Carissa Moore (pictured) champion of hearts done dirty by the dastardly robot. Photo: WSL
Carissa Moore (pictured) champion of hearts done dirty by the dastardly robot. Photo: WSL

Surfer magazine blasted for dangerously lying about Carissa Moore

"You're putting words in her mouth and at a level that could have kick-back on her from the Olympics..."

The oath every surf journalist takes, upon receiving his or her special Maurice Cole designed quill, is thus: “I shall not falsely attribute quotes to professional surfers and especially not Carissa Moore who is the most adored on this, and any other, planet.” Alas, we live in a new time where artificial intelligence is busily punching out stories for Surfer Magazine, the onetime “Bible of the Sport,” and these robots don’t even know the difference between a Maurice Cole and a Maurice Gibb.

Three days, ago, you recall that surfers worldwide, and particularly in Tahiti, became very angry when a barge plowed into Teahupo’o’s prized reef. Tensions had already been high with Olympic organizers wanting to replace the wooden judging tower with a brand-new aluminum one and locals pushing back over environmental concerns.

The barge incident seemed to swell the ranks of the opposition.

Derek Rielly wrote of the incident:

Following yesterday’s report the Olympic barge had accidentally bulldozed its way through the precious coral reef, Carissa Moore wrote:

“(Broken heart emoji) This doesn’t seem worth it.”

Surf fans were quick to dive on five-time world champion Moore’s comment, begging her to leverage her considerable influence to pressure organisers to cancel the tower’s construction with the threat of a surfer boycott.

Carissa left the comment unabridged, not calling for any specific action.

Yesterday, Surfer Magazine’s trending news bot took up the story under the headline “Reef Destroyed in Teahupo’o; 5x World Champ Carissa Moore Calls to Boycott Surfing in Paris 2024 Olympic Games (Video)”

There was neither a call to boycott nor a video of her calling for a boycott in the word salad that followed.

Calls To Boycott Surfer Magazine Grow

Lincoln Eather, noted longtime tour and media observer, pointed out the danger of lying about what Moore said, writing, “C’mon Surfer Magazine – you’re better than this. No where in the article does it state (or any videos you linked to, or anything on Riss’ profiles) does she state what you wrote in the headline. Click bait comes & goes, and can be funny. This borders on fvcked, you’re putting words in her mouth and at a level that could have kick-back on her from the Olympics… Do better.”

Can Surfer do better though? Does the algorithm care about all-too-human conceits like veracity and a good, honest day’s work down in the clickbait mines?

Probably not.

More as the story develops.

Creepy scenes on Australian beach and, inset, Koa Smith, a disciple of Joe Dispenza.
Creepy scenes at Balmoral and, inset, Joe Dispenza disciple Koa Smith.

Zombie-like scenes on Australian beach blamed on surfing-adjacent faith healer Joe Dispenza

“They’re waiting for the mothership. I’m just waiting for Jesus to walk out of the water now.”

Over the past two weeks the surfing world has been held spellbound by the miracles of best-selling author Joe Dispenza, often incorrectly written as Joe Spinoza at BeachGrit, healing the lame, putting the wheelchair industry out of biz etc.

After a week with Joe Dispenza, Griffin Colapinto, the almost-world title winner from San Clemente, wrote of the power of Joe and his patented Coherence Healing.

“All I’ll say is if I had an illness, the first thing I would do is go for a coherence healing,” wrote Colapinto adding he was “leaving this (Joe Dispenza) retreat with so much love in my heart and an understanding of how POWERFUL us humans Beings actually are. This Practice is changing the world for the better.”

At the same Joe Dispenza retreat Koa Smith, the almost Ultimate Surfer from Kauai, says he witnessed, first hand, own eyes etc, the miracle of the lame and crippled being gifted back the use of their legs.

To prove the miracle, Koa posted a photo of a walking stick in a garbage bin.

“I saw people getting up out of wheel chairs. I saw canes in the trash and people cracking their hearts wide open and feeling true love for themselves!” wrote Smith.

“Dr. Joe Dispenza is helping us understand how to tap back into Human potential. Taking complex techniques and science and making it digestible for anyone. He’s reminding us that we have the power to create the life we desire. We have the power to tap in and heal our selves from anything and ultimately how to heal other people.”

All very good stuff and very important for crippled people to realise that it’s all in their heads etc.

Now, after a photo of sinister zombie-like scenes at an Australian beach was posted on a community Facebook page in Sydney, locals poured onto Facebook to voice their concern.

“Does anyone know why people stand individually on Balmoral Beach on Sunday mornings? I would love to know,” one user wrote on the Mosman Living group.

Joe Dispenza acolytes practise Walking Meditation on Balmoral Beach
Creepy scenes at Balmoral Beach blamed on Joe!

“Could it be a cult?”

“They’re waiting for the mothership. I’m just waiting for Jesus to walk out of the water now.”

“Why do I hear a choir of angels singing? So many questions…”

“Looks like a zombie movie.”


“Never seen this.”

Turns out the weekly event uses the magic of Joe Dispenza where followers utilise his patented Walking Meditation techniques.

Writes Joe Dispenza,

“The Walking Meditation is a great way to practice transitioning from a seated meditation, where we change our energy with our eyes closed, to an active meditation – where we change our energy while standing, followed by walking in that energy with our eyes open. In these meditations, we walk as it. We demonstrate who we want to be in our future, and we become it.”

Change your life like Griff or Koa.

Buy here!

King of Pipeline Jamie O’Brien releases wildly controversial full-length surf film masterpiece!

Just in time for North Shore season.

Pipeline, there on Oahu’s fabled North Shore, has roared back to life and wow and whoosh and whoa. Nothing thrills quite like the Banzai and its wintery return is welcomed in all corners. The bravest men and women accepting her challenge and padding into the mob. King amongst them is, still, one James Duncan O’Brien. The now 40-year-old has the most special relationship with Pipeline, one I was particularly honored to observe whilst directing the film Who is J.O.B. just over thirteen years ago.

I was Charlie Smith back then, having yet to transition to the hyper-ironic “Chas,” and living in Australia when I received the call from Jamie, asking for me to come and direct. I had worked on the project a year, or such, earlier but parted ways over a disagreement with O’Brien’s wild manager, a story in and of himself.

After hemming and hawing, I agreed, flew to Los Angeles and met the film’s editor, a crazy Canadian named Dayten Likeness. I knew, instantly, that we were going to make magic. We quickly formed up Haole Pounder Productions and Red Bull put us up in a Venice Beach apartment.

Dayten and I stayed up all night drinking White Russians, throwing knives into the ceiling, playing Slayer at full volume and cutting the movie’s sections together.

People who dared visit the lair became instantly terrified.

I did not let Jamie see any part of the movie, telling him he must wait until opening night just like everybody else.

We traveled around California, getting interviews, spent a few weeks on the North Shore getting more, then released it to the public at a grand Newport Beach premier.

After an international tour, the film was shelved as Dayten and I were naughty li’l punks, but it is back again and free.

Good appetite.

Jeff Bezos captured awkwardly dipping paddle in Miami waters whilst practicing surfing’s most hated bastard

"Pervasive ugliness."

Of all surfing’s many bastards, including foil, boogie, wake and knee, standup paddleboarding is, by far and away, the most hated. Any time a man, or woman, strokes into the lineup, standing up, paddling, the mood instantly darkens. Surfers scowl. Prepare to snap. Ugliness spreads and happiness only returns if/when the plague is removed via unexpectedly large closeout.

The SUPer is, almost always, completely unaware, which is why he or she chose the abomination to begin with. Some famous participants are disgraced former World Surf League CEO Erik Logan, probably ex-congressman George Santos and now richest man on earth Jeff Bezos.

As you are certainly aware, the Amazon chief recently moved from Seattle to Miami. He docked his largest yacht on earth there and has been practicing the Fetish of Fools whilst out on the waters.

Watch as he awkwardly dips his paddle.

Nasty, nasty, nasty.

But if Jeff Bezos decided to leave the safety of intercostal waterways and make his way to your lineup, how would you greet him?

What if his fiancé Lauren Sanchez and SUPing security detail were with him?

Thought so.

Audience members faint and lose their lunch at premiere of “disgusting” surf-horror film Motel Hell

“I spent an evening in the lobby just to see if people really do come stumbling out in the middle of the picture as reported — they did.”

It’s Saturday night in Ventura, California, and cars stream down East Santa Clara Street, their red taillights glowing in the dusk’s fading light. Outside the Smoke Stop, music bumps and a pair of girls dance in the flicker of its neon sign. A man in an ugly Christmas sweater hurries down the sidewalk. He’s late. I hope he doesn’t miss dinner.

I’m in Ventura for movie night at Chapter 11 TV, the eclectic surf shop that Dane Reynolds owns. The shop’s a year old now, and there’s boards in the window and surfy things like traction pads, leashes, and wetsuits.

Still, the space retains the chaotic creativity that characterizes Reynolds and his projects.

When I first catch sight of him, Reynolds has a spider in his hand. It dangles from a square of paper, as he darts through the doorway from the back of the shop. The plan is to put the spider outside, but people flood through the front door at exactly the wrong moment.

Reynolds dashes back the other way. The spider escapes into the dark behind a pile of boxes.

In the parking lot out back, a pizza truck and a band set up shop. A few streets over, there’s a Christmas-themed event on Main Street, the pedestrian-only shopping area. The thumping music sounds like a rave, and pink lights flash in the trees. I lean against the chainlink fence. It’s topped with barbed wire, which together with the glint of broken glass on the pavement gives the scene a gritty patina.

The night’s film is Motel Hell from Harry Bryant and filmer Dave Fox. They spent three years collecting footage for the project in Australia and around the world. The title comes from a 1970s cult horror film, which is an unexpected choice. There’s a crew of talent in Motel Hell including Shaun Manners, Craig Anderson, Eithan Osbourne, and Holly Wawn among others. I’m intrigued by the theme and the promise of barrels. I like barrels.

The parking lot fills with hoodies, and Vans. In the dim light of the street lights and shop’s windows, everyone looks the same. (Sorry, dudes) Dressed in a bright, patterned shirt, Reynolds darts through the crowd, arranging the projector, restarting the playlist, and messing with a set of lights. He’s everywhere, perpetually in motion, and Reynolds looks happiest when he has something to do.

A couple comes up to ask what we’re doing over here in the parking lot. Watching Motel Hell, a surf film, I tell them through the fence. They seem baffled by this choice. Come to the Wine Walk! They glow with wine and happiness. The ugly Christmas sweater party is a rave is a wine walk. It sounds deranged. I’m not at all convinced all these ingredients belong together, but this is not my problem. I’m just here to watch surfing.

Hoodies swarm the food and beer. The crowd buzzes with chatter. The surf has not been anything special lately. Nearby a dude tells a long story, while his friends pretend to listen. Groms run through the crowd’s gaps. Bryant’s blonde hair floats through the crowd, always at the center of a tight knot of people. It feels like waiting for the show at a hole-in-the-wall club, but the bathrooms are nicer.

There’s a drawing, and then it’s time. We watch Motel Hell projected on the side of a neighboring building, conveniently built with white walls. I slide through the crowd to get a sight-line through the heads. The film’s guitar-driven soundtrack drowns out the thump of the Christmas wine walk rave.

The film opens with Bryant lost in the desert. He finds a dilapidated bar set alone on a sand dune. It’s appropriately creepy and peopled with weirdos. The scene sets up the film’s recurring gag, where a glass of milk sends Bryant spiraling from one adventure to the next. In an interview with Reynolds before the film, Bryant explained that he’s lactose intolerant.

The obvious challenge of making a surf film is that each wave doesn’t last long at all. Film makers have to rely on some sort of device to glue the thing together, whether it’s interviews, skits, or nature channel B-roll. Motel Hell is weird and creative and the joke at the center of it mostly works. Somehow, Fox and Bryant also managed to make a film in Australia without a single kangaroo. I did not think this was actually possible.

The surfing. You want to know about the surfing. Certainly, the waves fit the horror theme. This is not a surf film filled with cute turns and twirly things. Playful, fun-sized waves are also in short supply in Motel Hell. I was not sad about this at all. Instead, Bryant packs some monster barrels and mutant-freak peaks.

There’s some dreamy Moroccan right point break magic at the outset. And also, a camel. But the majority of the footage comes from places like unruly Ireland and remote Australia. There are a lot of waves with evil intentions. The sequence of non-makes gives a hint of the payment they’re out to extract from Bryant and his friends. I’m sure you’ll recognize some of these waves, but to his credit Bryant wanders beyond the usual destinations.

I am a simple kid who likes to watch surf films. Based on the crowd in the parking lot on Saturday, I’m not alone in this strange affinity. A friend asked me recently if there’s anything left of surf culture. I didn’t quite know what to say and still don’t. But I do feel like as long as people are willing to stand around in a parking lot to watch a surf film projected on the side of a building, there’s still some life left in this thing.

Then it’s over. The credits roll and a cold wind blows down the canyon. The wine walk rave has gone quiet and a band called Kan Kan from San Diego plays a set. There’s still a few beers left in the cooler. Cars straggle along the road out front. I pull up my hood and walk out into the night.

If you’re in Hawai’i, you can catch Motel Hell on December 9 at Farm to Barn in Hale’iwa.

I’m told it’ll be online a few weeks after that showing.

Essential, as we like to say around here.