The black-out of coverage is refreshing. Results drip-fed through written updates. Secondhand reports of the conditions and the vibe on the sand. Pirate streams giving us shaky footage.

An old booze buddy of mine used to talk about a documentary he wanted to film. Sort of an artistic project, I guess. One of many such ideas that would come up during a session of solid day drinking, the type that only the young and unencumbered can regularly enjoy.

Shit talking and banter flying about like a drunken firefight. Some ideas would hit, but most would miss.

The basic premise of his doco idea was about him pushing a piano off a cliff. The documentary would follow him as he prepared for the task. Selecting the piano. Transporting it to the cliff top. Long, deep, philosophical interviews about the ontological meaning of the entire event.

Probably shot in black and white. Maybe a bit of Super-8 spliced in.

But the rub was that he wouldn’t actually film the act of the piano being toppled itself. When it came to the moment the entire project had been building towards, the coup de grace, the camera would turn away and film the static horizon instead. Or maybe just cut to a black void, Sopranos-style.

It would be an artistic statement. What the statement was, I’m not sure. I was pretty canned at the time.

But I can’t help thinking of it in relation to the 2024 Vans Pipe Masters.

Say what you will. Despite recent downgrades, the comp is still one of the most prestigious – and viewer attracting – events in our sphere. High-profile surfers from around the globe have been flown in to tackle the jewel in surfing’s crown. Various advertising and sponsorship partners brought on board to plug and promote.

Surely tens, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars sunk into the whole venture by the flailing shoe company. The Pipe Masters is still a big deal.

Yet the Vans Pipe Masters is not being live-streamed.

In the digital age it’s one of the most basic and expected deliverings for any high profile competition. Fuck, it’s the entire reason you’d do it. YouTube advertising. Eyeballs = revenue

On face value the decision is inexplicable. I don’t think it’s an artistic statement, like my mate and his piano had intended. Likely it’s more to do with simply running out of the money to do it.

But there is something vaguely refreshing about the semi black-out in Vans Pipe Masters coverage. Results being drip fed through written updates. Secondhand reports of the conditions and the vibe on the sand. Various pirate streams giving us some grainy, shaky footage.

Remember the days of getting comp news three months later in your print publication of choice? Or waiting another six months to watch only the curated highlights in VHS form?

Things have changed. We come to expect everything instantaneously – and for free. Anything less is an abject slap in the face to us. The audience. Have we become too demanding?

Not to excuse Vans for the obvious own goal.

How easy is it to set up a camera and a mic? Da Hui been doing it on the cheap for 20 years. Blak Bear Social Club and Nate Florence are filling the void for us just now, at what you would think would be either zero or at most minimal cost.

But it is a conversation, starter, to say the least. A guerilla marketing tactic

And here I sit, in the small window of time I have before the rest of my house awakes, ruminating on the meaning of it all and typing up this bullshit instead of being planted on the lounge, coffee in one hand and live chat phone in the other, my eyes glued to multiple screens like the hopeless social media junkie I am.

They’re giving our time back to us. There is that.

Still, it would be sick to be watching it, but.

C’mon Vans, ya hopeless cunts.

“After watching Trump campaign run on an explicitly anti-trans agenda… the mood in Carlsbad was anxious.”

Spare a thought, as they say, for those queer surfers in the USA as billionaire businessman Donald Trump readies his troops to herd every LGBTQ surfer into vast concentration camps when he ascends to high office in January.

The associate editor of news outlet KQED, Nastia Voynovskaya, wrote about the fear felt in the bones of all queer surfers earlier today in her story, Queer Surfers Saved Me From a Stingray and Reminded Me of Hope.

Voynovskaya was a guest of Queer Surf, “a scrappy San Francisco-based org that gets queer and trans people riding waves” and describes the fear of huddling “together around the campfire in our puffer jackets and beanies, clutching mugs of tea. At neighboring campsites, Trump flags gleefully flew from RVs and pick-up trucks.”

In their little slice of Carlsbad clifftop, and wearing glitter boots, overalls, Tevas and muscle tanks, the dozen surfers “created a buoy of hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness.”

These included yoga classes, Chinese team ceremonies, tying each others’ hair into French braids and sharing poetry prompts.

On her third day, Voynovskaya stepped on a stingray although her new besties were quick to offer hot water and moral support.

“After that shocking encounter with nature, I felt grateful to be the recipient of such love and support. From my bestie, yes, and also from so many new friends. As queer people, many of us have a strong belief in collective care, in chosen families. In the way they showed up for me, that sense of solidarity wasn’t just a nice concept — I felt it deeply,” she writes.

More importantly,

“My time at Queer Surf Camp showed me that no matter what happens in 2025, personally or politically, we have each other, and we can create that sense of belonging and hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness.”

How does a queer surf camp differ from your experience at, say, Lakey Peak, G-Land or Mex?

Do you experience a similar level of connection or are you surrounded by, mostly, cunts?