Watch: Mason Ho give hell to Backdoor on a 4’9″ micro-whip, “A work of mastercraft, with perfectly beveled rim…”

A day to blow or get blown…

One of the heroes of the North Shore is a young-ish man, thirty one years old, with light tea-coloured skin and hair so curly many believe he wears a woollen wig.

In this short film, Mason Ho, son of Mike, big bro of Coco, rides a four-foot-nine, seventeen-and-a-half-inch-wide Lost Mini Rad Ripper, a micro sled he expertly uses to caress various grooves.

At Backdoor of a reasonable size, Mason expert strays from the usual lines and employs footwork in a manner as hot as a teenage boy.

Watch and admire the textures.

Watch: John John Florence in “I was devastated when they stopped making sailors’ pants with bell bottoms! They project something good-natured!”

Episodes one and two of John John Florence four-part series where he learns to conquer the ocean by sail…

If further confirmation of two-time world champion surfer John John Florence’s connection to the ocean was necessary, it comes, here, in the form of a four-part series documenting his route to becoming a bluewater sailor.

The series, called Vela, a Sanskrit word for coast and not to be confused with the Punjabi word Velle which means a sonofabitch layabout, although both are apt names for a sailing vessel, follows John John as the open ocean opens up to him like a flower, slowly, petal by petal.

A riotous excursion of the human spirit.

Watch: Happy Gen Z Surfers mock Coronavirus in “Either your brains or your signature is going to be on this contract!”

The absurdity of the blackmarket and the insanity of hoarders wrapped up in a neat lil Mafia movie spoof…

Difficult times, etc, or so I’m told, although if I peer through my curtain, past the cavalcade of rangers in fluorescent coats with notebooks and the authority to hit a man with a thousand-buck fine, I see blue skies painted with handfuls of cirrus clouds and an ocean, as green as Capri, and without its usual colony of suicidal VALs.

A paradise, you would say, if sinister particles weren’t smeared on shopping trolly handles, door frames and so on, hunting the, mostly, elderly.

Two surfers who refuse to be cowed by the possibility of drowning on their own mucous in a makeshift hospital cot, weepy mammy and daddy watching their death agonies via FaceTime, are Josiah and Micah Amico, from Ventura, California.

In this short, written, directed and starring Josiah, twenty-one, and his little bro Michah, eighteen, the pair take on the absurdity of the blackmarket and the insanity of hoarders and wrap it up in a neat lil Mafia movie spoof.

Outstandingly well edited, enlightening and entertaining.

Behind-the-scenes as Mason Ho eats up French Polynesian surf contest: “I don’t want to be that guy mumbling into his drink at the bar!”

An emotional thrill!

Happy Mason Ho, thirty-one years old, is an attractive man with huge eyes and a brown moustache covering a mouth as delicate as a woman’s.

For most of his career, Mason has dreamed of being a full-time contestant on the World Championship Tour.

He was five years old when his Uncle Derek won the world title.

“I’ve wanted to win the world title since I was a kid,” he says. “But to be a world champ you have to…get… on the tour. So my goal before my goal is to qualify. So I need to hypnotize myself into thinking it’s fun.”

That dream might’ve been relegated to the occasional wildcard, but his black magic is occasionally still applied to qualifying events.

In this short behind-the-scenes film by his footman Rory Pringle, we see Mason stomping his way to a victory at the Rangiroa Pro three weeks ago, an atoll noted for its fine pearls in the Tuamotus in French Polynesia.

It is a win for exuberance, I think, something which is completely lacking in modern life.

Watch: Desert tube-conquering Imogen Caldwell in “A dazzling style of living!”

Girl who grew up on the beach learned a little about tube weaving…

Imogen Caldwell, twenty-four, was raised under the blazing desert sun and with a front row seat to the most picturesque left in the country, The Bluff, fifteen hours north of the Western Australian capital, Perth.

Isolated, yeah.

Moved there with her family when she was six. Camped on the beach. Eventually, mum and dad got to run the campsite there. They moved to a house fifty metres from the lineup. The windows shake when it’s big.

Imogen is the sort of person who is studied and gazed at in stunned surprise. Men feel the veins pulsing in their temples.

Tall, well-made, skin that looks as if it has has the flavour of fresh cream.

But we’re not here for that sort of play, not today at least.

Here, in under three minutes, is Imogen implanting herself in a series of tubes at The Bluff and a little further north, that’ll leave your tongue hanging out.