Rob Lowe: Certified ripper.
Rob Lowe: Certified ripper.

Eyewitness reports hunky actor Rob Lowe a big wave hellman!

A bigger threat at Pipeline or Teahupo'o than twice-over World Surf League champion Filipe Toledo.

Now, you are well accustomed to tales bout actors who surf, on these pages, singers and models too. Celebrities, in general, I suppose and we examine their toned abs and chiseled faces as they slide upon li’l waves. Generally waist and under, if not knee, unless they happen to be at Kelly Slater’s Surf Ranch.

Well, what if I was to tell you that there is an A-lister who hunts semi-secret bigger waves breaking over reef and charges upon them? Not just any A-lister, either, but a full on heartthrob?

But let us turn to rising star surfboard shaper Shea Somma for an account which he shared on this week’s episode of The Grit!

I have had a few celebrity surf encounters over the years but maybe the most memorable of these incidents was from about 2011 or so. It was mid winter, a west swell was pumping, and a friend and I had devoted a whole day to chasing surf in the general, let’s say, 805 zone. We lucked into a great morning of overhead waves completely to ourselves at a lesser known spot that features an entry via a trail through a long, pitch-black tunnel, which emerges on the beach in front of the reef. After surfing our brains out for 3 hours, we decided to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches we’d packed with us before heading out for a second session.

Sitting in the sun enjoying our lunch, and remarking on the shocking lack of a crowd, our conversation was interrupted by an incredibly jovial, “Hey guys!! Wow the waves are looking pretty good out there!! You get a few?!!” It was none other than Rob Lowe, emerging from the depths of the tunnel, and completely embodying his aggressively positive character, Chris Traeger, from the show Parks and Recreation, which was a huge hit at the time. He was decked out in a floppy bucket hat, buckled snuggly under his chin, and just about the thickest zinc sunscreen application I’ve ever seen, but there was no mistaking that it was, in fact, Rob Lowe, armed with a 7′ or so Becker “Fun Shape”, once ubiquitously favored by beginners everywhere in Southern California and beyond. My buddy and I were a bit dumbfounded. “Yea man! Fun waves!” was about all we could muster. Rob Lowe proceeded to virtually skip down the beach ecstatically, and then slowly but surely make his way paddling out into the lineup. We finished up our sandwiches and paddled out to join him.

Was Rob Lowe the greatest surfer I’ve ever seen? No. Did he completely yard sale it on several waves? Definitely. Did Rob Lowe embody the giddy stoke of a child newly in love with this silly act of wave dancing we call surfing? Absolutely. Sure there were a few blown waves, but there were also several respectable makes too. And to see Rob Lowe (relatively) charging well overhead sets, with pure enthusiasm, absolute abandon and an ear-to-ear, shit-eating-grin, still brings a smile to my face when I remember it.

I was already a fan of Parks and Recreation but that session made me a true fan of Rob Lowe.

Amazing, no? Rob Lowe a full on charger?

A bigger threat at Pipeline or Teahupo’o than twice-over World Surf League champion Filipe Toledo?

Yes, amazing.

David Lee Scales also discussed former tour rookie Kade Matson’s annoying friend.

Enjoy.

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Bruce Brown and Mike Hynson
In 1963, right when Mike Hynson began looking for a reason to leave the country to avoid the draft, filmmaker Bruce Brown asked if he wanted to go around the world to shoot The Endless Summer. Hynson jumped at the chance.

“Handsome and cocky” star of Endless Summer Mike Hynson, dead at 82

“He was a golden boy and everyone wanted to be like him.”

The wildly gorgeous and athletic star of the 1966 breakout hit Endless Summer, Californian surfer Mr Mike Hynson, died a few hours ago in Encinitas, California. 

His step-daughter Haley Ogden wrote on Facebook, 

“Mom’s partner and best friend in life, out stepdad for 24 years, passed away today at 12:38pm. In the surfing community he was a legend and known as Mike Hynson from Endless Summer. To us he was family and we all loved him with all of our hearts. This doesn’t feel like real life right now. There’s so much to share about Mike but for now I’m gonna leave it short and sweet because I can’t even process this. We are so heartbroken I can’t even articulate the words to describe how much our hearts are hurting.” 

This is how Warshaw tells the story of Mike Hynson: 

In 1963, right when Hynson began looking for a reason to leave the country to avoid the draft, filmmaker Bruce Brown asked if he wanted to go around the world to shoot The Endless Summer. Hynson jumped at the chance. The blond-haired regularfooter was paired with dark-haired goofyfooter Robert August; along with Brown, the two surfers visited Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti, and Hawaii. Hynson’s sublime first ride at Cape St. Francis—the right-breaking point surf the group discovered in South Africa, memorably presented as the answer to “the search for the perfect wave”—was the movie’s high point.

Hynson was a surfer of great composure, never straining, and subtly arranging his arms, legs, head, and torso into positions that would come to define proper surfing style. He was one of the sport’s great masters of trim, often letting his board run on a straight, elegant line. Handsome and cocky, Hynson was also a trendsetter on the beach, with surf racks on his Jaguar sports car, a wardrobe full of stylish clothes, and his hair always combed neatly back from his forehead, even while in the water. “He was the golden boy,” his former wife said in 2001, “and everyone wanted to be like him.”

In an interview by Scott Hulet in 1991, Hynson described the miracle of “discovering the perfect wave”, the premise of Endless Summer.

We finally got to this huge point, and pulled into a little village, and got ourselves a couple of little clay and straw huts called rondavels. We’d been driving for three straight days, and I’m the 72-hour man, baby. I had a little tube of Benzedrine, and my little bag of grass. I was prepared. Purely medicinal, all right? I didn’t want to sleep. I was in Africa, man!

I woke up before sunrise and walked down to the beach by myself. Robert had diarrhea. I was looking way up the point and saw these unreal waves coming through. I watched and watched until I couldn’t stand it anymore, then I started screaming and woke everybody up. They were tired, didn’t want to be hassled, but I knew this was it! Finally, Bruce and Robert stumbled out of their huts, and I pointed up the point, but they weren’t into it! It was too far away, they said. So they started setting up the cameras there in the bay, to film these crappy little waves! I was fuming! I was yelling at Bruce, “Goddamit, get those cameras up to that point! Look at those waves!” But Bruce made Robert paddle out at this shitty little shorebreak left, and started filming. Meanwhile, I’m looking at most perfect waves I’d ever seen! They were looking up there too, but all they saw was the long stretch of beach. They didn’t know what they were looking at, man! So I starting walking up the point, alone. About halfway up the beach, everything just went WHOOOOSH!!! And a big voice said “Michael, do you want an experience? Do you want to see God?” It was same the feeling I used to get when I’d anticipate a hole-in-one. Walking up that point at Cape St. Francis, it was just like when you hit the ball 200 yards into the wind, and you turn your back and don’t even have to watch it, cause you just know it’s going in the cup.

I paddled out by myself, and it was Heaven on earth. Just golden. My paddling was absolutely perfect. Total economy. My fingers dipped in just deep enough to shoot me forward. I watched these waves going down the point, and I thought to myself, “less movement, more perfect.” So I took off on that first wave and stood absolutely still. It’s hard to fathom unless you’ve experienced waves like that. And I rode that way for 45 minutes.

Meanwhile, down in the bay, I could just make out Bruce and Robert jumping up and down, freaking out. They finally realized what I was doing! And I see them pack up their gear and run up the beach with all their crap. August is so blown away, he’s running as fast as he can, baby. He dragged his board all the way! He paddled out like he was in a race, man, and immediately got into it. Bruce got his shit together on the beach, pulled a blanket over his head, and started filming. We knew that there was only an hour before the tide was gonna wax it. Bruce did not move from under that blanket for 90 minutes! He never took his finger off the button! He’d rip one film cartridge of the camera, and pop in another, just BOOM! And that was it, baby. We all knew what had happened, that we’d just made the movie.

RIP ol Mike Hynson.

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Pacific Palisades iconic surf culture destroyed
There will be time for blame and recriminations, but that time is not now. My heart goes out to all Palisadians—rich, poor, young, old, Democrat, Republican, OGs and recent blow-ins. I don’t know what, if any of this, is left. I fear that in addition to the unimaginable material losses, we have also lost a culture.

Pacific Palisades’ unique surf culture destroyed in once-in-a-lifetime fires

There'll be time for blame but that time isn't now. My heart goes out to all Palisadians—rich, poor, young, old, Democrat, Republican, OGs and blow-ins.

Even though I left my father’s house in Pacific Palisades in 1983, moved to Australia and never lived there again, Pacific Palisades will be a part of me until the day I die.

One of the reasons I felt so comfortable in Australia was that Palisadians are LA’s larrikins. My Palisades elders—Lance Carson, the Auberg brothers, Jim Ganzer, Robbie Dick, Roger McGrath, George Trafton (and too many others to name)—set a very high bar for us.

 

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All of them surfed great, had impeccable style in and out of the water, drove fast cars fast, solved problems with their fists when necessary, traveled the world to surf, and from Pali, to Samo, to Uni, to Westlake, to Marymount they could find their way into the hearts of girls, not to mention any party, concert, or club.

However, when the sun came up the next morning, they were duty bound to paddle out like it never happened.

I always knew that one day I would outgrow Santa Monica Bay. As a young boy, Surfer, Surfing, Australian Surfing World, and the World Book Encyclopedia were my books of dreams. This was where I heard the first verse of the Siren Song that lured me into the perfect, sharky waves of Australia, shamed me into crossing the North Shore rubicon, and living a life of exploration and adventure in and out of the water.

However, like a Salmon swimming back to its home stream to spawn, I always returned to Santa Monica Bay. On my way to Asia or during book tours, I always stopped in LA. I made time for an early morning run/swim/run, or a quick surf on a borrowed longboard. Reconnecting with my old friends in my ancestral waters always grounded and prepared me for whatever lay ahead.

Less than a month ago, I drove a friend from North Carolina through Pacific Palisades.

First, I showed him my dad’s old house at 1076 Corsica Dr.

This was where I lived during junior high and high school—where my Baja missions started and ended, girls surreptitiously came and went up the staircase to my room, parties raged, and pot plants were harvested and lovingly processed.

Today, the only reminder of me is the curb that is covered with my 40-year-old leftover resin.

From Corsica we followed my old skateboard route down the hill I once got the speed wobbles at 20 or 30 mph, face planted, and knocked off my braces. From Amalfi we stopped at the top of Mesa Road where I first checked the surf through the Eucalyptus trees. After we descended down into Rustic Canyon, we took a detour down Latimer Road.

I showed him where, at 16, I was the victim of a “bump and run” car jacking. Although the perp got my dad’s Mercedes 450 SEL, I hopped into his stolen Cadillac, and gave chase. He finally lost me at Sunset and Bundy by crossing the double yellow and passing cars in the oncoming traffic.

When I returned to 1076 Corsica in the stolen Caddy, I said to my dad, “You’ll never guess what happened, but I hope you like Cadillacs.”

Next, we stopped at our other old house, 8 Latimer Road, right across the street from Rustic Canyon Park, where I played baseball, basketball, football, and skateboarded with all my friends from Canyon School.

For a huge part of my childhood, it was the site of athletic triumphs and tragedies, fist fights with friends, and early games of truth or dare

Then to 444 East Rustic Road Pacific Palisades where my ten-year-old self kept a surfboard so big that it required me and another person to carry it down Channel Road, past the Golden Bull, Natural Progression Surfboards, the SS Friendship, and under the PCH.

The final leg took me past the volleyball courts that produced some of the greatest players in the world and to the very ordinary beachbreak where generations of Palisades surfers learned respect and how to pull into the barrel.

There will be time for blame and recriminations, but that time is not now. My heart goes out to all Palisadians—rich, poor, young, old, Democrat, Republican, OGs and recent blow-ins. I don’t know what, if any of this, is left. I fear that in addition to the unimaginable material losses, we have also lost a culture.

In a sad postscript to this story, a friend just send me a news story about a “harrowing scene” on the iconic Pacific Coast Highway early Wednesday morning.

“A man, his body severely burned and most of his clothes incinerated, was found stumbling on the side of the road. He is now fighting for his life.”

The man was George Trafton. Today he is undergoing surgery and skin grafts at UCLA and my thoughts are with him.

(Editor’s note: Peter Maguire is a surfer, war crimes investigator and author of Thai Stick: SurfersScammersand the Untold Story of the Marijuana Trade (movie rights optioned by Kelly Slater), Law and WarFacing Death in Cambodia and Breathe, the bio on jiujitsu icon Rickson Gracie, as well as its follow-up Comfort in Darkness. Ain’t much ol Petey can’t do. The following story, appears on Pete’s substack Sour Milk, subscribe, it’s free etc.)

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Live Chat: Da Hui Backdoor Shoot Out Day Three!

Banzai!

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Jade Yarbrough (left). Rob Machado (right).
Jade Yarbrough (left). Rob Machado (right).

Australian cricket legend’s ex rubs his face in what he’s missing by surfing like Rob Machado

"She put her taut physique and long slender legs on display as she masterfully conquered the waves at the scenic hotspot."

You would not believe the amount of “surfing celebrity” content I am served daily. Pages upon pages of Ivanka Trump, Lady Gaga, Ashley Green and a host of British and Australian WAGs of whom I’ve never heard. And while most could maybe ignore this onslaught, it is my job to click.

And click I do, bracing for the inevitable image/video of aforementioned celebrity or WAG wake surfing, FlowRiding, being pushed into a Kelly Slater Surf Ranch by the one-and-only Raimana van Bastolaer, arms akimbo, smiles wide.

Decidedly not surfing, or at least the sort you and I are interested upon.

You can imagine my utter shock this morning, then, when I was fed the headline “Michael Clarke’s ex Jade Yarbrough strips down to a brown bikini and flaunts her flawless figure while showcasing her surfing skills” screaming from Daily Mail UK. I had absolutely zero idea who Michael Clarke or Jade Yarbrough were, though the source being Daily Mail UK assumed it was either footballer and WAG or reality television stars.

Boy, was I wrong-ish.

Michael Clarke happens to be a retired Australian cricket legend. Jade Yarbrough an Australian designer.

I winced as I clicked, ready to get smacked by wake surfing.

You can certainly understand my shock, then, when I witnessed Yarbrough sliding as naturally as any surfer I’ve ever seen down a right-running gem.

“Michael Clarke’s ex-girlfriend Jade Yarbrough has left fans in awe after showcasing her incredible bikini body and impressive surfing skills in a fun video posted to Instagram,” the Daily Mail piece began, continuing, “The clip captured the interior designer, 32, rocking her best angles in a racy two-piece bikini while riding the waves at a beach in Queensland. She put her taut physique and long slender legs on display as she masterfully conquered the waves at the scenic hotspot.”

Masterfully conquered is right. Yarborough looks like a goofy-footed Andy Irons. Like a silky smooth Rob Machado and I am stunned that Michael Clarke let this talent go.

For shame.

Dimity Stoyle, it must be noted, agrees with me, commenting “ripping” on the fun video.

Dimity Stoyle right more than she’s wrong.

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