You want us to tell you that this is a moment of perfection. You want to hear about how John John Florence showed up just as the perfectly golden sun swan-dove into the perfectly emerald Atlantic and that he surfed alone. That every wave sung along without flaw like a symphony. One by Frédéric Chopin or Johannes Brahms or, at the very least, by Erik Satie. And that there were beautiful women on the beach. And that the bikinis they wore were so perfectly indecent. That this exists.
Truth is, this wave is
actual hell. More of a slob than a slab, it literally breaks onto a shelf of rocks. They’re not soft, the rocks, nor are they the type that forgive. The drop is impossible and then there are warbles, warbles and more warbles. The beast is many things, but perfect is not one of them.
But maybe that’s exactly where the perfection lies. —Brendan Buckley