Todd Kline, three-timer Mick Fanning, Screaming Joe and once-only Occ.
Todd Kline, three-timer Mick Fanning, Screaming Joe and once-only Occ.

Surf fiction (part three): The cruel tyranny of Joe Turpel!

"He’s brilliant. A warrior poet in the commentary booth. But Joe Turpel is crazy as hell.”

“Guerrero!”

A voice comes booming from somewhere behind us. It’s a cold afternoon in the Santa Monica sand dunes. Kaipo Guerrero and I have just finished our tete a tete in the ecologically significant little tern nesting area .

Kaipo probing my loyalties to the WSL. Me trying to figure out what the hell I’m even doing here at the Global Home of Surfing.

“Guerrero!“ the voice comes again. Louder and closer this time. From the direction of the WSL HQ.

A figure appears at the top of the dune, though it’s no more than a silhouette. I can’t make out any detail from the glare of the low spring sun.

“Oh shit,” says Kaipo. “It’s Turpel.” There’s a quiver of fear in his voice.

As the figure makes its way down the lee side of the dune, the profile of Joe Turpel comes into focus. Joe’s wearing his trademark vans, chinos and Hawaiian tee. But there’s something serious about his look. The way he moves. Deliberate. With authority.

“Kaipo Guerrero, did I just see you ashing your cigarette into the designated little tern nesting area?” he barks in his distinctive nasal accent.

Kaipo’s a deer in headlights.

“Yes sir, I mean no, I mean…”

Kaipo looks to me for help. I have to think quick.

“Ah, it was my cigarette,” I offer. “Mr Guerrero here, well he was just holding it for me.”

“You. who the fuck are you”

“Haven’t you heard?” says Kaipo. “This is Cote’s new guy. He and I were just uh, working on this nesting area…”

“… and then I decided to have a smoke,” I continue. “I was just finishing it off when I caught my shirt on this chicken wire.”

I point to the roll of wire on the ground.

“So I threw the butt to Kaipo to make sure we didn’t lose it in the sand while I untangled myself. He was just about to ethically dispose of it in this Bonsoy Brew can.”

I hold the can up like a piece of evidence in a courtroom. Kaipo looks at it and nods.

Joe Turpel comes to within kissing distance of us both. Inspects us up and down.

“And you think it’s ok to smoke in an area where we are trying to re-ha-bil-i-tate?” he yells, pausing on each syllable. His words are short. Abrupt. Economical. None of his usual verbosity. Yet his voice is still unmistakeable. He’s like a stoned army drill sergeant.

“You think it’s some kind of joke? If there is one fucking thing in this world I will not stand for. It is the desecration of a protected species nesting area.”

He leans even closer into my face, so we are eyeball to eyeball. He smells like musk sticks.

“Both of you. Follow me”

“Thanks for covering for me back there, brah,” whispers Kaipo as we make our way through the dunes.

“Don’t mention it, mate. You’re all good.”

“No, I’m serious. You do not want to get on this guy’s bad side. He’s brilliant. A warrior poet in the commentary booth. But Joe Turpel is crazy as hell.”

We arrive at Joe’s office in the WSL building, walking through stained glass doors into a darkened space. Joe claps twice and light floods the room.

The office is a brutalist statement. All steel and concrete. Smooth, menacing greys. There’s no work station to speak of. It’s a void, except for the two 40 pound dumbells and serrated hunting knife sitting on a bed of newspaper in the middle of the room, and an old moosehead affixed above the glass doors. The knife glistens in the light. It must be 15 inches long.

Kaipo is bowing his head. I follow his lead. We’re in this together now.

There’s a knock at the door behind us. I sneak a look up and see the familiar face of Jessie Miley Dyer. She holds up a limited edition Yeti coffee keep cup in her hand and wiggles it with a hopeful look.

But Joe Turpel shoots her a stare that could cut through the stainless steel walls. The WSL Chief of Sport drops her head sullenly and disappears from view.

Joe shakes his head and turns back to us.

“More god damned inferiors wanting my goddamn time. Just because I look like a happy, approachable guy on screen. They think they can come up to me with their problems. Shoot the shit. Talk about feelings.”

He air quotes the word feelings and then spits on the floor.

“What do they want? A hug from Joe Turpel? Last time I hugged anyone was when I put Jack Johnson in a sleeper hold at Sunset elementary for stealing my juice box. I showed him, though. Him and that little band of his. You can both look at me now.”

I watch as he picks up the hunting knife and runs his finger along its edge.

“You know this morning, after I had done my workout and vocal exercises, I saw a snail crawling along my knife. Crawling, slithering along a serrated razor’s edge. I realised, at that moment, that we are at war. My dream. My nightmare. The war for surfing’s heart.”

He throws the knife at the moose head. Buries it to the handle, right between the moose’s dead black eyes. Joe Turpel turns to me

“You’re new here. So know this. Don’t. Ever. Cross. Me.”

He runs his hands through his hair. Smooths his collar. Takes a deep breath. I swear I’ve seen this routine before. I think about Chris Cote, sucking the stale office air through his teeth. It all seems like a lifetime ago.

“Now, if you’re both so happy working together I have a mission for you,” Turpel says. “As you know we have been in a leadership vacuum here at the WSL since the departure of .”

“I’ve had word from above” – he nods to the moose’s head – “that there’s a new candidate for the position of WSL Chief Executive. There’s a real buzz around this guy. Could open some new doors for this great organisation of ours. Give us a chance to hop on the ski and re-set.”

I look to Kaipo. His head is still bowed.

“I want you to both travel to meet him and report back to me. Do a vibe check. Get a sense of his leanings.”

Am I taking orders from Joe now? What about my original job with Chris Cote?

“I should let Chris know-”

Joe cuts me off.

“Mr Cote doesn’t need to know about this. I am giving you the direction. That is all you need. Now, gentlemen, the WSL eco-jet is already on the tarmac. You have five minutes until wheels up. I suggest you hurry.”

Thoughts swirl through my head as we take off over the ocean. Below I can see the tiny specks of the Channel islands race below my window as the WSL eco-jet engages hypersonic speed.

My first meeting with Cote feels almost make believe. As do his supposed secret plots. And now Kaipo and I are best friends? Who am I to trust? Whose side of the war for surfing’s heart am I on? And who could this mysterious new head of the WSL be?

Kaipo passes me a can of Bonsoy Brew from across the aisle. I crack the lid, and strap myself in.

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Erik Logan (pictured) gone but not forgotten.
Erik Logan (pictured) gone but not forgotten.

Former World Surf League CEO Erik Logan takes vicious shot at popular tabloid!

"Who knows. Who cares."

The World Surf League has officially entered its… honestly, I can’t even remember the new CEO’s name. Its Riley Gains era? Its Johnny Smallville era? I don’t know but I can assure everything will look the exact same as the “cleanup on aisle five” crew who took the helm after former chief executive Erik Logan did something so naughty in Brazil as to get Stalinized. Yes, the PR head and the Legal head teamed up to maybe lock in all those Logan NDAs then handed the reins over to… Jerry McGovern? Ron Felding?

Whatever. His sleepy resume and dull face tell us everything we need to know. Mostly that his name is not worth remembering. Oh, don’t you worry. I will put by scalping kit back together and find some way to Backward Fin Beth him but, to be honest, my heart will still be with ELo.

The Oklahoman with a magical wetsuit of honor was a gift, a pure undeserved gift what with his sheer cluelessness, instance on being front and center, goofball SUPing, et. al. He was the perfect manifestation of a billionaire’s vision for professional surfing.

As much as I care about Logan, though, it appears the love is unrequited. On a recent social media post, the motivational speaker declared, “On this Day, I got a Haircut!!!! Thank goodness for the Emmy award-winning NEEEKKOOOOO. Always tight with the cleanup. He is always winning in the water, he’s having the most fun – starting in the parking lot. High and tight, as we have things to do, places to go, and announcements to make. More to come! #”

While his legion fans patiently wait for the #, one asked, “Will beachgrit run a story about said haircut ? more questions than answers.”hahahahha who knows. Who cares.”

Ouch.

And unnecessary?

Neither knowing nor caring about the popular tabloid which owns his entire online profile?

Well, it’s a little bit funny this feeling inside. I’m not one of those who can easily hide. I don’t have much money but boy if I did, I’d buy a big house where Erik could rent a room. If I was a sculptor, but then again, no. Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show. I know it’s not much but it’s the best I can do. My gift is my daily posting here on BeachGrit and, Erik, this one’s for you.

David Lee Scales and I briefly discussed the new CEO during our weekly chat. James Ackman? Fred Durst? Scales is in El Salvador on a surf trip. Don’t you wish you were there? Sample the next best thing by listening and enjoying.

Bon appetit.

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Kelly Slater (left), Conan Hayes (center) and Shane Dorian (right).
Kelly Slater (left), Conan Hayes (center) and Shane Dorian (right).

Shane Dorian reveals participation in ultra-exclusive text thread with surf GOATs Kelly Slater and Conan Hayes!

BFF.

This future is, I must admit, different than advertised. Growing up, it felt as if Back to the Future II had set the bar for what it would all feel like in 2015 and beyond. Flying cars, hovering skateboards, Pizza Hut expanders, etc. None of those things, of course, exist though we do have miniature computers in our pockets that allow us to participate in multiple different text threads with our friends and colleagues.

Looking at my phone now, I have at least 20 active chats with at least two or more participants. None, unfortunately, include Kelly Slater and Conan Hayes.

Well, Shane Dorian for the win, I suppose, as he just revealed that he has the two surf GOATs in an ultra-exclusive chain. Slater’s bonafides need no introduction. 11x world champion, multi-time Pipe Master, Father of the Year nominee. Hayes’ might not be as well known, but vaulted to the pinnacle of “surfing’s most interesting man” after co-founding RVCA, selling it, getting involved in the toy trade and later providing assistance to former United States President Donald Trump.

The tamer of giant Cloudbreak was most recently in the news as one of thirty unindicted co-conspirators in making very sure the 2020 election was free and fair by “dressing as a nerd” and doing some computer work.

Per Vice News:

In recent years (Hayes) has become somewhat of a minor celebrity in election fraud conspiracy theory circles, under his anonymous Twitter handle We Have Risen. He has worked on an election audit in Antrim County and has suggested on social media he was in Phoenix where the Arizona audit is currently taking place. He also has links to Doug Logan, the Cyber Ninja CEO who is currently running the sham audit in Maricopa County.

Exciting.

But what do you imagine Dorian, Slater and Hayes discuss on their concatenation? The upcoming thriller Biden vs. Trump II? Advancements in backside tube riding techniques?

Other?

Like I said, exciting.

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Man wrestles shark into car on Sunshine Coast.
Man wrestles shark into his ute on Australia's Sunshine Coast. | Photo: @nicka35

Australia’s Sunshine Coast rocked by scenes of man wrestling shark into his car

“How is this elite level motherf*cker with catch of the day?"

Amid its worst crime wave in history, a sea of car jackings and teens ransacking the bleak apartments of the demented and aged in retirement homes, a man has brought joy into the lives of Sunshine Coasters after being filmed wrestling a shark into the back of his pick-up. 

The Sunshine Coast is that forty mile stretch an hour’s north of Brisbane that includes the famed Noosa points and, at one point, was the home of clothing magnate Julian Wilson. 

Four years ago, the WSL tried to get a piece of the Sunshine Coast with Kelly Slater urging the Queensland government to approve the WSL’s billion-dollar development on 510-hectares, or 1200 acres, of “highly constrained land” near the beach town of Coolum.

“This wave would become somewhat of a mecca and put the Sunshine Coast back on the (surfing) map…it will bring a lot of interest to the area and it will be a place that I know a lot of people are going to want to surf and have an ongoing impact on the local area…we have had so many people asking for so long where we’re going to build the next wave including Australia,” Slater told the local press.

Anyway in Maroochydore, which is up the northern end of the Sunshine Coast, we find our hero, muscling a small, though not insignificant shark into the pickup while happy children, captivated, look on. 

“How is this elite level motherfucker with catch of the day,” says surf reporter Nicka35, whom we last saw reporting on the car-jacking of a surfer on the Gold Coast. “A massive shark and under the strain he carries it to his ute to try and toss it in and…nah…Big fail on the first attempt. the thing must weight twenty kilos. He’s got flake for days. This guy is one of Maroochydore’s absolutely fucking elite.” 

 

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A post shared by NICKA (@nicka35)

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Olde School localism flashes snarling lip as Oxnard heavies inform outsiders “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here”

Uh oh.

Surf localism has been in steady decline over this past decade. Perpetual surveillance, ubiquitous smart phones, lawsuit-happy nerds, hate crimes being codified etc. have all conspired to keep the once fearsome beach enforcer proverbially handcuffed. Certain behavioralists have even suggested that paddling toughs will be fully extinct by 2029.

But not if Oxnard has something to say about it.

The burgh of just over 200,000, a handful of clicks north of Malibu, has long enjoyed a reputation for water violence. There was a time, not long ago, when Silver Strand was surfed exclusively by heavies. Teeth of interlopers punched out on the silver sand. Windshields well waxed.

“Laws” n crud have emboldened a new crop of adult learners, though, and there they drag their Wavestorms and changing mats from Irwindale and Victorville to places they shouldn’t.

Until now.

For now, after they surf, before they step on their changing mats, these aliens are being punched right in the mouth with a bold new sticker reminding “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here.”

Back to Sprinter vans they shuffle, quickly checking Zillow for Oxnard home values.

Regret for not pouncing on property back in 2018 overwhelming.

On that subject, what is your biggest regret of the last six years?

Get it off your chest amongst friends.

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