Potential Ambassadors Of Stoke And Leisure Go Largely Unnoticed

A bombshell story slipped through the cracks last week, laying bare the sorry state of surf journalism. The Top Dreamers for the WSL’s Ambassador of Stoke and Leisure have been announced and gone largely unnoticed.

A pessimist might tell you that life is a long slow grind. You can’t cheat time. You can’t game talent. Only a rare few get to skip the line, propelled to heights ahead of their time through some fortunate combination of talent and luck. But most of are forced to chip away. Try again and again. Fail upward bit by bit.

But why shouldn’t you roll the dice and hope for the best? Pray you’re the lucky one in a billion. That you can post your way to stardom, leak a sex tape and rocket to the top. It probably won’t happen, but it has before. In an infinite universe all is possible.

Social media influencers rule our modern dystopia, it’s only fair we pay them their due. Those slim and supple darlings of the internet age. Attractive to look at, affluent enough to chase a dream unlikely to pay a living wage. Twenty-first century poets employing online patronage to support their dubious paeans.

The kind of person privileged enough to drop their lives for six weeks. To enjoy “Waterfalls. Parties. Cliff Jumps. Famous people. Hammocks. Lava. FRUITY DRINKS. Jet ski rides to places you didn’t even know you wanted to go.” 

Where that jet ski is headed I do not know. Hawaii Kai? The Waimea buoy? There aren’t many places a ski can get you on Oahu. Unless you savor being battered on the open ocean for hours at a time.

These lucky few feature more six packs than a case of beer. Good skin, lithe forms. As white as you’d expect, excepting the token tawny beauty.

It would’ve been nice to see them pick a fat guy. I was tempted to apply, myself. But entrance required a spotless criminal record and applicants “Must not have ever acted in a manner that will bring the WSL into disrepute.” 

You show a bus driver your dick, once, and they ban you from coming within 200 yards of a playground. Now I can’t enter internet contests either? Is there any justice in the world?

We can forgive the fairly narrow subsection of nationalities. Two Aussies, three Americans, one German, a Québécoise and a Spaniard. First World-ish countries, a necessary evil in these times. It’s not like the US is looking to grant a visa to some young ripper from Morocco. Or pretty much anywhere the average citizen falls on the duskier shade of the Pantone chart.

It’s not a permanent position, though few are these days. Neither is it “a game of skill or chance.” That last is important, no one wants to get hammered with taxes on whatever value the WSL has decided to assign to accommodations and airfare. Oprah fans know what I’m talking about. You get a car! And you get a car! And you!

Who will the judges choose for a temporary position with vague promises of exposure and payment? Will it be the mustachioed life of the party? One of the dudes in speedos? The gorgeous Spaniard? The German lady? The up and coming photographer? The Canadian?

Do you think I could get in on this action, convince one of the sexy young runners-up to swing my way? I can offer six weeks on Kauai documenting the squalor and wanton depravity in which I choose to live in exchange for airfare from LAX and an inflatable mattress in my spare room. They’d get open access to my quiver of surfboards and spearguns! Be privy to oodles of middle-aged male nudity. Be safe (relatively speaking) in bed by 10PM each night because there’s almost literally nothing to do once the sun goes down.

All they’d need is a tourist visa and a notarized NDA and they could be on their way! You can’t beat that deal in the digital age.