To Bali, With Love

Dear Bali,

It's been weeks since we've parted. Your smells and textures and sights come to me in dreams as though it were just yesterday. Nasi goreng. Black sand between my toes. Aqua-marine cylinders at Keramas. The monkey temple. Motorbikes. Rice fields. A Bintang haze. Sunsets at Uluwatu. The smoke rising from the morning blessings. The warmth and friendliness of the people. 

Indonesia is such a stunning part of the world. The major cities are a cluster of motorbikes and semi-controlled chaos, but the further you find yourself removed from said chaos, the simpler the surroundings, the more of the culture you discover. Roadways condense to bike lanes, and the rice paddies come into view, thatch houses next to exquisite architectural buildings, and more smiling faces. A simple place with so much to offer.

I hope we cross paths again soon. -CM

Moments from the 2012 Hurley Pro

Spent a couple days watching liquid perfection roll into the cobblestone pointbreak of Lower Trestles for the Hurley Pro. I ran around taking photos, being a one-man social media machine and taking notes on behalf of Oakley as part of a new gig. It's hard to complain about days spent on the beach under beautiful California sunshine, but nonetheless, I was sweating profusely and was grinding. Here are a few moments from amongst the chaos that is the ASP World Tour circus.

Jordy Smith: too fast for the camera shutter.

Nose pick by Julian Wilson.

Joel Parkinson goes pirate flag big.

Joel Parkinson smooth, as usual.

Big-Wave Charger Ben Wilkinson: "The New Black"

The "Big Ben" nickname is fitting. At six-foot-two and 250 pounds, he's a big guy. The waves he likes to ride are big: in the 15- to 25-foot range at one of the most terrifying waves in all the world, Maverick's. And as almost everyone I spoke to for my story for the premiere issue of Kelp Magazine will tell you, he's got a big heart.

Born in North Narrabeen, on the east coast of Australia, Big Ben Wilkinson came from modest beginnings, but was raised to be respectful and hard-working by his large-framed father and best friend, Mark. Ben tells a story about how when he was young he would accompany his dad to the beach when he went surfing, and his dad would draw a large square in the sand, indicating his son's boundaries while he was in the water. Ben says he never stepped foot outside those squares. "He respected me, so I always respected him," Ben told me.

When Mark was diagnosed with a debilitating disease, Ben willingly put his plans and his life on hold. His best friend was sick, so he needed to do what he could, from making his meals to paying his bills to taking him on a final trip to Tahiti.

After his father passed away, Ben, eventually, rediscovered his path in life. He's put his carpentry skills to use to pay the bills, but his passion is in riding the biggest possible waves using only the strength of his shoulders. He's starting to make a name for himself, evidenced in his recent selection as an alternate for the Quiksilver in Memory of Eddie Aikau Big-Wave Invitational at Waimea Bay on the North Shore of Oahu, but riches and spoils have yet to come. His closest friends and his fellow competitors believe he has the talent and the ability to have a big future in big-wave surfing.

As I wrote in the story, once you meet and get to know Big Ben, you can't help but root for him.

Peru: The Colors, Personalities and Action

Despite protestation from every surfer not riding one, Stand-Up Paddleboarding has managed to establish itself as a discipline of surfing that is here to stay. The surfing and racing component has found traction in oceans, lakes and rivers across the globe; from San Clemente to Lake Geneva in Switzerland to Rio de Janiero, Brazil, SUP communities are sprouting. The best SUP racers and surfers, along with their ancestors, the prone paddlers, from 17 countries descended on Lima, Peru for the inaugural ISA World StandUp Paddle and Paddleboarding Championship. I was there to take in the spectacle and write a few press releases about it all.

Team Switzerland in the Parade of the Nations. Miraflores, Lima, Peru, February 2012

Legend of paddle racing, Jamie Mitchell. Playa Hermosa, Lima, Peru, February 2012

SUP Technical Race. Playa Hermosa, Lima, Peru, February 2012 

The sprint to the finish – Travis Grant and Jamie Mitchell (right). Playa Hermosa, Lima, Peru, February 2012

Peru: The Arrival

Backseat vantage point in a taxi in Peru.

I'm a long way from home, thousands of miles in fact, but seemingly not that far: "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People is on the radio. I'm in the back seat of a rickety taxi, which is driving me through the dark streets of Lima, Peru. The warm night air is thick with body odor and diesel exhaust. I was a bit apprehensive when I saw the vehicle: it looked as though it doubles as a bumper car. I'm in this car because once I came through customs at the airport, this man had a sign with my name and the name of the organization I'm working with. Therefore, I trusted him with my life and all of my belongings.

On second thought, the sign was drawn with a Sharpie. I hope I haven't made a grave mistake.

I don't know much about Peru and it seems, sadly, that my grasp of the Spanish language is about the same. The driver tries to speak with me, something about my first time in Peru. I manage a 'Si,' and I think he senses that's about the extent of my conversational skills, so he goes silent. I watch the buildings pass by, looking for those little things that set one country apart from another: architecture, color schemes, refrigeration. I try to read some of the billboards, understanding little. I take further comfort in the fact that I, at least, know the music on the radio.

If there is one universal lesson I've learned in my travels it's that transportation is always a wildcard. Riding in a taxi teaches you about the culture, the people. Are they patient? Are they protective of one another? In both China and now Peru, the goal just seems to be "get there, and get there fast." It's like riding in a New York taxi, with zero attention paid to whatever laws may exist. Or maybe that's the problem: I didn't see anything resembling a police officer who gave a damn about reckless driving in either country. The similarity between the drivers in the two countries were liberal use of the horn. It's used for announcing you're passing someone on the shoulder, announcing that you're not stopping at an intersection, scaring tourists, greeting other drivers, and for adding to the already unpleasant experience of sitting in traffic and for whatever reason believing it will provide a solution to said traffic (this one applies in the US of A).

In the end, it all works out. I arrive at my destination in one piece, having passed the Atlantic City Hotel-Casino and lots of other buildings draped in bright sparkling lights. Casinos are a big part of the economy in Lima, I learn. This ruins my excitement about the city a bit. Not that it will much matter. I didn't come to Lima to gamble, I came to work and to eat ceviche.

Part of the drawback of my role as a Media Manager for the International Surfing Association is the long hours of work once an event is on. We're in Peru for the inaugural ISA World StandUp Paddle and Paddleboard Championship. Mostly I write press releases, write most every script needed for web announcers, beach announcers and everyone else, and make sure that media around the world who may be covering the event has what it needs. It's mostly thankless work, but it pays and it gets me around the world.

The work and the hours keeps this from being a vacation and keeps me from having time to be a tourist.

In China, the location was so remote and the buffet-style food so palette-numbing, that I didn't get to experience the Chinese culture as much as I would have liked. I make it this trips focus not to let anything similar transpire. I will be a tourist.

To be continued...

The Superbank Comes to OC (Not Exactly)

The swell in the water had all the beachbreaks from T-Street to Cottons working.

The North Shore's Mason Ho launching backside at T-Street.

A Bit of Recent Surf Imagery

Though my blog may indicate otherwise, it's actually been a while since I last shot surfing. True, I've done a few casual shoots with afternoon light at the various breaks near my place in Dana Point. But the past two weeks were the first time I'd spent consecutive hours on the sand, documenting a surf contest ongoing in the water.

Two weeks ago I was at Trestles, in San Onofre State Park, for the Nike 6.0 Lowers Pro. Pretty much every up-and-coming name in surfing was on hand, along with a swath of the top international competitors. By the final days of competition, it was down to a pair of local talents and a bunch of Brazilians. The Brazilians overcame.

A few days after the contest, a one-day event went off at 54th Street in Newport Beach, the Ghetto Juice Airshow. A number of the young flyers from the contest had hung around and decided to take part in this unique airs-only event. Great for shooting and people on the beach. Not so great when the surf doesn't cooperate. Didn't seem to bother the competitors much, who found plenty of launch ramps.

Fun few days. Now back to shooting anything and everything else.

ASP World Tour Back in a Minute

It seems just days ago that Kelly Slater was crowned world champ for the tenth time in his career and the Triple Crown wrapped up the compeittive season in Hawaii.

And yet, here it goes again. The 2011 season is just days away, kicking off with the Quiksilver Pro on Australia's Gold Coast. The slate is wiped clean, and once again, everyone is a contender.

Okay, enough with the blowing of the smoke. As it goes with the men, there are only a handful of realistic contenders: Jordy, Mick, Parko, Taj and, until he officially announces he's done, Kelly. With as well as he was surfing last year, it doesn't make sense that Kelly Slater will gracefully fade into the retirement abyss. He'll come out firing at Snapper Rocks, and depending on his result, the remainder of the season will be dictated.

Dane Reynolds would be the other realistic contender, but he's withdrawn from the first event, supposedly due to a knee injury. That's not good for the World Tour. No other surfer not named Kelly draws a crowd and webcast viewers quite like Dane. Kelly can't carry the Tour forever. Jordy is said to be the heir apparent, but even Jordy doesn't excite quite like Dane does. My concern is that the deficit from the gate will discourage Dane from seeing the season through. The Tour needs his flair and excitement from contest to contest. They need his weird post-heat interviews and his unorthodox heat strategy (Read: No strategy). Competitive surfing needs its mad scientist.

That said, I'm hoping Joel Parkinson, aka Parko, wins this one. I'm not much of a Mick fan and Taj just doesn't seem as committed as some of his fellow uber-fit Aussies. Parko is one of the smoothest surfers and one of the classiest chaps on Tour. He's had a few bad breaks the past couple seasons, but that time off last season should hopefully have him amped to keep his mind focused for all 10 events.

Here we go.

Photo: ASP/Cestari

A Few Moments of South County Surfing

Salt Creek. Strands. Beachbreaks. The occasional rock reef. Crowds. Seperation. Sponsored talent. Unknown shredders. Fish. Shortboards. SUPs. Barrels. Launch ramps. Lefts. Rights. Groms. Oldies. Punks. Hippies. It's very much a different world from surfing Newport and Huntington, sometimes for better, other times for worse. But the water looks cleaner and usually the crowds are fewer. Maybe it's the having to walk down a hill thing that keeps more at bay. Thank goodness for people being lazy.

There Be Waves In Those Waters

Been talk for a while now about the coming set of swells. They were said to be coming in three and would be rolling through back-to-back-to-back. The third (the one somewhat documented below) is beginning to show and is expected to generate waves in the the stunning-size-range, so much so that The Eddie big-wave event at Waimea Bay on Oahu may run tomorrow (Thursday). If you have a few extra minutes, head for the coast and see if you can catch or view a few. Below is the view looking south toward Strands from the lifeguard tower near the point at Salt Creek.

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Back To OC: For Starters, Beaches and Music

There's a reason it took me 25 years to finally move away from CA. There are times I miss the energy and people of New York and Houston, but there's a lot about CA that has me happy to be back. It's been a weird transition. Not bad, but not great. I went from quasi-suburbia to the big city circuit, back to the quasi-suburbia. Getting away was good for me. It made me appreciate what I had and also made me realize there was more going on in OC than I was taking advantage of. My new gig with OC Weekly has been helpful, as it demands that I'm more aware of what's going on in the 34 cities that fall within the counties' border. Been spending a lot of time at the beach, trying to make up for my mostly surf-less year and a half away. The following photos aren't waves or surfing, but they're back on familiar territory.

Up close and personal. Close enough to gather the spit that misses the microphone. I'm not not the agro, overly-obsessive with a band type, so this was pretty gross. Even the saliva flying from the perfect glands of Minka Kelly would make me cringe. Nonetheless, with my photo and VIP pass for KROQ's Almost Acoustic Christmas show at Gibson Ampitheatere near the Universal City Walk, I was close enough to reach out and touch Mike Ness' shoe. I was inches from Jimmy Eat World, then My Chemical Romance (not my kind of music, but the lead singer with the burning red hair was engaging) and, finally, Social Distortion. I missed Bad Religion (blame LA traffic!) and The Smashing Pumpkins had some weird rule against photogs in the pit. Was part of a feature I'm working on for OC Weekly. First time shooting a big concert. Fun experience. Lessons learned. A few goods images found in the bunch. Music fans are crazy, and some scary.

Touching Surfer Poll Andy Irons Tribute

I've written a good amount about Andy Irons in this space lately. Details of the true nature of his tragic passing are yet to be determined (though theories have been shared), but the shared memories, photo slideshows and video tributes (like the one below) continue to pour out. Regardless of the nature of his passing, the truth is that it came far too early.

Members of the surfing community – whether a fellow WCT competitor, a sponsor or some grom who once got an autograph – have been hurt. I still feel hurt, especially after watching the video. If you know anything about Andy Irons and surfing and the community around him, you can't help but be moved by the images and words from those who knew, loved and respected him. Dustin Barca, a guy who strikes me as a straight-up heartless, badass, is moved to tears when asked what he'll miss most about AI. Mark Occhilupo, one of AI's closest friends, and a man who's expressed many heartfelt thoughts and memories about AI during his commentating at the Billabong Pipe Masters, offered some insight to his surfing: "How do you explain Andy? I mean, he surfed like a cat on acid."

At the annual Surfer Poll awards Andy Irons was voted the No. 6 surfer. The crew over at the magazine put together the following video tribute. His brother, Bruce, accepted the award on his behalf. If you have the chance, it's worth checking out some of the acceptance speeches from the night, which all make mention of AI.

Take care of your loved ones, and make sure they know how you feel about them.

Newport (Well, Blackies) Has Waves, And We All Rejoice

Surf conditions have been pretty dismal since I've returned to CA. Had one fun morning session in Huntington last week, but the rest has been pretty unfulfilling (look at me, already a cynic – while in NY and TX, I would have sacrificed a liver for even small surfable waves!). Today I awoke to an early text from my brother: "Blackies is firing!" Of course, the day the waves come up, I need to work. I raced through finishing up my feature, then literally threw my wetsuit and towel into my car, grabbed two boards and raced down to the water around 11 a.m. Photos below are a little of what was out there. Didn't want to spend much time finding the right angles or peak action – I was too anxious to get a few of my own.

Blackies & Seagull Yoga

Had my first surf back at Blackies in Newport Beach, the spot I learned to surf and one that served as my home break for so many years. It had been raining the previous few days and there was some wind on it, but there appeared to be a few little fun bumps by the pier. Some older couple sitting in their minivan warned me they had heard about a strong current in the water, but I dismissed it as out-of-towner nonsense. But I was friendly about it: "I'm on my surfboard, I should be fine." Went out and was almost immediately washed through the pier, with tourists on the pier watching. Had a good laugh. Composed myself and caught a few, while dodging whatever had washed out of the Santa Ana River mouth and into the lineup. So far, from what I can tell, no diseases. Didn't last too long out there. But good to be back. Shot a few photos of the scenery — low tide, kids playing, seagulls lounging. This photo struck me as funny. More to come in another post.

KS10: Surfing's Poster Boy, Kelly Slater, Gets 10

Days after the passing of Andy Irons, Kelly Slater did what everyone expected he would do when the world title race came down to he and Jordy Smith – he went superhuman and locked down No. 10.

Upon emerging from the surf, he was boosted onto the shoulders of the awaiting entourage and shuttled through the packed-beach crowd to the podium. I'm not certain when the first tears came, but the early interviews showed Slater puffy-eyed and glazed. An emotional week, to say the least.

As I mentioned in the previous post, when AI was in his competitive prime, he and Slater were the closest thing to enemies that existed on Tour in the last two decades. They engaged in arguments and fights on various occasions, mostly stemming from the heated rivalry. But they'd made amends in recent years, even becoming friends. Which is why, in his first interviews post-victory, Slater dedicated the win to Andy Irons.

Beyond the touching condolences and vulnerable moment, Kelly Slater managed to package 20 years of competition and personal growth into the last months of the pursuit for 10. Slater has had a bit of a checkered past – being a bit over-confident early on, the Baywatch era, dating Pamela Anderson, being the loner on Tour – but nothing like a Tiger Woods (ultra-adultery), Barry Bonds (cheating/PEDs), Lance Armstrong (it's only a matter of time before the truth comes out) or even Michael Jordan (gambling, womanizing). Slater has long been the toughest and smartest competitor, articulate and sometimes puzzling in interviews, respectable toward his fans, innovative with his surfing, proof that age doesn't much matter – and an inspiration to two decades of surfers, both young and old.

In the following interview, from ESPN, you get a glimpse of the psyche of Kelly Slater. It's been one hell of a run from surfing's greatest athlete. And it may not yet be over.

Photo: Ellis/SURFER

The Tragic Death of Andy Irons

The news of 3-times surfing world champ Andy Irons' untimely passing came up mid-day yesterday. I found out through a simple text from my brother, "Andy Irons dead." I didn't immediately believe it. I scoured the internet, but this was before reports had really been confirmed. A co-worker of his at Toddland had a contact within the surf industry, but I was still unbelieving. It seemed too odd. I never met Andy Irons. I never had a reason to feel anything more than respect for the man's phenomenal surfing ability. But when I saw on SurferMag.com and then on the ASP website that the rumors were in fact true, it hurt. For some reason, this season, I found myself rooting for AI. In the past, he'd always struck me as an arrogant asshole that took surf contests far too personally. In his heyday, he was Yang to Kelly Slater's Yin. Kelly the white knight, Andy the black knight. Or however you want to put it. But then he took a year off. He got married. And returned to the Dream Tour, seemingly a new man. I noticed it in his interviews during the Tahiti contest. Teahupoo was a place he'd had some success, but Teahupoo wasn't itself. Waves were small and the contest was hardly one meant for barrel-riding. But with each heat win, he'd do the post-heat chat for the webcam and he seemed so genuinely excited and was constantly sending love and good thoughts to his wife, Lyndie, who was back in Hawaii, pregnant with the couples first child.

Like I said, I never knew AI, so I can only make assumptions. But that year off changed him. Getting married changed him. Knowing he was going to be a father changed him. And for the first time, I hoped he could pull out a win. I realize how inconsequential this may be, considering people much closer to him must be in the worst kind of pain, but he struck me as someone who had finally gotten his priorities in order and was so happy and stoked on life. And then for this to happen, it just struck me as so very unfair. Unfair to his wife, his family, his friends, his unborn child and all of the people that supported him through the years. But in some twisted way, it was almost appropriate that it happened during this contest, when both the men and women were at the same spot -- and with Kelly Slater, his arch-rival for all those years, on the cusp of yet another world title. Coincidence, certainly.

One thing I've always respected about the surfing community is its sense of family. Paddle-outs are relatively common when a surfing legend or just some lifelong surfer dies, but they're always touching. They follow tradition and it's a way for people to come together in a way that celebrates that particular person in an environment that somewhat defined them. In a couple days time, the passing of Andy Irons will barely be on my mind, but for the past 24 hours and until that does happen, it makes me vastly aware of my own mortality. You never know how or when, just that it will happen. My heartfelt condolences to AI's loved ones.

Aloha and mahalo, AI.

Below are two videos that serve as celebrations of AI and his surfing life. The first was put together by Surfing Life Magazine about the memorial paddleout in Puerto Rico, the day after AI's death. A number of fellow Dream Tour competitors offer there thoughts about AI and what his passing means to them. The second is a video produced by Billabong as part of its "I surf because" campaign. From what I know, the video came out during the Tahiti contest, AI's last tour win. Enjoy.

A Search For Waves: A Travelogue

It had simply been too long. More than two months, and the last time had hardly qualified. It was so unfulfilling, that day in early July at the Rockaways in New York.

I had dreamed about it. I'd looked at photos and watched videos. I'd talked to my dad and brother about it; they only made me feel worse because they were getting it all the time. I needed to get back in the saddle.

I needed to go surfing.

Forecasts had called for some howling winds on the Gulf courtesy of Hurricane Karl, which would be sending pulses toward the Texas coastline. I decided I needed to be there to greet them.

After a late workday on Friday, I raced home, grabbed my board (only a 5'10" fish, would have preferred a longboard), sleeping bag, threw a few extra clothes in a backpack and headed south on 288. An hour later, I cleared the bridge over the canal and descended into Surfside Beach, which, according to a sign, was voted "Best Gulf Coast Beach Town." By whom? I don't know. Don't care. Don't even know if I buy it. Doesn't matter. I was there. And I could drive on the beach. Amazing.

I pulled past the unmanned pay booth and got my first sight of the water: Victory at Sea. Whitewater as far down the coast as my eye could see. Fortunately, it's what I expected. I was more concerned with my race against nightfall. And whether or not there were sharks in the Gulf and whether they, like their California cousins, treated dusk as feeding time. Again, didn't matter to me. I was here.

Pulled my board out of my bag, and Damn! it wasn't even waxed. Sign of my waveless times. Thin layer of basecoat applied, followed by a bit thicker layer of warm water wax and I was set. Though mid-September and around 7pm, only a pair of trunks would be necessary.

I did the stingray shuffle out until I was waist-deep and hopped on my board. A few paddles and I already had a goofy smile. Just to be coasting across the water, duck-diving under waves, feeling the ocean beneath me, smelling the saltwater and surf wax was enough to make the hour-long commute and 20-minute session worthwhile. At that moment, I didn't even care if I caught a single wave.

Deciding to make a trip of it, I went into the small town and found the one business that had more than three cars parked out front. Castaways Bar & Grill and it was karaoke night – score! Cheap beers, fried shrimp, interesting choice of clothing, husky locals welcoming me to the neighborhood and some halfway decent singing followed. I got out before it got too weird.

Slept in the car on a dark sidestreet, with hopes of an early morning session. Dealt with mosquitos, a midnight downpour through an open sunroof and constantly waking thinking some unhappy, burly local was shining a flashlight in my face.

The morning was worth the sleepless night. Beautiful sunrise, though over continued stormy seas. Paddled out with some of the locals, finding the occasional short ride on a unexpected wedge, popping out from amongst the chaos. Had to avoid a pair of houses sitting out in the waterline, abandoned and dilapidated after erosion had set in.

Stopped in for breakfast, just in time for gale-force winds and a brutal downpour that made it impossible to see out the windows of the restaurant. I was a little concerned because the restaurant was up on stilts and the place was shaking. No one else seemed to notice.

After another short surf, made the drive from Surfside to Galveston, after hearing that the conditions were cleaner over that way. "My buddy says it's tubing over near the pass," a guy told Bingo (seriously, that was the guy's name), over at the Bingo Surfboards shop.

It absolutely was not. But it was scenic drive through mostly nature preserves. Upon arriving in Galveston, and seeing that the black clouds had swung my way, I decided I'd had enough of the rain, the stormy seas and the film that was caking my skin.

I never did figure out if that was just business as usual when it comes to chasing storm surf on the Gulf. Maybe I was there too early or too late. Or maybe the Gulf just isn't meant for surfing. Eh, it'll do for now.

Plethora

Dude1: Would you say I have a plethora of waves?
Dude2: A what?
Dude1: A "plethora."
Dude2: Oh yes, you have a plethora.
Dude1: Dude2, what is a plethora?
Dude2: Why, Dude1?
Dude1: Well, you told me I have a plethora. And I just would like to know if you know what a plethora is. I would not like to think that a person would tell someone he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has no idea what it means to have a plethora.
Dude2: Forgive me, Dude1. I know that I, Dude2, do not have your superior intellect and education. But could it be that once again, you are angry at something else, and are looking to take it out on me?

It seems the East and West coast have a plethora of waves, and I, while stranded on the shores of the Gulf, have none. The image above is from the recent swell that smacked the West Coast. Meanwhile, I'm praying for hurricanes – though just enough of one to generate swell, and preferably one that doesn't make landfall anywhere near Houston. Too much to ask?

Photo: Joli/SURFER

The Big Saffa Finally Gets His

When Jordy Smith came onto the World Tour last year, he was being hailed as the second-coming of Kelly Slater. Sort of. That title was partly shared with Dane Reynolds. From what we learned, it would seem Dane has the innovation of Sl8r, but Jordy has the competitive drive. Maybe combined they're Kelly 2.0.

In 10 contests last year, neither Dane nor Jordy finished first; Dane finished second (Trestles) and equal-third (Jeffreys Bay), and Jordy once finished equal-third (Bells). Nonetheless, both held their share of the spotlight, though with no wins.

Well, Jordy finally broke through. And he did so in impressive fashion, in his home country, at one of his favorite spots in the world – Jeffreys Bay. Aside from a controversial last-minute come-from-behind semifinal win over Bede Durbidge, Jordy was easily the surfer of the contest. He's so composed, yet creative. His turns are crisp and his snaps powerful. And he boosts good-sized airs, despite that 6'2", 190 pound frame.

As he took the shoulder ride from the water to the podium, he broke down. His mom greeted him and he broke down again. He did a live interviews, and the tears were streaming. It's not easy to be annointed; it's a hell of a lot of pressure.

It's going to be interesting to see if people look back and point to the 2010 J-Bay contest as the moment the old guard passed the torch onto the new generation. Kelly and Mick Fanning went out early, and along with Jordy, a couple young guns advanced late into the contest. That said, Kelly and Mick (and Joel Parkinson, who was out due to injury) could easily bounce back and win at Tahiti. But it's looking like the new class is mounting an offensive to say "Enjoy retirement," to the older guys.

On to Tahiti and Teahupoo we go.

Photo: SURFER/Ellis

On These Warm Spring Days...

It's hot and humid in NYC today. I'm stuck at school working on various projects, but the only place I want to be is at the beach on a surfboard, legs in the chilly spring waters and my gaze out toward sea in hopes of spotting an oncoming swell. I picture myself at 58th Street in Newport Beach, because the waves are a bit faster and crowds thinner (in numbers, not weight - though that also applies). A day at Malibu aboard a log would also be acceptable, except that the crowds border on hysteria. The numbers, the characters, the egos, the newbees. It doesn't matter if it's 1 to 2 feet or 5 to 6, for some reason the crowds flock regardless. It such a pristine, simple-looking wave, but when the size gets up there, it really is a place only for the experienced – though that will never be the case. Anyhow, as I sit in an air conditioned room, overlooking the mass of undergrads shirtless and pale in the quad area at Columbia University, know I'd rather be sunscreen'd and maybe a bit sunburned, with sand in my hair and the smell of salt on my skin.

I need some waves.

Image from ffffound.com