Super Bowl Sunday

I like football. Some of that American shit. Not soccer. Not that game where grown men throw themselves on the ground; clutching crotch and ankle, rolling around like a bunch of bitches. I like proper football, the nitty gritty. So I'm not opposed to the Super Bowl - even with all it's over thought ads and hypersensitivity training. It's alright as far as I'm concerned. At least it's a game where men act like men. So on Sunday, when there weren't waves out west, we figured we'd skip the surfing and just watch the Great Game. But as we drove past what has been an otherwise inactive spot this season, we saw swell. Not ones to waste waves, we pulled over, put on our Pataguccis and paddled out. There were three or four people poaching the peak: our friend Elizabeth, a young dude from somewhere down south and SeƱor Sanchez. The first few were fantastic. Shoulder high sets. Slow and steady. And then it tapered off. From five feet to four, then four to two. But it sure didn't suck, those long little lefts. Plenty of time to take it all in. Sorta like the Super Bowl. Without all the ads.


Snack Time.

Karissa Kill.

Frames.

Short Shoulder.

Squatter.

Right Alright.

Face Feet.

Mr.Max.

Photos by Bricky.
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