Aussie gold medal hope Jack Robinson
deletes Instagram post showing quiver of Japanese Rising Sun flag
surfboards
By Derek Rielly
Recent calls for Japan to ban the use of the Rising
Sun were met with the argument that the flag is a part of the
country's history and banning it would be an infringement on
freedom of expression.
A couple of days ago, the Australian gold medal
almost-favourite Jack Robinson posted a photo of he and his fleet
of Olympic surfboards, each emblazoned with the Japanese
Imperial Flag, in this case the eight-pronged version and not the
old school sixteen-pronger.
The Japanese Imperial Flag, aka the Rising Sun Flag, which was
proudly flown by the Japanese military during its failed attempt to
own the Pacific, sits alongside other controversial flags as the
Soviet Hammer and Sickle, the Nazi Swastika and, ooh-wee-ooo, the
US’s own Confederate Flag.
Despite only a little pushback on the post, an appreciative
emoji from Kanoa Igarashi and one reader who wrote, “Should’ve had
Aus colours mate. The Japanese might be cheering for you now”,
Jackie deleted the post.
Very hard to argue that it’s not a pretty flag, howevs.
Now: a favourite debate of mine is Rising Sun Flag v Confederate
Flag.
Which offends more? And which continues to delight?
Recent calls for Japan to officially apologise for its wartime
actions and to ban the use of the Rising Sun Flag were met with the
argument that the flag is a part of the country’s history and that
banning it would be an infringement on freedom of expression.
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In deal of century, small group of surfers
reportedly rents world’s best right point for $20k!
By Chas Smith
And for three days, not just one!
Well that certainly took a sharp
turn. More later, but in the meantime, Kelly Slater
and his Surf Ranch have altered surfing in more ways than can be
neatly summed here. The reality that a wave, nearly perfect, could
be conjured with the push of a button instead of waiting for
Surfline to report storms, that surfing can be practiced anywhere
on earth, that waves have monetary value, all groundbreaking.
And it is regarding the latter, surfing’s price economically
established, where we lay our scene. A day at Surf Ranch reportedly
runs from $50,000 in the offseason, to $70,000 at peak times.
Groups can get together and share the cost though, of course, wave
count per person is altered. Still, the facility is private, no
interlopers feeding off crumbs etc.
Well, according to a source in deep southern Mexico, a group of
enterprising surfers, “middle-aged dudes from Southern California,”
allegedly, took Surf Ranch financial model to one of the world’s
greatest right hand point breaks, Barra de la Cruz, and rented it
for three days at $20,000 US total.
Barra, you’ll recall, burst into the surf consciousness in 2006
when the World Surf League nee Association of Surfing Professionals
traveled there for “Search” event. The waves were perfect, pumping
overhead barrels, and the late, great Andy Irons took the cup with
an unforgettable performance in what is still considered “the
greatest contest of all-time.”
Back to our modern day, the source shared that he/she rolled up
to Barra’s gate and was met by a woman informing him the beach was
closed for a private event from Tuesday through Thursday. It was
initially assumed it was for a contest but, through some sleuthing,
discovered the middle-aged Southern Californian buy.
The local folks were not happy, being shut out of the homebreak
and, moreover, setting the precedent that a wave like Barra can be
purchased by wealthy interlopers.
Wealth disparity etc.
On the surface, $20,000 for three days of Barra de la Cruz seems
like the deal of the century. But in this climate where more and
more is going to fewer and fewer the optics, as they say, might be
not great.
Thoughts?
And if you could rent one wave in the world for three days,
which would you choose?
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Olympic surf coach predicts “flying elbows”
at Teahupoo after Paris 2024 rule set revealed
By Shane Durian
"Some paddle battles are going to be psycho.
They’re gonna be bumping rails and elbowing each other, whatever it
takes to get that inside."
Australian surf coach extraordinaire Matt Bemrose has revealed a
strange new rule that will see Olympic surfers “bumping
rails” and “elbowing each other” as they battle for pole position
at the start of each heat.
Bemrose featured yesterday on the adored surf podcast “Ain’t
That Swell” giving listeners an insider’s view on the build-up to
the Olympics in Tahiti.
The tastiest tidbit: each heat will start with a paddle battle
from the priority boat into the lineup.
Per the ATS:
We’re only just hearing this now for the event for Monday,
it’s gonna be pretty funny, for instance you’ve gotta go to the
boat 15 minutes before you paddle out and right before you paddle
out there’s a three minute break. And they announce the surfer, and
the surfer has literally two minutes to get from the priority boat
to the lineup before the heat starts. And I’m going, that’s going
to be the biggest paddle battle in the history of the sport, and
the amount of hassling to get to the inside before the first set
comes, it’s gonna be an Ironman before the heat starts, its gonna
be nuts.
For the spectators its gonna be amazing and I really hope
they film that two minutes before the heat starts. Some paddle
battles are going to be fucken psycho. You think about how how nuts
Jack is, how nuts Medina is, Joao – all those guys, they’re gonna
be bumping rails and elbowing each other, whatever it takes to get
that inside. It’s gonna be fucken going down.
Both Bemrose and podcast host Vaughan
Blakey also took the opportunity to throw shade on the
WSL for their decision to play ads during the first four minutes of
every heat.
“That’s the craziest part, that’s the most funnest bit,” said
Bemrose. “The first four minutes is when it’s the fucken most
wildest thing because no-one has priority, everyone’s battling for
that first wave. That’s what we wanna see.”
Note that the WSL is not running the webcast for the Olympics,
so decisions on ad breaks etc. will presumably be made by the
carriers with the rights to broadcast the Olympics in each
market.
Longtime Teahupo’o bodyboarder and forecaster Simon Thornton was
also on the line to give his hot takes on the outlook for the
event, his hottest take being that we will see at least one
righthander ridden later in the event thanks to a strong West angle
in the swell. Elephant-brained surf fans may recall that Tom
Whitaker and Andy Irons both earned decent scores going right at
Chopes in years gone by.
And so we wait with bated breath for that first battle paddle,
two minutes before that first heat, likely this Saturday around
eight am Tahiti time.
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Joe Biden Quit a Presidential Election
Contest Once Before
By Rocks Local
“You know,” Joe said, “I’ve never been a quitter …
never quit anything in my life.”
Joe paced his living room, doing the moves: he was gonnaprovewhy this charge was bullshit, and that charge was
bullshit. … Yeah, but when could he make the case? The campaign was
dying. Fund-raising … forget it. …
“You know,” Joe said, “I’veneverbeen a
quitter … never quit anything in mylife.”
It wasn’t that Joe didn’t see the logic. He’d known since he
got home, and started talking with the family: he’d have to get
out. He had no way to fight. …
Biden stepped up to the podium, topped with a fungal bouquet
of microphones. …
“Although it’s awfully clear to me what choice I have to
make, I have to tell you honestly, I do it with incredible
reluctance—and it makes me angry.” …
“But folks, be that as it may, I have concluded that I will
stop being a candidate for President of the United
States.”
-Richard Ben Cramer, “What It Takes: The Way to the White
House,” (1992)
Once upon a time, in a different Olympic year long since
past, Joe Biden quit the race for the White House, his
thoughts and words eerily foreshadowing the events of the last few
days.
The year was 1988. A different decade, a different century,
seemingly a different lifetime ago, an era without internet or
social media or Fox News or phone cameras or even cell phones
period.
Back then you didn’t have anything that could give you a hint of
what might be over the horizon. No internet rumor mill, no TMZ or
online access to London tabloids, no BeachGrit to float
wildly unfounded speculation about who might do what when.
You simply kept peering over the metaphorical ledge, craning
your neck to catch a glimpse of the future even as your daily news
was limited to the local broadsheet and whatever Peter Jennings or
Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw thought sufficiently important to
discuss.
Surf-related intel was even more scarce. Once a month you would
flip maniacally through the newest issue of Surfer — or if
you didn’t care about the words on the page adding up to coherent
sentences, Surfing — scanning the article titles,
scrutinizing the contest box scores in the back pages, hungry for
whatever nuggets might be had.
If you were really lucky there might be a new surf flic making
its dutiful East Coast run, stopping by the local cinema for a one
night special screening where all the hot kids would gather and the
second tiers would loaf around the fringes sneaking cigarettes in
the shadows and speculating about Ronnie Giesing’s competitive
future as Giesing himself passed time macking on the blonde girls
with Tropicana tans and three swatches to a golden forearm
loitering under the marquee lights.
Without the slow and steady drip of rumors and speculation, when
news did break it hit like the sudden headlamp glare of a surging
locomotive appearing out of the darkness.
It’s nearly impossible to capture the electricity of those
moments in words, the feelings you experienced when something
momentous materialized, seemingly out of thin air.
Of course, it’s possible my experience was unique. Maybe for
others the political and diplomatic news from the world outside our
Treasure Coast bubble didn’t make a dent.
But my dad was a national affairs junkie, a former eagle scout
and himself the son of a real life legit congressional medal and
everything WW2 hero.
He had come through the Cuban missile crisis convinced Kennedy
was a milquetoast pussy and then decided during the Goldwater
campaign of ‘64 that Democrats were hell bent on destroying America
and then done backflips of ecstasy when Reagan took out Carter in
’80 and Mondale in ‘84 and always did stuff like refer to the
newspaper published in the county south of us as the “Palm Beach
Pravda,” as if the socialite crowd hanging at The Breakers’ pool
was down with the Kremlin.
Washington D.C. and Moscow and Havana and all the other shit
mattered inside our four walls.
As luck and cosmic laws of nature beyond our control would have
it, the news-soaked 12 months or so surrounding Biden’s withdrawal
from the presidential race was peak ‘80s experience:
Biden withdrew because he lifted portions of his campaign
speeches from a UK politician without attribution
Democratic front-runner Gary Hart’s campaign imploded after
snoopy photogs took snaps of him on the yacht Monkey
Business with girlfriend Donna Rice
Michael Dukakis (the eventual Democratic nominee) torched his
campaign when photos of him uncomfortably perched in the driver’s
seat of an M1 Abrams tank made him look nerdier than Zuckerberg
with a face slathered in zinc
Biden used his sudden free time (plus a little boost from
Harvard Law Professor Laurence Tribe) to eviscerate the Supreme
Court hopes of uber-conservative judge and co-founder of the
Chicago School of Antitrust Policy Robert Bork
American Olympians swaggered into Seoul with great expectations
only to be trounced in the medal count by the Soviets (plus even
their communist allies from East Germany)
Australian Olympians stumbled into Seoul still reeling from the
cultural assault of the recent release of “Crocodile Dundee II,”
but a trio of gold medals helped salve their psychic wounds
Even better from the Aussies’ perspective, Damian Hardman and
Barton Lynch celebrated their country’s bicentennial by stealing
ASP world title trophies back from Curren
This all made for seriously red meat in my adolescent world,
where Democrats and Communists and Australian goofy footers were
considered existential threats to America’s manifest democratic and
surfing destiny.
But when I think back on those heady days of ‘88, it isn’t Biden
quitting presidential campaigns or Americans losing Olympic medals
or Australians not named Occy stealing world titles from anointed
Californians that stands out.
In my teenage world, these were the stories that occupied my
head, but none of them stole my heart.
That special place belonged to a Day-Glo-covered VHS that
appeared unannounced on the shelf of my local surf shop and a
certain English by way of South Africa phenom featured
inside.
Everything else that happened in 1988 fades in comparison, like
the atonal warm-up of the symphony before the maestro raises his
baton.
When I slipped Wave Warriors III into the yawning mouth
of my VCR, the sounds and images that spewed forth forever altered
the course of my surfing life.
I couldn’t have been more enraptured if I had found golden
tablets in a New York wilderness — it became my scripture, my
touchstone, the constant that stuck with me while politicians came
and went, political promises were made and broken, Olympic medals
were won and lost, aspiring Supreme Court justices drawn and
quartered.
The film opens with a series of clips from the North Shore — Off
the Wall, Pipeline and Sunset are the focal points of the first
10-12 minutes. But it’s after this dutiful nod toward surfing’s
ancestral home that the movie really kicks into gear, when the
narrative driving the story flips from places to people.
Matt Archbold, Gary Elkerton, Christian Fletcher, Herbie and
Randy Laine on jet skis, Derek Ho and Gerry Lopez, Dane Kealoha,
Martin Potter, Todd Holland and Kelly, Dino Andino / Jeff Booth /
Nathan Fletcher, and even Johnny Boy Gomes all get a nod, each of
their parts ricocheting into the other.
Christian Fletcher was the centerpiece of the flic, punting and
ripping and pulling into what I only now realize were mediocre
North Shore barrels, all to a frenzied punk soundtrack that was
perfectly in sync with his frantic style.
Archie was close behind, his savage slashes a notch above
Christian’s, his overall performance a notch lower, mainly because
he had no Hawaiian clips and, suspiciously, the film didn’t
showcase his aerial attack beyond a couple of laughable hops, one
clear non-make (the edit doesn’t show the landing), and a halfway
decent little backside punt. (The careful editing must have been
Herbie’s way of making sure Archie didn’t outshine Christian.*)
Elkerton displayed, figuratively speaking, his legendarily
massive cojones in big surf, particularly Sunset and
Waimea.
But like when you find the girl of your dreams, it was Martin
Potter’s section that really set my heart on fire.
It wasn’t his look. Pottz was no blonde beach Atlas. His curly
dark hair, grizzly chest, and black and gold Ray Bans were more
Atlantic City blackjack dealer than world tour ripper.
His surfboard had flames painted on it, which reminded me of the
NASCAR rednecks in Okeechobee, not my spray-curtain-throwing idols
at the Inlet.
And he wore webbed gloves — at Trestles — a surf gear choice
that will live in infamy as the most sponsor-pandering move ever
recorded on acetate.
But his surfing — my god.
My 15-year-old self melted as I watched him flowing down those
San Clemente lines, gathering speed like an F1 rocket with DRS
activated, floating over sections, high lining, and when the timing
was just right putting his blade on a rail to torque off all that
velocity.
Since I hadn’t spent much time in a half pipe, as much as I
admired Fletcher’s surfing I couldn’t really relate to his
skate-inspired style, couldn’t see myself ever surfing like
him.
But I could absolutely go fast. I was light and twitchy and
could skim along the surface of our windswept Florida waves like a
basilisk on the long narrow thrusters we all kept in our
quivers.
And I could float the shit out of those beachbreak
sections.
In my mind’s eye, I could see myself surfing like Pottz, flowing
along in perfect harmony with the swell, high lines and low lines
and all the in-between lines finely calibrated to maximize the
transfer of kinetic energy between rider and wave.
I could be Martin Potter.
From that moment on, I was obsessed. Every time I popped to my
feet I imagined those scenes of webbed fingers and a flaming board
under the feet of surfing’s Schumacher, racing down the line at
Trestles, pumping and floating and carving — and I tried to catch
him.
Even Potter’s forgettable string as a world tour commentator
couldn’t dampen the ardor of my passion for the surfing he did
during his ASP era.
Today, it’s 36 years later.
Joe Biden is still quitting presidential contests.
Olympians are still grasping for medals.
Wave
Warriors III is still apex surf cinema.
And every time I drop in, I’m still chasing Pottz.
*To be clear, like any vintage piece, the stuff above the lip
doesn’t hold a candle to what’s going on in and over the water
these days and routinely available for easy sampling in your IG
feed. We’re comparing Christian and Archie to their 1988 peers, not
Albee Layer or Noa Deane’s latest.
**This past April (2024), Nalu.TV started carrying all of the
Wave Warrior videos on the site, you can rent each for six bucks. I
went back and watched WWIII to see if it still hits the same. I was
struck by how many pocket rides made the final Hawaiian edits and
reminded of the central role Sunset used to play in the surf media
universe — and the Pottz part still hit, taking me right back to
pre-first-bell dawn patrols and peering through seagrape trees at
perfect 2-3’ Treasure Coast peelers.
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Leg of “tough as nails” surfer Kai McKenzie
attacked by Great White washes up on beach
By Derek Rielly
Rage teamrider Kai McKenzie joins a rapidly growing
group of surfers whose lives have been irrevocably changed by the
sharp spike in Great White activity.
It’ll be news to nobody who lives around Port
Macquarie that fifteen tagged Great Whites had been
swimming around the joint this past week.
Shortly after the attack on Kai McKenzie by a ten-foot Great
White, Kai’s leg washed up on the beach.
Fast-thinking locals put the leg on ice and both Kai, and his
leg, were airlifted to John Hunter hospital where surgeons hope to
re-attach the severed limb.
As I wrote yesterday, to call the stretch of coast from Forster
in the south to Byron Bay five hours north a Great White
Superhighway is to employ the most fantastic powers of
understatement.
Pull up to any beach on the six-hundred clicks stretch, whether
it’s Tuncurry,Crescent Head, Crowdy
Head, Wooli, Port Macquarie,
Coffs Harbour, Byron Bay, Ballina or Kingscliff, and you’ll
be in waters bloodied by known killer Great White
sharks.
And, for Kai McKenzie, it’s going to be a long and expensive
road back to some kind of normality. As such, a GoFundMe was set up
yesterday and, already, 96k of a 100k goal has been reached.
As you can imagine, the upcoming medical expenses for his
recovery and rehabilitation is something no one would ever be
prepared for. The funds raised will go in assisting Kai in every
aspect of his recovery.
Please dig deep for this family to assist with Kai’s
recovery and rehabilitation. I am a neighbour of The McKenzie’s.
They are a local family with hearts of gold that would never expect
or ask anything of anybody, so let’s give back and show them that
they have the communities support in this.