Watching a surf competition from the terrace of the Casino in Biarritz is the equivalent watching Roland Garros from a private box, with the beach a only stones throw away. The difference in clientele however, couldn’t be more dissimilar, the likelihood of crossing a Z-list reality TV star, or a member of the Parisian Ray-Ban crowd are extremely remote.
No, this is surfing. The celebrities are replaced by riders and the Ray-Ban crowd work for action sports brands and wear Oakley’s. Frogskins to be precise.
The metamorphosis women’s surfing has undergone recently, isn’t just limited to the water. Competitions attract big crowds. Tom-boy surfers have been transformed into sun-kissed pin-ups, who talk about ‘Opening Ceremony‘ and their ‘sick airs’ in the same breath.
The male spectators have a permanent semi hard-on and don’t know where to look or hide the protruding evidence. On their left Stephanie Gilmore is going super fucking vertical, or right, where Laura Enever is floating past, in a long black skirt, adorned with crucifixes and other appendages, that wouldn’t look out of place on a ‘street style’ blog, with her board in her hand?
Or straight on, where the longboarders loquaciously lounge around with their beers, with a cheeky attire that could have been on the mood board of the stylists from the 1970′s TV adaption of Huckleberry Finn, playing their Yukelalés whilst the gorgeous Capitaine of the crew, Kassia Meador fiddles with a Hasselbach.
In an attempt to justify my presence, I take to trying to ‘capture’ the mood of these backstage festivities. Which is just proof, I’m not a good photographer.