Sassy surfers sashay as Palm Springs Surf Club announces Splash & Slay Drag Brunch!
By Chas Smith
Gentlemen, start your engines!
Palm Springs, California is generally very hot in the summer. According to Weather Spark, the average daytime June through August temperature is 106 degrees Fahrenheit. At time of writing (7:34 PST) it is 91 with mercury climbing to 113 by Thursday. That will feel downright chilly compared to next week, though, with a predicted temperature of 1 billion degrees sassy for Saturday, the 29th, when the Palm Springs Surf Club swings its gilded gates wide for “Splash & Slay Drag Brunch.”
The fabulousness kicks off at 12:30 in the afternoon, which seems a little late for brunch (but what does this cis white man know?), and will be hosted by Ethylina Canne, who, according to website, has previously won the Desert Drag Race, Best in Drag and Queen of the Desert.
Sue Casa, Cee Cee Russel and Kalista Stage will also perform.
“Join us for a fierce and fabulous drag brunch,” the flyer invites, “where the queens serve looks, mimosas & Bloody Marys flow freely, and the vibes stay splashy.”
Bottomless mimosa or mary, plus brunch, runs $120. Boring ol’ brunch alone $95.
The only remaining questions, I suppose, are which board you will bring and which wave setting you will sign up for (revisit Com Turren’s exhaustive guide here), if you will surf before or after brunch and what drag name you will choose.
1.Experiment with wordplay. Punny names like “Eileen Dover” or “Mimi Imfurst” rely on wordplay for their effect—and these names are as funny and memorable as the personas who inhabit them. “Courtney Act” is the name of an Australian drag queen whose name is a play on “caught in the act.”
2. Dig deep. Sometimes a name can be borne from trauma or the commandeering of a previously painful word. For instance, Trixie Mattel’s drag name came from a hurtful term her step-father would call her when she “acted feminine” (Trixie); when it happened to also be the name of the character she would play in Rocky Horror Picture Show, it became a perfect fit.
3. Find a defining feature. Some queens are named for their own memorable qualities. For instance, drag queen Milk’s name came from a reference to her pale skin. If you have a particularly defining feature, try brainstorming names that can use that to your advantage.
4. Turn to pop culture. Some queens were inspired by figures from pop culture, like Victoria Beckham (Jiggly Caliente’s original stage name “Victoria”) or X-Men comics (PhiPhi O’Hara’s original stage name, “Phoenix Mathews”). See what famous names throughout pop culture you can use to find a name of your own—or at least to spark an idea for the perfect name.
5. Look up other names. Take a look at the most clever and funniest drag queen names to help yourself come up with new names of your own. Kim Chi, Farrah Moan, and Sharon Needles are some funny names of RuPaul’s Drag Race queens that can inspire your own creative take.
As reminder, Bitchy Crab already spoken for.
See you there.
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Photo: @chrishemsworth
Surf fans deeply concerned as Chris Hemsworth’s young son appears to wander down ill-advised path
By Chas Smith
"Chris Hemsworth beams with pride as son Sasha wins his first surfing competition..."
Now, there was a time, starting in the early 1990s, ending in or around 2013, that a young guy or gal could dream about becoming a professional surfer and his or her parents would not weep tears on their Roth IRA statements. Yes their little charge, if just a few clicks better than average, might make a living as local pro, magazine ho, QS grinder or CT stud. Many brands, many avenues, many opportunities.
Well, those days are long gone. The local pro now gets compesated in surf wax, the magazines have all folded, nobody cares about up-and-comers and even those who have reached the bigs can’t afford to travel the world on their paltry salaries.
In a word, or eight, “professional surfer” is no longer a paying gig.
Sasha, 11, took out all-comers at the Byron Bay Boardriders and was chaired up the beach by his fellow competitors.
Hemsworth, 41, dartling with delight.
Surf fans apprehension growing.
While Hemsworth’s net worth is reported to be well north of $100 million, the cost of the professional surfing life is far outpacing inflation and especially for tikes. Travel, surf coaches, contest entry fees and annual Joe Dispenza retreats. By the time young Sasha reaches 18, Hemsworth’s financial holdings might very well be halved.
Those with a “glass half full” mentality, or those who have actually been to a Joe Dispenza retreat, could possibly counter that everything is cyclical and professional surfing will roar back, robustly, soon.
Or as the good doctor puts it:
As more and more people start to wake up to information, there’s a change in energy, because change in consciousness requires a change in energy. And a greater energy causes systems that were once stable to become unstable… to become chaotic, and chaos is just unpredictable order. It’s novelty, it’s newness, it’s an unraveling of systems. So hang on. This is a really profound time because it’s got to break, and when it breaks, something better will come out of it.
Thoughts?
Lighting a candle for Sasha Hemsworth or not in the least bit worried, leaning into the unpredictable order etc.?
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The drone of death!
Barefoot surfing genius George Greenough’s “drone of death!”
By Peter Maguire
"The US military had turned our maritime equivalent of the Willy’s Jeep into a Cadillac Escalade with spinner wheels and TV screens in the headrests."
With no full-time employees or outside investors, George Greenough and my unlikely team took his greatest invention, the GARC (Greenough Advanced Rescue Craft), from a crude sketch in 2005 to U.S. military production in 2010.
Early drawing of the GARC by Martin SplichalEarly days glassing the GARC.
By 2013, our company, Rapid Response Technology (RRT), had won three sole source U.S. government contracts, built and delivered almost 30 GARCs to Air Force Pararescuemen (and others), and submitted plans to Special Operations Command (SOCOM) for a larger variant and to the Army’s Combat Capabilities Command (DEVCOM) for the GARC X MAX Unmanned Surface Vessel (USV).
Despite these accomplishments, like most inventor-owned companies that dare venture up the swampy river of corruption and cronyism that is the military industrial complex, RRT had reached terminal financial velocity.
Even worse, the U.S. military had turned our maritime equivalent of the Willy’s Jeep into a Cadillac Escalade with spinner wheels and TV screens in the headrests.
Sleek!
With millions of dollars of Defense Department contracts in hand, no bank would loan RRT money. Instead of making a Faustian financial bargain with the predatory business jackals who had been stalking me since the first GARC arrived in the U.S., I took out a home equity loan to fund our military production.
By 2012, I was all in and there was no margin for error.
In 2013, some of the GARCs we delivered to the Air Force began to blow shaft seals for reasons RRT could not diagnose. I had no choice but to sell the boat and our contracts to MAPC. Had I not made this painful, but necessary decision, RRT would have gone bankrupt, and I would have lost my house.
“This startup was beset with challenges worthy of a Herman Melville novel,” I said in a 2013 MAPC press release. “Our success was the result of an incredible, multi-year effort by an unlikely team united by their belief in our innovative product and in one another. George Greenough deserves enormous credit for bringing this idea to life in such a short amount of time.”
During the decade that Greenough and I were barred from the military market due to a non-compete clause in MAPC’s purchase agreement, I went back to teaching and writing. Three books and a New York Times bestseller later, I began to write The Voyage of the GARC: One Taxpayer’s Journey Into the Heart of Military Industrial Complex Darkness. You will be able to read an excerpt in The Surfer’s Journal soon.
In 2024, after a decade of R&D and lobbying, MAPC received a 160 million-dollar contract for their autonomous version of George Greenough’s GARC.
Although they have renamed the boat the “Global Autonomous Reconnaissance Craft,” this semantic shift can’t disguise the distinctive lines of Greenough’s modified cathedral hull.
The MAPC version of the GARC
George and I will not see a penny from this massive contract, but my hat is off to MAPC for their successful navigation of the military industrial complex—game recognizes game.
The GARC is now part of the “Hell Hounds” unit of the Navy’s newly formed Unmanned Surface Vessel Squadron 3 (USVRON 3). “The Navy is aiming to boost production of Global Autonomous Reconnaissance Craft to a rate of 32 systems per month amid a broader push by the sea service to field more robotic platforms to counter China in the Pacific,” wrote Defense Scoop earlier this year. “The Defense Department has already obligated more than $160 million for the system, according to government contracting data.”
Although MAPC has shared no information about their GARC program with Greenough or me, it is difficult to believe that a diesel powered, aluminum vessel with a civilian halo radar dome can successfully conduct reconnaissance, much less survive the first hour of a Chinese invasion of Taiwan.
When news of MAPC’s Navy contract broke, I was contacted and congratulated by many old associates from my days as a military contractor. Some were now in the front lines of the war in Ukraine and shared their intimate knowledge of the USVs that were being used against Russian ships. The Russians have also been successful in adopting defensive counter measures. Due to strategic and military necessity, the design parameters for USVs in Ukraine are constantly being redefined.
In early 2023, I received a request to design a family of manned and unmanned vessels. George and I talked about it at length. For both of us, the GARC was unfinished business. RRT had delivered the world’s best small rescue boat, and now it was a drone of death.
George and I agreed to design the new boats on two conditions: we would never again allow ourselves to be rushed or depart from our original designs. When the prospective investor asked for a business plan, prices, and a timeline, rather than making promises that we could not keep, I sent a 2011 business plan and a two-word response: “Cost plus.”
Instead of rushing to market like we did with the GARC, George and I formed Greenough Technology (GT) in 2024. CEO Emeritus George Greenough and I (CEO) assembled some of the world’s subject matter experts and have spent the last two years studying new developments in rescue boats (manned and autonomous), engines, and propulsion systems, USVs and the counter measures that have been used successfully against them.
Once again, we saw the same blind faith in overcomplicated technology that Ivan Trent and I outlined in our 2011 paper, “False Paradigms in Maritime Security: Unmanned Surface Vessels.”
While many defense contractors are rushing into the multi-billion-dollar USV market, most of their vessels will be outdated by the time they are delivered and will suffer the same ignominious fate as the Navy’s Zumwalt Destroyer. As important as recognizing and utilizing new technology is recognizing the limits of the possible.
Greenough Technology is presently putting the finishing touches on the GAC, a waterjet-powered vessel for the littoral zone, the GAM, a manned and unmanned rescue boat, and the GAS, a USV.
We will conduct our first sea trials this summer.
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Some surf crap courtesy of Encyclopedia of Surfing.
Surf journalist catches secret screening of forbidden surf film!
By Chas Smith
"I was expecting to catch 68-year-old man cracks but instead got a once-in-a-lifetime experience."
What a haul. Five, or such, days ago, I left the left coast and flew across America’s red innards to its right one, Orlando, Florida to be specific. The purpose, as our Derek Hynd’s Missing Fins poetically described, was a mini podcast tour with David Lee Scales comprising one night in Jax Beach with the Kelly Slater of longboarding, 11x Duct Tape Invitational champion Justin Quintal, and his fabled shaper Ricky Carroll. The second in Charleston, South Carolina with Jamie Foxx’s best friend Cam Richards and his equally fabled father/shaper Kelly.
I drove a Rivian and fell in love.
There were more fantastic moments than I can adequately describe now. Being with The People™, hearing stories, living, laughing, loving. The aforementioned DHMF a complete highlight but can you guess how he looks/general vibe etc.? It defied my wildest expectations but I won’t spoil the surprise for you.
You will be able to watch both soon but I must Rivian race to the end of the adventure. A cherry on top. Two nights at the best-in-class Florida Surf Film Festival. This quarter’s offering had to highly-anticipated pictures. South African big waver Chris Bertish’s never-before-attempted stand-up paddleboard across the Atlantic from Africa to the Caribbean (which inspired me to explore the idea of attempting to rollerblading from tip to bottom of Florida) and forbidden fruit.
Sam George’s silenced masterpiece about surfing and cinema.
Now, I recall seeing the trailer to this documentary forever ago (it first screened at Cannes in 2010) and addled myself into thinking I had also actually seen the movie itself.
Lowcountry and behold, it has never been released and only seen once there (where it was also screened on beach to much applause and whistles and huzzahs from Frenchmen) plus nowhere else.
Taboo drupe.
Sam, of course, would be present and you’re no stranger to surfing’s preeminent voice here, here, here, here, etc. so I assumed “the most slappable face in surfing” would add but one more notch to crooked nose. The actual meeting occurred at a New Symrna beachfront pool. George marching up with a gregarious “Hey!” The only thing I could mutter was “I’m sorry I’m a dick. I can’t help it.”
“You don’t say that…” he warmly responded while shaking my hand.
His Buddha-like nature shining bright, bouncing off his buffalo bone fish hook pendant.
The last time I had seen Sam George in person was in 2002 right after returning from a Yemen trip he had partially funded by fronting money for a feature in Surfer Magazine, which he was editor-in-chiefing. We had brought him a tin of legendary Yemeni honey along with a box of film slides.
He told me, these 23 years later, that he still keeps the empty tin on the shelf.
We chatted for a bit and then he ran to the venue to prepare for his big night. I followed some few hours later, to Daytona Beach’s News-Journal Center, chatted with more People™, then found my seat.
The film did not disappoint.
Tracking the history of how the movie industry has totally messed up the representation of surfing, from Gidget to Surf’s Up, it was filled with some of the laugh-out-loud funniest minutes of any surf movie I have ever watched. Absolutely hilarious moments. Quinten Tarantino, Steven Spielberg, John Milius, Jan-Michael Vincent, Gary Busey, a bikini’d Nia Peeples, Frankie Avalon and more grant best-ever interviews
It gets crazy bloated, the Big Wednesday chapter should have been its own whole film. And, at this point, I properly loathe a Stacy Peralta talking head. But it also has real heart, though you, yourself, will likely never get to experience. Licensing, or some such, troubles.
And so here. I was expecting to catch 68-year-old man cracks but instead caught a once-in-a-lifetime experience. George made me promise I’d stay to the end of the credits after a long, long five days on the road, because there was a special surprise. It was the least I could do to oblige and I’ll fully spoil it for you here. It’s Frankie Avalon singing Sam George a Beach Blanket song.
If it ever screens again, I recommend attending.
You can listen to a further extrapolations here.
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Chas Smith gets socked at Florida trade show.
Surf journalist Chas Smith “has the most slappable face in surfing”
By Derek Hynd's Missing Fins
“I totally understand where Ashton Goggans is coming from…”
Meaning it’s going through now what Florida and California went through decades past: skyrocketing prices, land being flipped daily by dirt pimps, a Starbucks on every corner, microbreweries sprouting up like mushrooms, stag and hen nights, a top 10 shopping corridor on King Street, and all the tensions between locals (if you’re not 5 generations deep, you’re not a local), tourists, and Boomer Yankees moving in to retire that you’d expect.
In short, it’s Disney World for rich white people.
The other thing Charleston has is one of the most gorgeous ecosystems on this sweet planet Earth: the intertidal marsh. The marshes here are some of the most biodense ecosystems given the pluff mud (what a perfume, especially at low tide), spartina reeds (their tannin as they decay makes the waters here a muddy brown and helps all the bacteria that form the vibrant trophic pyramid), oysters (millions of them filter feeding and cleaning the waters, and you can hear their shells open and close as the tide shifts), dolphins and turtles and egrets and fish and sharks and shrimp, and all the over-60 wannabe pirates playing pickleball and listening to Jimmy Buffet in their khakis and loafers and trucker caps while out on their boats you can shake a mint julep at.
There’s also a surf scene.
Hard to imagine this, as the waves suck. Dogs drinking out of a dog bowl generate higher waves with more power. Men aged over 50 suffering through colonoscopies every 5 years are getting more consistency than the weak shit here, outside of hurricane swells which are as dependable as Gamecock football tearing up the SEC.
Despite this utter lack, there’s still a surf scene, with accomplished shapers, photogs and videographers, surf shops, surf brands, and a handful of short and longboarders who are regionally competitive and, if given some sponsorship opportunities to travel to real waves, would actually do some damage on the QS, men and women, both.
It’s this scene I’ve been on the far periphery of going back to the 1990s when I moved here to finish out high school, and the vortex of Charleston that has sucked me back in off and on ever since, and have seen evolve over those years.
Same shitty waves breaking the same shitty way, but somehow feeding a community of stoke.
And I ventured into this community Thursday night, as Cam and Kelly Richards were invited down from Myrtle Beach to talk shop with David Lee Scales for his Surf Splenor podcast.And along for that ride, half of BG ownership, Mr. Charlie Smith.
What’s it like to stalk someone you don’t consider a hero, and who only exists in your mind as a BeachGrit provocateur but who, I must admit, gives 100% at work (10% on Monday, 25% on Tuesday, 40% on Wednesday, 20% on Thursday, 5% on Friday, off on Saturday and Sunday…light a candle)?
In shame I admit not only did I go to this event (all things being equal, Cam Richards has to be a legit top-10 surfer on the planet right now), but that I stuck around after and introduced myself to Charlie.
Here’s what I learned:
He’s tall. Should be running point guard on a men’s over-40 league pick-up team.
His hair. Half of his body movements are spent pulling the hair out of his eyes from this one little set of locks in the back of his head that hang down over his eyes.But maybe it’s some literary affectation where he can tug at it while dropping in some reference to an author no one else except maybe Longtom has read.Personally I wanted to take a razor to it and just ease his self-inflicted pain.
His face–entirely slappable. I understand where Goggans was coming from.
Sense of style–accomplished, in a living out of a suitcase way. Slip ons, button up shirt with top buttons open (waxed chest), but the cologne…my wife asked me if I’d been out with another woman upon my return home.
MC capabilities–very quiet, actually. Spent more time hoovering beers and dropping an occasional f-bomb, than anything else.Voice is much more high-pitched than expected, too, given his height. And, surprisingly, Kelly and Cam took Chas and his few questions seriously, but that was probably their Southern hospitality coming through.
Family–loves his wife and daughters. Came out often. A fierce and eager love.
Surfers–The People. Not the pros or industry. The People. It came out that he also fiercely and eagerly loves this little community of anonymous misfits that have aggregated around him and DR like barnacles on a boat in Charleston Harbor. What’s crazy is that some in this community love Chas and DR and BeachGrit so much they will even fly in from New York City for a one-night live podcast event in Charleston, wearing a vintage BG hat (respect, BG brother).
I’d personally not go that far (see #3, above), but I would suggest that if Chas is visiting your town for an event, to track him down.
He’s outgoing, patient, and even, I daresay, kind. He’ll listen to what you’re saying, not lord over you that he’s probably twice as smart as you and has been to all the cool cities of the planet (and to Yemen), and will cheer on your surfing stories.
In this world of AI pish, masturbatory surf bro-culture, and overcrowded lineups, it’s nice to still have a little grit. While his online persona is one thing, Chas’s real life presence is actually that of an open, respectful, and patient listener while sprinkling some of that grit into an industry that takes itself too seriously, an industry that does so at the expense of realizing most of us do this surfing thing because we just love being in the ocean, and being around people that feel the same.
My guess is Chas does all of it because of that same love.