Blood Feud: CI’s Britt Merrick vs Commie-hating shaper of the century Matt Biolos

"This is unbelievable!"

Just when we thought the surf world could provide a peaceful respite from the anger, bitterness, chaos, and seemingly inevitable violence unfolding around the globe — a trailer for a brand new surf edit crossed my social media feeds a couple nights ago, featuring none other than Channel Islands top cat Britt Merrick calling Matt Biolos, and I quote, “a dick.”

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And that’s not just Britt’s opinion. 

Per the Merrick scion, “everyone” knows that Biolos is, in fact, a dick.

I don’t know Biolos. 

Or Merrick. 

But as between the two, I instinctively side with Britt.

My first encounter with Merrick 2.0 (or at least his online personality) was back in my believer days, back before he returned to the shaping bay like a sunburnt prodigal son, back when he was filling the pulpit and calling sinners to repentance on the daily.

I somehow came across a video clip of one of his sermons. 

I thought it was one of the most compelling, beautiful, truly spiritual expressions of faith I’d ever heard from a pastor, anywhere. 

The fact that it came from a Merrick sort of blew my mind. 

I knew about Al, of course, and I knew Britt existed — but I hadn’t paid much attention to either of their efforts outside the surf world (although I realize now that anyone who had ever wandered within joint sniffing distance of Carpinteria knew all about the Merrick family’s faith journey).

I circulated the sermon video to a close circle of friends who shared similar perspectives on the spiritual realm.

“This is unbelievable,” I said. “And what makes it even crazier is that this guy’s dad is one of the most famous surfboard shapers on the planet.”

After that, I paid sporadic attention to what Britt had to say to his flock, at least up until the moment in time when my own faith flickered out, at which point it didn’t seem to matter much what he said.

Then one day he stepped back from the pulpit and picked up a planer.

And I kind of started paying attention again, since even if I no longer believed Jesus would save my soul, I still wanted to walk on water.

From a distance I found his observations sharp, his dry humor on point, and his ever-expanding facial hair a source of constant visual amusement, as if leaving the pulpit somehow caused him to lean even harder into Old Testament prophet vibes.

(Although to be honest, my reactions may have just been the lingering glow of that first sermon I watched all those years ago and the eternal halo of good vibes it generated. First impressions are hard to kick.)

So that, patient reader, is why I sat up and took particular note when it was Britt, of all people, who dropped the d-bomb on Biolos and why my initial instinct was to side with Britt.

“If Britt said it, I believe it,” my inner voice muttered.

But, as often happens, the devil’s advocate in me quickly pushed back, refusing to give in to instinct and old habits. 

“Biolos can’t be all bad,” said the DA. “Yago and Carissa ride his boards for god’s sake.”

“But it’s Britt,” responded my internal instinct. “He’s a goddamn prophet, I bet he even snacks on locusts and wild honey!”

This inner monologue raged back and forth for at least 25 seconds, with DA throwing haymakers from one side and instinct responding from the other, bobbing and weaving and sliding in bone-jarring jabs like a prime-time Thomas Hearns.

As my yin and yang battled, my brain ticked through what little I know about Biolos: the fact that he’s said some semi-controversial stuff from time to time; that he seems to like to stir shit; that he’s part of the San Clemente crowd; that he thinks Lady Gaga confused the hell out of surfboard shoppers the world over.

All the facts I knew checked out, as sparse as they may be, and so, in the grand tradition of forming strong opinions about people and things one knows next to nothing about beyond what one may have witnessed on other people’s social media posts — I sided with instinct over the devil’s advocate and concluded Britt was right.

But something kept gnawing at me. 

I couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was a still small voice in the back of my brain that wouldn’t let it go.

“The world is a sick place right now,” I mused.

I pondered the fact that even BG commenters are beginning to turn on one another, like feral dogs cooped up together too long in a city kennel.

In fact, “you’re a dick” could summarize most of the comments these past few weeks.

“No, you are, and everyone knows it,” could summarize the rest.

I have to admit, I’ve thought the same.

“What a dick,” I’ve thought, as I see another comment endorsing [insert point of view with which I disagree here].

And then my inner self reminded me of what it was that made me appreciate that first sermon from Britt.

It was all about love and hope.

Hope for a better future we can’t see from here, because we’re surrounded by darkness.

Love for everyone and everything, even when, in the moment, you’re convinced that love is the last thing the objects of your ire deserve. 

“Maybe I’m actually the dick,” I thought.

Or maybe the answer is that we’re all dicks, in our own way, just too hung up on ourselves, or our tube navigation skills, or our aerial game, or our sacred religious/political/cultural cows to acknowledge the reality that every solution begins with us, individually, and our own ability to accept our personal foibles, our willingness to look the proverbial man in the mirror in the eye and admit he’s got some warts.

Maybe we should take the logs out of our own eyes, I thought, instead of obsessing about the splinters in our neighbor’s.

Perhaps we should, gasp, turn the other cheek, at least occasionally.

Or forgive, 490 times, even when we’re convinced it’s not deserved.

Maybe we should give up the first place in line and take the last, maybe we should give someone our coat when they ask for just a shirt, maybe we should be willing, symbolically at least, to wash someone else’s feet instead of crack their skull with our sick takes.

I pondered these deep thoughts for hours.

But just when I was convinced maybe I had found a new way forward, a true and decent philosophy that could guide my every thought and action — suddenly, I noticed something. 

It filled me with cold dread. 

I could literally feel the testosterone leaking from my body. 

Like oil through a dry rotted gasket, my manliness was slowly seeping away.

“WTF is wrong with me?” I thought. 

“Some people really are dicks, and turning the other cheek won’t do a damn thing to help them realize it!”

Real men don’t put up with stuff they have unilaterally determined is bullshit!

“Aarrgghh,” I roared, slapping myself in the face as punishment for even considering a more peaceful path.

I sprang from my chair and strode to the pantry, rifling through the shelves until I found my emergency tin of venison jerky.

“Hope and love are for wankers and bicycle clubbers,” I exclaimed to myself, as I gnawed on dehydrated deer flesh, the pure lean protein working its manly magic.

I opened my phone, swiped back to the social media post, and marinated in the glory of it all.

The ferocity of the beard.

The smugness of seemingly everyone who calls San Clemente home.

“I may not know Biolos from a hole in the wall, but I bet he really is a dick!”

“I hope Britt kicks his ass!”

And then, my testosterone re-supplied, my sanctimonious certainty re-established, my tendency to be a dickhead itch scratched, I went looking for dental floss, because having jerky stuck in your molars is a real bitch.