled, or worst of all, obtaining a real estate license and hawking condos to the newly divorced and desperate.

In my first few hours, I worried that this whole move-to-California-become-a-surfer thing might have been a mistake. Rather than salt, I smelled the distinct possibility that I’d been kidding myself, and was destined to end up selling solar panels or ferrying drunk college kids from UCSB around in an Uber.

To further heighten my creeping insecurities, most of the locals I encountered were bronzed and beautiful.

Thanks to the modern swimwear revolution, butt cheeks breathed free on both sand and sidewalk.

At Surfer’s point, dudes with hair from an early-2000s Hollister ad and cool bumper stickers on their cars changed out of wetsuits under ponchos made out of that cool beach towel material, while I’d already begun contracting a sunburn and was stomping around in boots that showed revolting signs of rot after absorbing a few winters worth of Colorado and New Mexico snow.

Near the piers, pelicans floated over the breeze. What the fuck was a surf virgin doing in a place with Finding Nemo birds? 

I felt out of place, like a freshman who had snuck into a party at a senior’s house, and was about to be discovered thrown out by the throat.

So many wiser folks had cautioned me, warning that housing was impossible on the coast, and everything expensive.

Despite their attempts at slowing my roll, when BeachGrit set an opportunity in front of my face, I packed up and sent it from the Rockies.

But now shit was real, and I, a surf virgin, was living out of a truck with a 120-pound dog– impulsive and reckless, as is my way.

Checking the internet for leads every twenty minutes, I failed to find any hope on a place to rent.

In the first surf shop I toured, wetsuits and boards were prohibitively expensive. There was a teenager at the register with much cooler tattoos than me, who watched with a mocking eye as I browsed discount flip flops and board shorts.

I tried on a Mr. Zogg’s shirt, but saw a high-alpine, UV-intolerant fraud staring back from the mirror. After hanging it back on the rack I scurried out.

Trying to get comfortable in the back of my truck with the dog at night, I frantically calculated how long I could last before my funds would be depleted by this fossil fuel averse, dollar-devouring wasteland.

It was looking more and more likely that I’d end up on the phone trying to swindle a loan out of a distant relative to get back home before I’d ever come close to sniffing a successful ride on a wave.

But then, after another desperate check of the internet, I found, then toured, a furnished, dog-friendly, reasonably priced casita.

It came complete with a vintage ‘Endless Summer’ poster on the wall. A sign!

After a handshake agreement with the landlord to move in the next day, I ripped back to my campsite to steal another fee-free night of camping, howling painfully shitty Nickelback lyrics out the window on my way.

I’d say California wind felt good blowing through my hair, but, I have none.

The next afternoon I returned to the same surf shop, bought a pair of half-off Reef flip flops and restrained myself from slapping the tatts off the smug cashier.

I then found employment making drinks at a tiki bar, met some folks at a yoga class who offered to take me to some beginner breaks once I got a board, and then BeachGrit’s very own Jen See was kind enough to take the time to provide a detailed guide of what I needed to buy, where I needed to go, and how to start getting myself comfortable with reading and being in the wet stuff.

And then, more grace from the gods of surf.

After serving him the perfect mai tai and telling my story, a seasoned local surfer offered me a used wetsuit and two different boards– all on the arm, free of charge.

I’ll be paddling out for the first time before the weekend is out.

Just like that, I went from hopeless transient to merman-in-the-making.

At Mondos, I sat in the sand and watched an older fella (who looked like he collected and sold used hub caps for a living) painfully stretch his wetsuit over a Miller High Life belly, huff and puff his way to the edge of the water, then successfully paddle out and ride.

Confidence, fully renewed.

Which is bad news for the shitgibbons and grundle butter keyboardists in the comment section.

Like it or not, pretty soon, I’m gonna be one of you.

Read Adrian’s debut story here, “I’ve never surfed before but I think I probably should!” here.

And the follow up, “A surf virgin goes to California” here.

World Surf League Chief of Sport Jessi Miley-Dyer (left) with Guinness title holder, and WSL employee, Laura Enever.
World Surf League Chief of Sport Jessi Miley-Dyer (left) with Guinness title holder, and WSL employee, Laura Enever.

Bombshell detonates after revelation World Surf League Chief of Sport meddled in Big Wave Awards!


A blast has just gone off in the generally placid surf world, shaking the ground from Australia’s Gold Coast to California’s orange one. Sending surf enthusiasts reeling. Stumbling like drunkards and gasping for air. You have, no doubt, been following the story of Laura Enever’s very recent Guinness record for the largest ever wave (paddle-in) (female).

A wonderful story, certainly, and one that should be celebrated.


The World Surf League is involved in the whole business and, as surf watchers well know, everything the World Surf League touches turns to poo.

It was World Surf League tabbed scientists that declared Enever’s wave to be 43.6 feet. All extremely impressive, save the ride out which somehow went missing. That bit was evocative of the XXL Big Wave Awards from three years ago where Brazil’s Maya Gabeira beat out France’s Justine Dupont for the coveted Ride of the Year.

She, too, won a Guinness.

Now, new revelations from that event, then owned by the World Surf League, suggest much duplicity.

World Surf League Bombshell

According to well-placed sources, the judging committee, a “veteran team” who had been judging big waves since the dawn of time, decided that Justine Dupont had won. The World Surf League Chief of Sport, then commissioner, Jessi Miley-Dyer disagreed. She brought in her team of scientists. They determined Gabeira’s wave height, and then, Miley-Dyer forced the committee to declare her winner.

Dupont, at the time, not pleased, penning, “The @wsl announced that the record for the biggest wave surfed would be awarded to a surfer who does not finish her wave. I decided to smile about it even though I am deeply hurt to be subjected to a decision that I believe is totally unfairI’m especially disappointed and ashamed of this league which claims to represent our sport.”

She went on to criticize the “report from scientists who use the word ‘approximate’ in front of each of their statements.”

She ended with, “The season is starting and I know that I can surf even bigger waves without waiting for some records from them.”

Well, three years on and Dupont just snagged an absolute bear at Cortes Bank while filming HBO’s hit series 100 Foot Wave.

It went completely unrecognized by the World Surf League.