I had to leave Huntington Beach yesterday. After brushing past a pretty intense “chick fight,” getting screamed at by cops for accidentally walking into a HAZMAT-obstructed horror scene on Main St., and watching a billboard-carrying evangelist accost a lesbian couple, I couldn’t stay any longer. And don’t get me wrong, I love a party. But after three days, Huntington had begun to wear on me. On my soul. The teenage-public-make-out-and-ass-slapping frenzy rioted quietly on the beach, and I tried to make sense of it all. Impossible. Festivals like these need not make sense. I don’t expect them to. But, being that Huntington Beach is our stomping grounds, and the US Open of Surfing is our creation (meaning the action sports and surf industry), it’d be nice to roll it up into a sensible sentence or two. If I spent another hour thinking about that sentence, I’d deliver one. Instead, I’ll do this pictorially. Because it’s the imagery that has the staying power. Brace yourself. Apologies in advance.
When I think of the US Open, I think first of this image a friend shared on Facebook (which, coincidentally, is not from this year’s event, but representative nonetheless):