Surf journalist catches secret screening of forbidden surf film!

"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.