A Competitive Analysis Of Surf Trophies
Now, following certain circumstances, impulses, and wandering thoughts that are very much in my control yet I still let get the best of me, we’re shifting our focus to professional surfing.
Why? No reason in particular. There was a substantial contest at the capitalised-for-criticial-emphasis Coliseum of Surfing, so it’s fresh on the mind.
Now, probably like everyone else here, I think competitive surfing looks best when it looks like my friends and I’s Sunday impression of surfing when none of us has been to bed. Only taking the big ones that swing wide. Noticeably stiff on the first three waves. Voices in our heads. That sort of behaviour does not cut it at Pipeline or really in The League in general, however. Something about the deeply unserious reality of it all distracting from the Herman Melville-esque man-versus-nature narrative a lot of people are committed to.
But, it can be good surfing, and good surfing is always worth talking about. Especially when it’s a thinly veiled way to get in on some magnificent SEO. Anyway, since it’s important to add another voice to every conversation, ever, we put together a proper rundown of some of the biggest contests. And by that I mean we highlighted and ranked all their trophies by how much we’d like to go on holiday with them.
Bells Beach
THE BELL THE BELL, WHEREVER HE GOES, HE GOES DONG AND WE RAISE HELL! You all chant as The Bell decimates round after round after round of drinks he’s being served. Bar after bar is emptied, and not even the bartenders can be mad about it. They get to ring The Bell after each shot, and they’re loving it. Everyone loves the bell, and everyone loves the night. No one speaks the same language yet they all understand the Bell. Every night is the best night when you’re with the bell. The best night of your life, every night.
Pipe Pro
Haven’t spoken in a while, you and Pipey. Something about one thing leading to another, life happening, and you got a little closer with Volcom Pipe Pro. I mean, yeah, we used to all be the three most inseparable mates. You all met on the first day of school in Year 7 and then it was sleepovers and Xbox, carpooling to morning sports practice, and every weekend falling into that easy sort of familiar what-are-we-doing-and-where. You were the boys. The lads. The Blads. It’s, just, now you live in the same town as Volc. We’ve both been up here for a good kick now, actually. And you always stuck around home, so it’s less convenient, you know? We’re on our own schedule, sure. But there are lots of shared friends in the city and such, especially when you’ve been living up this way for more than a decade, so we actually get together often. It’s natural, is all. I mean, Volc and I are still in a 15-strong, active iMessage group called “YOU-NEH [beer emoji]” and, well, you’re not because you didn’t go to you-neh with us. So, yeah, we just haven’t talked. Time just happens like that. Anyway, Pipe’s now doing his bachelor. They call you up on the off-chance: haven’t chat for a while, but going to the mountains this summer before getting married. Already have a place in Coeur d’Alene — would you like to go? You would, you would really like to go. The whole weekend’s a lot of golf, one night out at a downtown that can best be described as, “quaint,” and plenty of conversation with other lads who have exactly four letters in their name. Was it good? Yeah! Sure? Yeah? Yeah, sure. Anyway, you don’t talk with Pipey again until the wedding and yes, hiya, no good to see you too thanks, congrats on it all! Unsigned thank you card for your registry gift. It all doesn’t really bother you.
Quiksilver Pro France Trophy
You. The Hossegor A-Frame. A little surf and wine trip across the north coast of Spain. There’s cheese. There’s cider. There’s jamon. There are marble-and-cobblestone beach towns and campsites with beech and oak trees and so many different presentations of white beans. You know what? Gijon is lovely this time of year, isn’t it? Could I live here? Okay, maybe not here, but San Sebastián would be lush. Yeah, let your hair down in San Seb and head to Gijon for some surfing and weekends in Bilbao for culture. It’d be nice, wouldn’t it? You and the Quiky Pro France trophy, roommates together in the Basque Country. This is excelente, you text your non-Iberian-adjacent friends back home. They don’t reply, and it doesn’t matter. It’s you. It’s the Hossegor A-frame. It’s Spain.
WSL Finals Trophy
They’re here because we needed one more for the villa and they’re somebody’s mate from home who was happy to fill in and cover the charge, so it makes sense. They’re pretty easy to talk to, for sure. He definitely has a dialled quiver. “Mostly all custom shapes and a high-performance fish, just something I can still toss around when I want a bit more volume, and then a 90s-styled thruster for fun,” they’re saying. “Wow, jealous of that set-up,” you say. You mean it. You really do. You’re all cracking into the first beers of the day and you quickly overhear them talking to their friend, and their friend is saying something about how it’s good they got a full-time job and have a bit of a structure now. Something about how it really gets them in a routine and the right path or such. This only goes one way: one-on-one street brawl, someone getting glassed to mince in front of a load of parked mopeds by some brick-shit house named “Fin,” and the Finals trophy is sprinting into the night with a broken hand and a lot of previous history and his mate going, “Fin no, not again, Fin. Fin, you’re a state employee! You can’t do parole again, Fin!”
Gold Coast Quik / Boost Mobile Pro
What is being on holiday anyway? Holiday is taking restaurant recommendations seriously while also having to seriously consider the long-term health effects of being on the piss for double-digit consecutive days. It is very earnestly planning your day around a museum while also going, “Hah. Hah, beer?” to yourself on a weekday lunch. Holiday is walking 10 miles a day minimum, making an effort to meet new people, and driving back from a nearby country with a boot full of wine. Holiday is shouting, “FOUR PINTS PLEASE, MATE”, hoarse over the morass at a bartender you’ve queued 20 minutes to see and does not speak English and going, “Wow, how good was that?” to everyone afterwards and always being too hot or too cold when you go to sleep. Holiday is whenever the Gold Coast Pro wooden trophy block is along your side for it all. Like, the most American abroad thing I’ve ever done is just fully vomited in a Salzburg campsite shower and just left it there. See, I tried to keep up with a bunch of Austrians at a bar earlier, didn’t, which is not a shocker, and then one thing led to another and I was back at the campsite I was staying with friends at, throwing up in a shared shower sort of out of in it and sort of out of it. I left a 10 Euro bill on the sink out front in a bathroom I already had to slide a 50-cent coin into a slot just to get into. So, I had that going on, and then I came back to a camper that was a complete state at this time: lots of contorted bedding on the floor, beer bottles everywhere, and everything is sticky. I wanted, so badly, at that moment to be, like, this is Austria’s problem, now. I’m not touching this. I can’t touch this. I’m just going to lie down and expire. But, I was up for a hike at 8 AM the next morning and helped clean before, and was vocally miserable the entire time. That is the Gold Coast Pro trophy on every holiday. Solid, reliable, and damaging to really only themselves but at least it provided a bit of entertainingly tepid chaos in the periphery.
Those Little Trophies You Would Get While Growing Up
Known him forever, and he’s just top, isn’t he? Never really part of the initial plan but always shows up to the beach trip down in Mexico and everyone’s the better for it. They stroll out of the water one sunny day with some fibreglass under their arm and all the girls are enamoured. “Are you a pro?” they ask, while the boys are out trying to find a group of chairs to reserve, and this guy just squats down, toplessly, arms crossed, and says, “Nah. I’m a lifeguard back at home though, so I spend a lot of time in the water.” One of the girls leans in like a feral animal: “Wow, you must love the ocean.” Hah, yeah, The Little Trophy You Would Get While Growing Up says. He stands up, looks somewhere in the half distance, and says, “Ah, I think my friends probably are wondering where I am.” The group is silent now. In the distance, a child accidentally kicks a football over. “Ojo!” They shout as the ball flies over. All the girls watch and hold their collective breath as trophy boy tries to one-touch trap it and instead ricochets it off the top of their foot, absolutely pelting one of the girls directly. Full face. The paramedics keep saying, “Rota,” and it doesn’t sound good. She still gives the trophy her number though and they meet up later that night.