In terms of speed, agility, and explosive strength, a man’s physical prime arrives around age 27. For reference, Mark Richards was 25 when he retired from professional surfing, having won four consecutive world titles.

However, and this is key, a long-running study published in the Journal of Cachexia, Sarcopenia and Muscle tracked participants over several decades and found that physical capacity for endurance-based activities peaks closer to 35.

Which might explain why so many otherwise well-adjusted 30-year-olds suddenly develop an evangelical interest in marathon running. I digress.

Given that surfers spend just 3% of their time in the water actually riding waves, there’s an argument that surfing places a greater premium on stamina than your one-rep max. By that logic, our athletic prime might arrive with a few more candles on the cake.

Need evidence? Both world number ones, Yago Dora and Carissa Moore, are in their 30s. JJF and Medina are 34 and 32, respectively. Miggy Pupo, 34, is putting together arguably his finest season yet. Even Parko’s 45-year-old chassis looked remarkably well-oiled in Surf100.

The biological clock is negotiable, basically. Must be all them peptides.

And for anyone still mourning the ballistic potential of their twenties, here’s 32-year-old Creed McTaggart making a Serpent Sled sing in the latest Rage bit.

One of surfing’s most endearing tropes is watching your buddy get tubed on the final wave of the day, post-sunset, while sipping beers on a Mentawai dinghy.

Need an iconic example? Watch this.

Maybe it’s so compelling because it’s the apotheosis of a surfing life, the end goal we all work towards.

We witness that trope here —in Red Bull’s One More— to great effect.

We are, by now, accustomed to Red Bull deploying its bottomless CapEx to do improbable things. But getting three of the highest-profile professional surfers on Earth to one of the most remote surfing locales, in the middle of their CT season, at the peak of their powers, is scratching the impossible. And yet, they did it.

Jack Robinson, Leo Fioravanti, and Kanoa Igarashi were all born within two months of each other. Kanoa just recently turned 29; Leo and Kanoa are 28. We, as surf fans, have been watching these three for nearly two decades already — since YouTube was fresh enough to call something a “webisode”.

And, however unlikely, all three of them have fulfilled their potential as professional surfers and CT winners. How difficult is that really? Let’s look at the data:

Based on an estimated 23 million surfers worldwide, only .004% end up on the QS, .0008% end up on the Challenger Series, and .0002% make the CT. Of that .0002%, if we assume roughly 35% of all CT surfers (based on current CT athletes) win an event, bringing the final probability to 0.00007%. Using very simple observation skills, one can also state that these percentages are perpetually shrinking — courtesy of a growing surf population and a contracting Championship Tour.

But while all three of them have won CT events, are Olympians, and command steady, stable sponsorship deals, one achievement has eluded them: a world title. That fact is the center of the video you see above.

On that note, let’s look at some stats:

Currently, Leo holds court, sitting at 4th in the world compared to Kanoa’s 8th and Jack’s 12th.

However if we’re talking big picture, despite qualifying five years after Kanoa and four years after Leo, Jack has dominated the trio in terms of overall tour performance.

Jack has nine CT wins to Leo and Kanoa’s one; has the best end-of-season ranking (3rd); and has an average of 40,500 points per season compared to Kanoa’s 31,300 and Leo’s 19,500.

Jack has also beaten both Kanoa and Leo in CT finals, the only of the three to directly beat the other two in a final. And, if we’re really getting particular with numbers, Jack is the only one who’s reproduced. Put some respect on this guy’s name.

No matter what comparisons get made — whoever wins the Title first will render the other stats mere footnotes.

Who would you put your cash on?

TL;DR:

• Only two heats ran today
• Another Hawaiian world No. 1 is sent packing

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A woman from the fire brigade, wearing sterile gloves, holds a compress against a wet, bleeding head.

Someone copped a fin to the back of the dome in the early morning high tide shorebreak at Supertubos.

Down the beach, a surfer drops into a left on their backhand, pumps a couple of times and hucks their frame into the air.

The pesky northerlies keep them up there a little longer. A lofty full rotation from Griffin Colapinto, similar to the one he used to punctuate a barrel ride yesterday for the highest score of the event so far, this time with an additional indy grab (I think. Please don’t shoot, Jimmicane!).

The comp hasn’t started yet, but the crowds couldn’t care less. A make is a make. Supertubos is a little smaller and wonkier, but looks fun and could improve as the tide drops.

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Women’s Quarterfinals

The women paddle out for their quarterfinals. Francisca Veselko and Bettylou Sakura Johnson get through a grindy affair that feels longer than the 40 minutes allotted to them. BLSJ wins by 0.09 points.

Suddenly, the beach is standing room only. Security has been beefed up, and more steel barriers have appeared in an attempt to get surfers to and from the water with minimal hassle from the weekend crowds.

A group of happy and very yappy Brazilians has set up camp and saved some space for their brunette friend, who arrives late to join them. “Sorry, I was dressing up for Medina,” she says without irony. She doesn’t seem particularly interested in Caity or Carissa.

Supertubos doesn’t improve. As the tide drops, a strong rip pulls water off the sand and into the depths between the shifting peaks, which are becoming less predictable and, more often than not, closing out when sets come through.

Caity Simmers wins the lottery against Carissa Moore, who moved to No. 1 in the rankings yesterday, and makes the best of what’s on offer. She’s the only surfer who manages to make it look fun.

Contest goes on hold for a couple of hours, at least.

Perfect timing for a leisurely lunch at one of the food trucks, temporary restaurant or over a five course banquet in the VIP area.

During the break, conditions cleaned up a little, and the best waves of the day rolled through for a crowd of freesurfers. A few good rides drew hoots from the beach, and the surf looked better than anything in the morning’s two heats.

After a three-hour-plus wait, the beach announcer delivered the news to the thousands waiting in the sun and poorly hydrated.

No pro surfing for you.

Check back again tomorrow.

MEO Rip Curl Pro Portugal Presented by Corona Cero Women’s Quarterfinal Results:
HEAT 1: Bettylou Sakura Johnson (HAW) 7.43 DEF. Francisca Veselko (POR) 7.34
HEAT 2: Caitlin Simmers (USA) 11.50 DEF. Carissa Moore (HAW) 8.93

MEO Rip Curl Pro Portugal Presented by Corona Cero Women’s Quarterfinal Matchups:
HEAT 3: Teresa Bonvalot (POR) vs. Lakey Peterson (USA)
HEAT 4: Molly Picklum (AUS) vs. Erin Brooks (CAN)

MEO Rip Curl Pro Portugal Presented by Corona Cero Men’s Quarterfinal Matchups:
HEAT 1: Morgan Cibilic (AUS) vs. Gabriel Medina (BRA)
HEAT 2: Italo Ferreira (BRA) vs. Guilherme Ribeiro (POR)
HEAT 3: Yago Dora (BRA) vs. Ethan Ewing (AUS)
HEAT 4: Seth Moniz (HAW) vs. Griffin Colapinto (USA)

We start this week’s The Drop on a more sombre-than-usual note, touching on the unfortunate news that has been flooding our screens. Buck and Mikey address what we know so far, which Ethan Davis also wrote about.

An abrupt shift tells you all you need to know about getting your hands on one of Harry Bryant’s EAST surfboards without having to fly to Chile and shuffle your bony butt across the sand until you’re close enough to palm one of his finalists.

Buck gives us a firsthand account of a recent trip to Waco, Texas, for the Swatch Nines event, then nerds out on AI surf forecasting tools, despite being able to walk from his bed to the beach with a coffee and still have it be warm by the time his functioning eye registers what the ocean is doing.

Fortunately for him, no peninsulas in the vicinity have started disappearing quite like Balboa’s, which has recently met its long, pre-announced fate.

At his favourite peninsula, Peniche, the 10th stop of the 2026 World Tour is set to start tomorrow morning at Supertubos. Paul Evans, who will be taking his usual seat in the WSL commentary booth, has written about what to expect this year, with his customary candour and eloquence.

Our hosts discuss the setup, format, favourites, underdogs, overdogs and personal picks for the 2026 Rip Curl Pro Portugal.

If you’ve been salivating for some elite surfing competition and need something to tide you over until the buzzer goes off tomorrow morning around 8ish (WEST time), jump straight into another event preview, discussion and prediction. This time, Mikey and former CT coach Stace Galbraith make their picks accompanied by very recent footage of the warm-up sessions at Supers.

Warmly,

Us

Editor’s note: Before reading this story, we recommend hitting play on the song below for a premium article experience.

Four bullets found their way onto Rickson Falcão.

One grazed his back and the others struck his right foot, leg and left ankle. The 19-year-old Brazilian pro surfer underwent surgery and was discharged from hospital last Sunday. He later took to Instagram to thank well-wishers and reassure fans.

“Thank you, Heavenly Father, for this chance to live. If the bullet that hit my back hadn’t just grazed me, I don’t know if I’d be here,” he wrote.

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Rickson was having açaí with two friends at a crowded beachfront venue on the eve of a public holiday when the shooting began.

Speaking to Stab, Falcão’s manager, Felipe Freitas, said he believes the young goofyfoot will be back in the water in about a month. He couldn’t stress enough how lucky Rickson had been despite being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“One of the bullets went through his Achilles heel and the tendon, but didn’t hit either. A miracle,” he said. “Otherwise, he could forget doing airs for the rest of his life.”

“Another bullet hit his tibia. It perforated the bone but didn’t shatter it. Another miracle.”

As for the bullet that grazed Rickson’s back, Freitas said, “If he’d been turned about 30 degrees to his right, he would’ve been shot in the chest and probably died.”

Two of Falcão’s friends were also wounded in the shooting. Professional skateboarder Pedro Magalhães Marchi was shot in the arm and surfer Kauã Vilhena was hit in the calf. Both are in stable condition.

Rickson managed to limp away from the scene towards the road before collapsing. As luck would have it, a friend happened to be driving past.

Freitas said. “He held him, got him into his car, and drove him to the hospital.”

Security camera footage of the attack shows the moment gunfire hailed down at the Saquarema snack bar last Thursday night.

Patrons can be seen abandoning tables and scrambling for cover. At one point, a young woman falls to the ground and is dragged inside the establishment by another person.

Three other people were shot, one of whom later died. According to the Military Police, Luan de Itaúna didn’t survive after being rushed to the Municipal Hospital.

Police records state that a black car drove past the scene before one of its occupants fired more than ten shots. Luan is believed to have been the intended target.

The Military Police were called at around 11pm. By the time officers arrived, the injured had already been taken for medical treatment and nearby businesses had closed. Two 9mm shell casings were found at the scene.

The case has been registered with the Saquarema police station, and investigators are working to establish the motive for the attack.

It’s a tragic moment for those affected, but perhaps the start of a heroic surfing story. Keep an eye out for Rickson.

More than two years after the bodies of Callum and Jake Robinson and Carter Rhoad were discovered at the bottom of a well, a Mexican court has delivered its verdict.

In May 2024, the bodies of three young surfers, two Australians and an American, were discovered at the bottom of a 50-foot well near La Bocana, roughly four miles west of Santo Tomás in Baja California, Mexico. All three had been shot in the head.

The victims were Perth brothers Callum Robinson, 33, and Jake Robinson, 30, and their American friend Jack Carter Rhoad, 30. The three had crossed into Mexico from the United States for a surfing and camping trip, chasing waves near Punta San José, a remote stretch of Pacific coastline approximately 50 miles south of Ensenada.

They were last seen in late April 2024. On May 3, after an extensive search involving Mexican authorities and assistance from the FBI, their bodies were recovered from the well. Their Chevrolet Colorado pickup had been found burned nearby.

Investigators initially suspected the men had been killed during a robbery, possibly over the tyres on their truck. Prosecutors subsequently alleged that the three surfers were confronted while camping in a secluded coastal area and shot after resisting attempts to steal their vehicle.

Now, more than two years later, three Mexican men have been found guilty of their murders.

On Friday, October 9, Judge Raúl Hernández delivered the verdict following a month-long trial in Ensenada, convicting Jesús Gerardo García, known as “El Kekas,” Irineo Francisco and Ángel Jesús of aggravated homicide and related robbery and vehicle theft offences, according to the BBC.

The defendants, who have been in custody since 2024, are scheduled to be sentenced on October 16. Prosecutors have sought lengthy prison terms, with reports putting the requested sentences between 150 and 210 years for each man.

The trial offered a harrowing account of the surfers’ final moments, including testimony from the former girlfriend of García, who said he had confessed to the killings. Ary Gisell Silva Raya had previously admitted her involvement in the robbery and was sentenced to 20 years in prison in November 2025.

Throughout proceedings, defence lawyers questioned the reliability of the investigation and the prosecution’s evidence. Ultimately, the court found all three men responsible.

The parents of the Robinson brothers, Debra and Martin travelled from Western Australia to attend the proceedings, remaining in Ensenada throughout much of the trial. During closing arguments, Debra described Callum and Jake as their only children and told the court that their murders had taken not only their sons, but the futures they had imagined sharing with them.

“No sentence can bring Callum and Jake back; nothing can undo what has happened, but accountability matters,” she said, urging the court to impose the maximum penalty.

Martin was equally direct in describing the scale of their loss. “It’s hard for a parent to lose a son, and we lost two sons.” Members of Carter Rhoad’s family also participated in the proceedings remotely.

Following the verdict, Martin and Debra thanked the judge, witnesses, prosecutors and Australian consular staff who had helped bring the case to trial.

“While no verdict can ever bring back our boys or ease the heartbreak of losing them, we hope this outcome represents an important step towards justice and accountability,” Martin said.

The murders also punctured the sense of relative security enjoyed by foreign surfers travelling through northern Baja California. While the state has long grappled with violent crime, the surfing communities around Ensenada have maintained a reputation for hospitality, drawing generations of Americans and international visitors across the border.

Related: How Can Surfers Stay Safe In Baja? Rusty Long, Dino Andino and Damien Fahrenfort offer their best practices, DOs and DONTs, when visiting Baja.

Add to the GoFundme here.

Surfing lost one of its greats today—Hawaiian Larry Bertlemann, perhaps the most influential, progressive surfer of the shortboard revolution 1970s, whose stylish, low, powerful, and timelessly radical approach not only helped pushed surfing into its modern, high performance era, but inspired the first generation of skateboarders like Dogtown’s Jay Adams and Tony Alva to expand the limits of what was thought possible on a skateboard. 

“Skateboarding grew from  the roots of GIANTS. We owe you everything.” Thrasher Magazine posted in tribute to LB. 

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“Larry Bertlemann has graduated to the party in the sky,” wrote surfing’s preeminent style scholar, Joel Tudor. “Few people in surf can say they changed the trajectory of progression…Larry flipped the world on its head with his “anything is possible” mantra & style…also gave birth to skateboardings technical advancements in wall riding transitions! Legend isn’t even the correct term to explain his role in both activities! Rest easy sir and tell all the crew upstairs aloha!” 

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Bertlemann was born in Hilo, on the northeastern, windward side of the Big Island, but moved to Oahu at 11, where he learned to surf along Waikiki. Before long he was climbing the ranks at the South Shore’s premiere spots, like Ala Moana, enjoying the tutelage, as well as the handshapes of Ben Aipa, who along with Dick Brewer laid the blueprint for today’s high performance designs, from rockers and rails to outlines and fins, and Larry was the perfect test pilot. 

“A teenaged Larry B.S.-ed his way into surfing’s epicenter in 1970 by telling Colonel Al Benson and wife Blanche that he lived in a box on the jetty at Ala Moana,” wrote Jason Borte for Bertlemann’s inclusion into Surfer’s 50 Greatest Surfers of All Time. “They fell for his act and provided him a ready-made North Shore palace complete with an instant, loving family and access to the best waves and best surfers on the planet. In the Benson household, Bertlemann inherited not only a handful of competitive brothers and sisters but also a photographer/mentor dad in the Colonel and a revolving trail of visiting pros as roommates.”

“After a few years with the Bensons, coupled with shaping and coaching from progressive-minded Ben Aipa, Larry was primed to turn surfing on its head. Of course, he didn’t see it in those terms. Like any 18-year-old, he just wanted to go off. “It was so easy to go straight, and I didn’t like that,” he recalls. “I seen guys surfing, but I didn’t wanna be like one of them. Gerry was just the Adolph-Straight-Off guy, which anybody can do. I wanted to make Figure 8’s and he was making capital L’s…I was the anti-Gerry.”

Bertlemann garnered the nickname “Rubberman” for his loose, limber style, and crouched, low center of gravity, bent-knee approach. His fronthand carve became the most famous maneuver in surfing and skateboarding for a time, known formally as a “Bert,” and emulated by thousands of skateboarders the world over after seeing him on the big screen in some of the period’s biggest films—”Sea Of Joy,” “Super Session,” and others. 

Footage from the early and mid 1970s also finds Bertlemann doing some of the first real attempts at above-the-lip surfing, a decade before Christian Fletcher and the 80’s aerial revolution. His rock star good looks and flamboyant style on land and in the water made him one of the most marketable and photographed surfers of his generation, the muse of some of the greats like Art Brewer, Kirk Aider, Jeff Divine. 

While not known as a contest surfer, he took fourth at the 1972 World Surfing Championships, and placed third at the Pipe Masters the same year, then won the U.S. Surfing Championships in 1973, and captured the prestigious Duke Kahanamoku Surfing Championship in 1974 at Sunset Beach (The Duke served as the de facto World Title from 1965 until the mid-1970s and the launch of the ASP World Tour). 

“You made dreams happen for a lot of us kids,” posted Kelly Slater. “Never forget the influence and how cool you were to me as a kid getting your autograph.” 

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“There’s so much I want say about this Legend,” wrote Johnny-Boy Gomes. “Larry ( Rubberman ) Bertlemann who paved the way, not only for me since I was a kid but millions of other around the world and was a huge Inspiration to my surfing and also, we have the same birthday, Aug. 7 and I was stoked to have celebrated our birthdays a few times together. Larry is a big part of surfing history and he left his mark in the surfing and skateboard world forever and LB was ahead of his time. Aloha and Mahalo for Paving the way for us Hawaiians and many more around the world. Until we meet again, I love you Champ.”

Growing up, my Dad had one set of surf movies at home: the Jack McCoy box series. 

Those were the films that shaped my early childhood and how I view surfing — Jack’s trippy editing fuelled by some god-given natural substance planted a seed of creativity in me and a lifelong love of surf films.

One scene burnt into my memory was from Margo’s cameo in Green Iguana. He was 19, surfing with Occy thanks to Munga (Barry) blowing out his knee, at a place I instantly recognised. My young brain had just completed its first “Spot Snipe”. They were in W.A. I knew that camp site. I knew that drive. It’s where I got my first tube, had my first job collecting bins and lighting fires with my old man. 

I knew exactly where they were and what they were up to.

Fast forward 20 years later, I was sitting on the deck of a boat in Fiji with my uncle. He suggested I should do a trip with Margo back up there. He wanted to rally a crew of mates, all die hard Margo fans, to help make it happen. I ran with the idea and didn’t have to look far to get it off the ground. I called my good mate (and sponsor) Aaron – the original brewer, core surf lord and boss of Gage Roads Brewing. He was backing it.

A couple of days later, I rang Margo. Coincidentally, the same day the trip got the green light was also my birthday. We spent the first few minutes talking about getting older. 

“You haven’t hit your prime yet,” he gassed. “Mine was between thirty and thirty five.”

I laughed. “I still feel like I’m eighteen.”

“Mate,” he said, “I still feel thirty.”

We both cracked up. Then I told him. “The trip’s happening.”

20th of June. 

I’d just jumped off a sailboat halfway up the WA coast. Margo had flown over, grabbed my Cruiser from Perth and driven north with Aaron to scoop me. I enjoy long drives. There’s nowhere to hide. No reception, no phones and the never-ending straight road has a way of putting you into a highway hypnosis. 

I’m a curious cunt, and Margo has some of the best stories going. He’d tell one unbelievable story before immediately following it with another that was somehow even better. Every now and then he’d stop himself.

“Nah… that one can never be re-told.”

I assured him the car was now a steel confession box. We spoke about his relationship with competing and freesurfing back in the day. A relationship I have been investing in this year. 

Margo’s a competitor, mostly with himself, always chasing the best version of what he can do. He told me about the tail end of his competitive years, getting sat on by three Brazilians in two-foot surf with no priority rule to save him — the type of situation that’s made plenty of Aussies throw in the towel over the years.

These days his competitiveness begins and ends with bird watching. The whole drive north he’d call out bird species, rarity, the lot. He was given a bird book as a kid when travelling around Australia with his family and it stuck. His goal now is a top-1000 world ranking for bird spotting and he plays it dead straight. If he doesn’t get a clean look it doesn’t count. No maybes. Which sums up his character – A genuine honest bloke.

Eventually the bitumen disappeared and we hit the corrugated track. My old landcruiser loaded to the brim. 140 litres of fuel, 80 litres of water, nine boards and 25 cartons of beer to act like Father Christmas once we arrived at the campsite. 

My tyres dropped to 20 psi to soften the corrugations and the rattle on your Jaw. “Bang!” The suspension had started to clap out. Not bad enough to turn back but bad enough that the rest of the drive to camp came with the odd sound of a shotgun going off under the foot. 

Ah well.

The first few days were small. We had a tinny, and Margo hadn’t been fishing in fifteen years. Our first mission out we lost one Spanish mackerel to a shark and threw back another for being undersized. I could see the hunger building in Margs, a hunting instinct waking back up.

To rub salt in the wounds, two Israelis rolled back into the beach after us carrying a horse Mackie like they’d won the Olympics. Margs and I looked at each other with our bruised ego’s and nodded. “Fuckwits.”

Next day we went looking for a corner to ourselves. Aaron had a few spots up his sleeve. All three of us don’t enjoy surfing with people. The day we went fishing Aaron went hunting waves by himself. He had three surfs, headbutted the reef and scored some tubes. He wanted to take us back there to try score it with him. After an hour and half drive north through the pin stripe bushes and brain rattling track we got a first peak of the wave.

A crystal blue peak.

The next few hours I saw the lads in flow as time disappeared trading waves. Margo turned back the clock standing upright in blue shacks, Az got his redemption tubes and I was in awe watching the old VHS tapes come back to life.

There was a solid storm front about to march up the west coast which was hopefully going to deliver surf. We had time for one more fishing mission so we were up at sparrows fart to make it happen.

We had barely got out around the bombie when Margs yells “ Fish ON!!”He had been thinking about this moment for days and so had I. Margs was like a raptor in flight – no wasted movement, just pure mongrel.

He gets it up beside the boat and lets out a roar – “ A long tail tuna!! Yahhooooo”

We pull her back into the beach and got Margo to parade it around the camp (just kidding). But we made some top-notch Sashimi as we bunkered down for the storm.

It pissed down most of the night but we woke up to swell that was solid enough to find the reef but wobbly and far from clean. On the west coast this time of year the pattern’s predictable. Offshore southeast in the morning, swinging more south as the land heats up, then howling onshore southwest by the arvo. I figured today would run the same playbook. Leftover cloud from the storm brought the odd rain squall through. Four hours into the session the swell was fading and the wind was about to ruin it completely. 50 people out and I still hadn’t scored one. The wind started to feather in and people started peeling off. A squall further up the point rolled through and the onshore hit. I thought that was it. Then it passed, and the wind swung back strong offshore. Kind of a miracle.

You spend enough time out at a wave and you build a connection with it. Some days it wants to hurt you and other days it looks after you. This day it was my friend. I found two fun ones in the next hour before the wind properly turned. After a seven hour session I was glad to see the wind come howling in and get the chance to rehydrate with nectar of the gods.

The next morning Margo was hobbling around with a sore knee from so many backside belts. My eyes were leaking from 7 hours of ocean glare. We couldn’t give 2 shits. We kinda scored

We packed up camp said goodbye to everyone and headed back south. We stopped into the Barry for a counter meal on the way back. Margo told me about the last time he was there on the same trip when he was 19. The locals were running a boardriders event and if they wanted to surf out there they needed to wear a rashie and compete…

Occy ended up winning the comp and the prize pool – A massive bag of pot haha…

As Margo and I parted ways at the airport we hugged goodbye.

To take one of my favourite surfers and one of the best humans back to the place he considers the first real chapter of his surfing career felt like winning. At the same time, it gave me the chance to nurture the seed that Jack McCoy planted in my own young mind all those years ago.

Rest in Peace Jack. I Hope you enjoyed the edit.