Rod Cunthorpe Goes To Nazare Tow Challenge

After a decade away from the game, Rod goes XXS

It was while inhaling my third canister of CO2 (stolen from my new mate Nic Von Rumplestiltskin's impact vest) that I had my first few Nazare epiphany. Apart from the fact that the wave is a large, bloated, hoax, it sure felt good to be back at the cutting edge of surf reporting.

Rod goes straight. Photo Owen Tozer @owenmadeup

I suppose it was inevitable that surfing’s deep state would seek to stop me from reporting the truth. Would Mick Fanning be so reviled if Rod hadn’t uncovered the facts about his shameful publicity-hunting fake shark attack? And who else dug deep enough to uncover Kelly Slater had never been vaccinated for syphilis? Had anyone ever seen Dirk Ziff and Billy Kemper in the same bed, till I spent three months undercover and under the duvets of the Kemper compound?

I spoke truth to power. And then flew too close to the sun. The mix of WSL propaganda, Parko’s excessive six-year restraining order and rumours of inappropriate sexual behaviour on a press trip to SeaWorld (I was trying to save those dolphins, in my own loving way), meant I was forced to turn my back on the surf world.

But, unlike every major big wave surf star, I couldn’t turn my back on the Nazare Tow Challenge. With an incredible XXS forecast, waves that barely break, and the average age of the town’s female population being 65, it was time to dust off the Nokia 3310, the 7’1” minimal, and fake Russian passport and hit Portugal. When I found out that a blind, one-legged, dwarf refugee had already ridden the wave, I knew this was my type of surf spot.

“Von Rupp has to be the best female surfer to catch waves that don’t break. And maybe the chubbiest.”

I was lucky that I was befriended initially by a weird enclave of old Australian surf photographers and filmers. Legends like Joli, Tim Bonython and Ted Grambeau have set up a dark room cult in the fort on the hill. They film everything that moves.. and plenty that doesn’t. That’s why it was strange they didn’t catch me backdooring a 16-footer on the minimal after being towed in by my new pal Nic Von Rupp.

Von Rupp has to be the best female surfer to catch waves that don’t break. And maybe the chubbiest. But the Portuguese are famous for making visitor surfers welcome. On the first day in the country, it was obvious that the local surfers had clocked that the world’s most famous surf journalist was back in the ring. Eight Nazare bodyboarders (yep, they still exist in Europe!) surrounded me in a circle and started kicking me in the head with their flippers. I felt truly honoured to be a part of this initiation ceremony.

Nic introduced to a whole load of complete and utter strangers. Sebastian Stuednter was a lovely German fella with a wetsuit made of recycled tuna cans, a tow board designed by German rollerblade engineers and who hadn’t paddled, turned or done a poo since 2008. I also met Andrew Cotton, aka Buds, who turned out to be a potty-mouthed plumber whose knee brace has its own YouTube channel (go checkout Bracing For Impact!!).

Now I’d tell you more about the actual Tow Challenge event, but there’s not much to tell. The WSL clearly don’t see it as a priority, if the commentary team was anything to go by. The panel was a barely recognisable C-Team of unrecognisable kooks that Ronnie Blakey wouldn’t piss on. Unless, of course, Joe Turpel told him too.

The so-called commentary team. Who are these clowns literally on the wrong side of the cliff?

I did, however, manage to sneak into the Red Bull Athlete Zone for the afterparty. It was a sedate affair. Lucas Chianca and Pedro Scooby were on the decks, and I can’t see a future in this game for them if they keep playing Brazilian Funk Carioca rather than John Farnham, Adele or John Legend.

However there was just enough time for a few classic pranks (let’s see if those German engineers can suck diesel out of a 1200 petrol jet ski), or if Garrett McNamara can really still paddle (those nicks in his tow ropes should come out in the next 100-footer), before I raided my new mate’s Rumplestiltskin life vest, grabbed the canisters and sucked in that sweet Carbon Dioxide (and put them back).

As the rapid breathing, confusion, increased cardiac output, elevated blood pressure and arrhythmia kicked in, I looked up to that ancient fort, and those small unbreaking “waves” and thought, without Rod Cunthorpe, surfing is absolutely fucked.