Words: Mimi LaMontagne
Bonjour ladies and gentleman. Today, I am going to attempt to pick the metaphorical wedgie of surfing out of the asscrack of life. Let’s take a moment to look over the past two weeks in the world of women’s elite surfing. Specifically, the online conglomeration between one supremely sexual feminine being and the surf leviathan, Roxy.
That one that caused all that humming and hawing and hawgawfing. Scene: Biarritz. Background: Overplayed, over-appreciated semi-techno semi-alt Flume mix. Could have done better there. Enter perfectly tanned, perfectly toned back and bum, splayed atop a perfectly white, feather-filled mattress. Isn’t it all just so, perfect? The figure goes on to casually rise from bed, adorning a plain white gentleman’s tee, tuning her playlist with pristine technologic care, stripping said gentleman’s tee to the floor without a care in the world, and stepping into a steamy, beady shower of sexuality. Ending on the infamous sands on Biarritz, the lens zooms out as the woman paddles into the abyss… your eyes linger a bit too long. Because you can’t help it. And who are we to blame? We sure don’t blame… you! She’s the tip of the top, the cream of the crop, the opposite of slop! And she celebrates it! So, take a 5-time World Champion and an average punter, who qualifies as judge? Well, the punter of course! The media! The numbskulls and nitwits of the surf society, who billow themselves with inward confidence to the point where fiction becomes fact, and by gum, what I say goes! The crabby, crusty, [most likely] overweight, you-can-tell-you-drink-too-much middle-aged prudes of the world! Please, do us all a favour, get your granny panties out of a knot, pick the wedgie and move on with it, because life is calling. Real life! A place where you can’t hide behind online pseudonyms, detonating unwanted drama, pointing your mythical, insignificant finger in directions that you can’t even gauge. It’ll leave you in the dust! A funny thing… isn’t it, the world of women’s surfing.
Everyone’s so serious! Attacking a promotional commercial! That's right, a commercial, made by a clothing brand, to help promote a French surf contest. And it worked, oui? The publicity, the tout, the hype! Yet here are our women, our elite, playing sitting ducks in a Biarritz pond. Of course there’s the exotic local, the oh-so-glamorous photo shoots, the yoga lessons… but where, may I ask, are the waves? Where’s all the fuss? Surely, if an enticing promotional video can so easily cause a stir, our punters of superior intelligence throughout the globe would be outraged! A glassy ocean for the ladies, while the boys rip their way around the world? How misogynistic! How sexploitatious! Ah, but alas, no sex, no coverage. Now isn’t that a funny thing, you dog you.
So the ASP sits in their cushioned red chair, dishing out competition sites willy-nilly. Biarritz – glamorous, seductive, filled will the flowing locks of intermingled sexes and the enticing smell of freshly baked croissants – when it’s good, it’s bloody good. It goes nuts! But take note, the shore of our French fellow is the only, the only, site that a contest has been totally and utterly called off [If Nick Carroll’s memory serves correctly, as it usually does, this would be the 1994 Quiksilver Surfmasters]. We’re outa here. So could it be, could it possibly be, that the ASP is looking after their paychecks rather than those that make their paychecks possible, i.e. the surfers? The dynamic duo of sex and surfing is nothing but glorious. Sex, it’s magnificent! But as with all superb pleasures of the carnal variety, it must come with a balance. If we gorge ourselves in the delights of cookery, we must exercise to keep in equilibrium. If we drink too much of that luring, enchanting concoction of over-harvested grapes one Friday evening, Saturday rolls around and we find ourselves guzzling water at an unnatural pace. Balance! The necessary counterpart, the better half to the obsessive order of our thoughts. So give the men seduction; give the women the power to seduce! Go on, show that allure, that finesse, that sensuality that only a female surfer can possess. But give them the counterpart. Grace them with the opportunity to prove their skill, flaunt not only their bodies, but their abilities. Show gawking men that, yeah, I’ll blow you out of the water. Give them waves to dance on, and celebrate.