The "running of the Igarashis" as part (hopefully) of the "Kanoa Igarashi is a Traitor Becasuse Even Though He Was Born and Raised in Huntington Beach He Surfs For Japan and Lives in Portugal Bacchanal."
The "running of the Igarashis" as part (hopefully) of the "Kanoa Igarashi is a Traitor Becasuse Even Though He Was Born and Raised in Huntington Beach He Surfs For Japan and Lives in Portugal Bacchanal."

“Surf City, USA” Huntington Beach cancels Black History Month!

Women's History Month gone too!

Huntington Beach, California, there in the coastal heart of Orange County, is a surfing treasure. Officially nicknamed “Surf City, USA” after beating rival Santa Cruz in the courts, the town hosts the annual U.S. Open of Surfing as well as semiannual surf-induced riots. Mega big surf shop Huntington Surf and Sport is right across the street from mega big surf shop Jacks with Rockin’ Fig is tucked up there somewhere. Huntington Beach is home to the Surfing Walk of Fame, living surfing legend, plus US Olympic surf team coach, Brett Simpson and the offices of surf forecasting juggernaut Surfline.

All very cool but, lately, the municipality has made more news for its politics than its gorgeous mushburgers. No rainbow flags are allowed to fly, for example, and I would imagine libraries are forbidden from hosting transexual reading hours.

Hate crimes don’t exist in Huntington Beach either.

Not satisfied with smacking the LGBTQ+ community around, the city council, days ago, passed a resolution that would officially cancel Black History Month.

Women’s History Month too.

Pride Month, obviously, burned with a propane torch.


Except for the recognition of the Holocaust in January which was mercifully preserved by Mayor Gracey Van Der Mark.

The stated reason for the move was to celebrate uniquely Huntington Beach moments. “I’ve been amazed to learn just how much of our rich history I was unaware of,” Councilman Casey McKeon from the dais on Tuesday night’s meeting. ​“We wanted to focus on 12 themes a year instead of dozens to help city staff get on the same page.”

One proposed theme is “Black Gold Jubilee” which will celebrate the discovery of oil offshore.

Another should be “Kanoa Igarashi is a Traitor Becasuse Even Though He Was Born and Raised in Huntington Beach He Surfs For Japan and Lives in Portugal Bacchanal” wherein effigies of the Olympic silver medalist are burned.

A report was released reading, “All monthly themes hosted by the City must be included in this approved twelve-month program and will therefore repeal and supersede all such monthly themes/celebrations previously approved by Council.”

Shockingly not everyone was on board. Councilman Dan Kalmick declared it seemed like a 4th grade school project. Councilwoman Rhonda Bolton wondered, “Why does it have to be either the proposed calendar or the existing commemorations?The fact that those are being left out of this proposal says something. That sends a message to the community.”

Still, the haters were in the minority and Huntington Beach will move forward with its beautiful recognition of “Chop Hop Appreciation Day.”

Can’t wait to celebrate.

Joel Tudor, Sterling Spencer and Phil Rajzman.
Phil Rajzman's wild on-the-face air and, inset, Joel Tudor, unhappy with move. | Photo: Sterling Spencer

Blood feud roils surfing as world champs trade wild insults online

“I won against him every time we competed…and that's why he still cries to this day.”

The pro surfing world is in disarray tonight after two of the sport’s titans, including three-time world champ Joel Tudor, traded barbs online, igniting the sport’s latest blood feud.

Sterling Spencer, who hit worldwide fame in 2010 with a dubbed video of a kid trying to get Jeremy Flores’ autograph at J-Bay, posted a video of the hot-dogging longboarder Phil Rajzman performing one of his trademark chop-hops. 

“That’s, like, bad ass,” says Spencer.

Three-time world champion Joel Tudor, however, quickly went DEFCON 5 on the trickster.

“Possibly the worst style in long boarding,” wrote Joel Tudor.

Tudor, of course, is a well-known star of blood feuds, the fort seven year old’s ultra-purist angle skewering all-comers.

You’ll remember his role as the protagonist in these classics, Blood Feud: Joel Tudor and Noa Deane in creative battle royale! Blood Feud: Joel Tudor vs The World, and Blood Feud: Kelly Slater vs Kelly Slater (part one), Blood Feud: Joel Tudor vs Kelly Slater, part two and Blood feud; Joel Tudor squares off with shaping icon Richard Kenvin.

The Brazilian longboarder Phil Rajzman, who is forty-one and the son of professional volleyball player Bernard Rajzman and professional figure skater Michele Wollens, wasn’t gonna take the hit without returning his own  salvo.

“Cry baby Joel, the king of ego,” wrote Rajzman quickly followed by, “I won against him every time we competed, so he gave up competing, and that’s why he still cries to this day… then he created his own championship, where he never loses 🤭 you know how it is with the spoiled child who owns the ‘ball,’ right?”

Readers, meanwhile, were divided down the middle.

“Joel Tudor, your comment would have some value if it did not come from someone who was always beaten by Phil! I remember well that final in Puerto with 10ft waves where he packed your suitcase!! Btw your ego is killing you! You don’t have any better style than him!!”

“90’s era hp longboarding is not “the future”. It’s a past that never should have happened in the first place.”

“Joel Tudor, shocking to have the resident ‘you wanna get rear naked choked at the beach brah’ good vibes warrior trashing a guy who takes a unique and interesting perspective in a sub genre (longboarding) self acclaimed to be owned by the Tudor regime.”

Where do you fall on the volatile matter of high-performance longboarding?

Are you a yay or a nay?


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John John Florence and wife Lauryn Cribb
The divine coupling of John John Florence, surfing superstar and model turned horticulture student Lauryn Cribb.

US surf Olympian John John Florence gonna be a daddy in May!

“Swallowed a watermelon seed and now it’s growing. We’re excited for our little baby boy to join us in May…”

Exactly one yea ago, John John Florence, the shaggy haired boy who enchanted the world in Vogue fashion spreads and as the first tweenie to ride Pipeline, married his long-time girlfriend, the Australian Lauryn Cribb.

John John Florence proposed to Cribb, a model turned horticulture student, in 2019 using a diamond ring his mama Alex had found on the beach and right before a one-month yacht voyage.

“It was a blazing hot day, he was so nervous that he didn’t want to go in the water even though we were both sweating profusely,” Lauryn Cribb told Vogue in an interview that included a lavish spread of the wedding. “He had a knee injury, so you can imagine I didn’t get the cookie cutter dropped knee proposal. Laying down on the hot beach at midday, he made me ‘look over there’ as he grabbed the ring his mother had given him as a placeholder.”

The pair were married in the nearby Waimea Valley although torrential rains, the same storms that created an epic river wave that nearly slaughtered sad-eyed degenerate Jamie O’Brien, almost forced a switcharoo of locations.

“The Waimea River actually flooded the venue the day before, which, despite our concerns and the outcome the day of, is considered good fortune when the river is flowing,” said Cribb. “We were very lucky it subsided and the grounds were not at all muddy or wet.”

In the photo spread, which you can examine here, the couple and their myriad friends danced the night away under a grand marquee festooned with lights, the happy couple hoisted upon guest’s shoulders, forming a miracle of love against the heavens.

Now, four months into the gestation process, Cribb has announced the forthcoming birth of a baby version of John John Florence, due in May. 

“Swallowed a watermelon seed and now it’s growing,” wrote Cribb.  “We’re excited for our little baby boy to join us in May…”

In a doz years, that little boy gonna be shredding Pipe?

In twenty, ruling the Saudi owned tour?

And, y’think, John John Florence going to gift the boy a similarly unique handle?

Mainstream media loses ever loving mind over “bada bing bada boom biggest ever New Jersey surf!”

Would you look at that, Tony.

I’ll tell you what, I love New Jersey. Love it from its Cape Mike May all the way up to the Red Bank. The affair began, in earnest, when I traveled to the Garden State for BeachGrit‘s second annual wetsuit review starring Tommy Ihnken, an instant classic of a man. It was set in Asbury Park and I wandered around in Bruce Springsteen’s footsteps thinking “Where have you been all my life?”

In any case, the glorious place was just hit with a historic run of swell dubbed “biggest ever” by the gobsmacked mainstream media. The local CBS affiliate interviewed the acclaimed photographer Ryan Simalchik who declared, “I think the general consensus on what the size of the waves were Monday was in the 15-to-20-foot range, with some sets up to 25 feet.”

Other acclaimed photographer Ryan Mack added, “It was the most surreal because you’re sitting there and you’re like, there’s 20 foot waves coming in, but I’m five minutes from my house. This should be something that happens in Hawaii or Portugal, you know? But it was happening in our backyard.”

Anchors, stunned, described surfers falling more than two storeys.

Surfer Magazine’s artificial intelligence became amazed, as well, oddly calling the scene as a “Ben Graveyard.”

The Inertia dropped an F-bomb. As in “freaking.”

Watch here.

David Lee Scales and I did not, anyhow, discuss monstrous New Jersey surf during our weekly chat but I did go off on multiple unhinged, barely intelligible rants. One about the aforementioned Surfer and ‘Nertia sucking hard.

Enjoy with friends.

VAL surfer and toxic local
"It doesn't matter what board you ride or how long you've been surfing. Are you happy? Do you have The Stoke?"

Vulnerable Adult Learner Surfer reveals true meaning of surfing to toxic local

A Christmas surfing fairytale…

On the first day things were good. The surf was small. Cold. Uninviting. But they had the holiday house for a full week. A week of no work, no kids, no interruptions.

They’d met later in life, two divorcees with their own families. Had bonded over a shared love of surfing. He was a life-long acolyte. She came to it more recently. This would be their first trip away together. It was a chance to surf, read, drink, eat, make love. Whatever. A chance to know each other better.

The place was an old timber surf shack. Wooden floors and comfy furniture and a tin roof for listening to the rain. A perfect view from the living room window across the windswept beach below. The Airbnb reviews were right. It was the ultimate coastal getaway.

“I love it,” she declared as they stood in the living room, bags still unpacked.

They both pulled out surfboards from their respective travel covers. Scraped the wax from the lining. Checked for any dings. Hers was an off the rack Firewire. Round nose and full rails. It did the job.

His was a new custom. A sleek shortboard, though it looked closer to a step up. White with a green pinline spray. Still had that smell of curing resin.

“This is an outline I’ve been working on with John – my shaper – for a while now,” he said as he ran his hands along the rails. “Pulled in tail, more volume through the chest for increased paddling power. Beaked nose. Perfect for the beachbreak barrels we should get here.”

He flipped it belly up, and ran his fingers along the faint concave down its middle.

“It’s so important to have a good relationship with your shaper. You’re getting a level of connection you don’t get with those off the shelf pop-outs like you’ve got.”

“Cool,” she said.

That night they drank wine and talked about the week ahead.

On the second day there was still no surf. But the sun was out. They had sex twice in the yellow morning light that flooded their bedroom. Then they had breakfast, got dressed, and explored the littoral trails that snaked along the coast

There were pandanus. Flame trees. Jasimine in bloom. She spotted a powerful owl sleeping in a low branch. Bellbirds chirped their staccato song.

“They say bellbirds are the sign of a dying ecosystem,” she said. “That’s sad.”

“I think it’s sad what’s happened to the WSL,” he said. Almost like he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

“Sorry, the what?” she asked.

“You know, WSL, World Surf League.”

“Oh yeah. Right.”

He continued on.

“Sure, competition surfing has always been a sell-out to a point. But the direction they’ve taken it in over the last five years, the way they’ve lost all of the best breaks, the fact all these pros are now retiring instead of still trying to win titles…”

He stopped on the trail and turned to her. Two triangles of sweat sat prominent under each arm of his shirt.

“It’s lost its relevance. Don’t you reckon?

She picked a dandelion from between her feet. Held it in front of her.

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” She blew the spores into the wind. “Definitely.”

On the third day the onshore was stronger. They looked at the surf. Tried to make out a recognisable bank. But it refused to conform.

Maybe it never would?

“The forecast isn’t looking great,” she said as she flashed her smartphone in front of him.

He snorted.

“Don’t listen to those idiots with their surflines and swellnets. You should learn to read a weather map yourself.”

She stared at him with a blank expression.

“It’s ok, he said. “I’ve consulted all the major models. GFS. CMC. ECMWF. NAVGEM. They’re all in agreeance.The wind will definitely slacken tomorrow, and that long range south swell should be filling in nicely.”

He turned to look back at the ocean. “You really should learn to read them.”

“Ok,” she said.

On the fourth day it was smaller, messier. He looked at his phone like it was some unknown artifact. There was no mention of his stillborn prediction.

She found a chest of old board games and card games in the spare bedroom of the house. Monopoly. Connect 4. Battleship. Countless more. She sprawled them all out over the wooden floors.

They opened a bottle of wine. And another. For a few hours things were good and fun and they forgot about the surf.

But after her fourth straight loss in Uno she found he had been putting two or even three cards down at once. She confronted him. Called him a cheat.

“It’s a dog eat dog world out there, babe,” he said. “I do what I need to get the W. Look at it like I’m teaching you a lesson: this is how things work in the real world.”

She sighed, and tried to feign a smile. To salvage something from this slowly disintegrating trip.

“Well I guess ‘you know’ better, don’t you? Uno?”

He looked at her with dead eyes. Did his little snort again. “What is that? Some type of joke?”

He put his hand inside her thigh. “I know something that’ll make you smile.”

“Don’t,” she said as she pushed it away. She felt the hot touch of sick in the back of her mouth. “I’ve had too much to drink. I’m going to bed.”

On the fifth day she woke up unrested. She thought maybe going out for breakfast would help.

They walked under gray skies to the local cafe. Sat down for an average, overpriced meal.

“Did you see the sign on that bathroom?” he asked as he finished his eggs. “It said ‘gender neutral space.’ How many fucken trannies are there going to be in this shit hole of a town?”

He called the waiter over for another coffee. She moved her pancakes around her plate.

“You know, I don’t think it’s very respectful to use a term like that,” she said

“Like what?”

“What you just said.”

“What? Trannies” He snorted again. “Fuck ‘em! Do you know how soon it will be before they take over women’s surfing? Claiming world titles?”

He pointed his fork at her.

“Shouldn’t you care about that? As a woman?”

“I don’t think that’s correct at all-“

He pushed his plate out in disgust. The leftover eggs jiggled together in unison.

“You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you?”

“Who?” she asked. “Who are you talking about?

“Them,” he sneered.

She looked at him across the cafe table. His face looked longer than she first thought. His eyes were angrier.

On the sixth day they sat in silence while rain pelted the windows. At one point he mumbled something that could have been, ‘Matthew Perry died of a ketamine overdose.” But she had already stopped listening.

On the seventh day she awoke with the sunrise. The wind had swung offshore. The long awaited groundswell finally filled in. From the living room window she could see gold-feathered peaks stretched out along the beach, with only a handful of surfers on it.

It was what they’d been waiting for. Perfection.

Too bad for him.

She packed her bags quietly, while his snoring still echoed through the house. There wasn’t much to prepare and soon she was ready to leave.

As she walked out the door she saw his custom board with the pinline spray lying belly up on the living room floor, waiting patiently for its owner. Still unridden. A faint smile came across her face.

She took the rental car key from her purse, and stabbed three perfect holes under each of the board’s fins. They key slid through the soft fibreglass like butter.

“Fucking…kook,” she muttered under her breath, careful not to wake him.

If she raced she could still make the early flight.