Lacomare hoists the French flag.
French(young)man Marc Lacomare, 20, won the Billabong ASP World Junior Championships at North Narrabeen, Sydney, Australia, a good bit earlier this month. So, why am I reporting on this NOW?
Well, because the ASP World Junior Championships is a joke. Would someone please tell me how two contests spread months apart can possibly be considered a series? Aussie Jack Freestone, 18, won “series” opener the Oakley World Pro Junior in Bali. The Oakley Pro, held in October, took place at the ever versatile Keramas. Freestone’s victory crowned him the 2010 ASP World Junior Champ, despite an unimpressive equal 9th finish at Northy.
Lack of sponsorship led to this pathetic excuse of a tour, forcing today’s up-and-coming surfer’s to recognize that until they start making money for the barrage of stickers defacing their barely glassed thrusters, nobody cares. But people should care. The level of surfing in both events, paralleling the dream-to-crap conditions of the big boys tour, rivals a surf movie. Furthermore, the event highlights the talents of established surf nations as well as new budding surf communities from across the globe.
All that new talent busting progressive blow-tails in mediocre slop was fun to watch, but the scene from Narrabeen sent me back to a real-life dream…
I awoke in my small, dirty Coogee apartment excited for the day’s prospects. The late summer swells were dwindling, and Maroubra hadn’t turned on in a couple of weeks. I’d been walking the cliff-skirting path north to Bronte and Bondi to join the urban masses who descend on these two surf beach destinations, the closest two to the CBD.
Today was different. Steve, my arrogant Bermudan comrade, happened to have a car, and after much coaxing to drag him away from the hordes of tall, blond sheilas, he was willing to drive north across the harbor for a surf day. I jogged the mile uphill to his apartment, and threw my gear in the back of his old station wagon. We picked up our California connections AJ and Brendan then made our way to the bridge, to Narrabeen.
The surf was refreshing. One-foot overhead lines rolled in, breaking close to shore. I was home. The pounding beach break barrels made me appreciate growing up on Hatteras even more than I previously had. Wave hungry, I pulled into anything and everything without prejudice, welcoming closeouts and keepers alike. Then a pack of locals paddled-out directly north of my ragtag student group. I could see that they each had Volcom stickers coloring the noses of their boards. One of them caught a wave. He rips. He looks familiar. I know that style. Ozzy Wright (or Wrong depending on the day).
Ozzy Wrong riding his unicorn.
The above-the-lip pioneer and Narrabeen local sped by me with speed and flow only pros possess. Me and the other guys all looked at each other dumbstruck, blabbering over the surf master we’d just seen. We managed to collect ourselves in time for his paddle by back to his Goons of Doom posse, offering silent head nods of respect.
The session progressed, each of us feeling renewed by our chance run-in. A set wave steamed in wide left, and I was the only person who could get to it. Scrapping, I shockingly made the slight air drop, grabbing my rail, pulling-in and pumping for the light at the end of the tunnel. Repositioning, I parked myself as best as I could under the lip then saw Ozzie sitting down-the-line on the inside, staring, smiling. I heard a noise; he hooted. Unnerved by honor, a flood of pure terror engulfed my mind; I can’t fall, not now. A matter of seconds later the wave was spent, and I kicked-out the back victorious.
That was the greatest hoot I’ve ever recieved – not that I’ve had many. Thanks Ozzie.
Right Coast Shout! 