Quiksilver Pro 2011 The Outsider: Raging Bull

In: Quiksilver Pro 2011 by Steve Shearer 50 Comments Wed 23rd Feb '11

Tags: sunny garcia , stone garcia , cheyne horan , burleigh heads , dane kealoha , asp , brodie carr , dave prodan , julian assange , adam clarke , chris nyst , pauline hanson , joh bjelke-peterson , pol pot , peter foster , dane reynolds , ali mcgraw , The Outsider , Quiksilver Pro

"On the day when crime dons the apparel of innocence, through a strange reversal peculiar to our age, it is innocence which is called upon to justify itself." Camus.

I dropped my daughter off at school bright and early and headed north to the bright lights and seamy underbelly of the Gold Coast. The plan was to head to Burleigh, sniff around and talk to any eyewitnesses of the Flores/Garcia/Burleigh local beat down that went live and put surfing back on the glittering main stage where it belongs.

I had one main question to answer: how does a man assault another man in front of thousands of people, captured on camera, and walk away without being charged in a modern democratic country that professes to live by the rule of law?

A quick digression to set the emotional tone. I confess a deep and visceral loathing for what the Gold Coast has become. It is a soulless, desperate place covered over with a patchwork of cookie-cutter, middle class, legoland slums populated by carpetbaggers, hucksters, slumlords and real estate agents, heroin addicts turned born again Jesus freaks, scumbags, gimlet-eyed washed-up drunks, has-beens and never-weres, net porn addicts with bad B.O, leather-skinned whores walking into grim Soviet-style whorehouses, hock shops full of stolen goods, used car salesmen, deluded dreamers hawking some snake oil or other, obscenely wealthy plastic surgeons and lawyers who charge by the hour with epoxy SUP's on gleaming new BMW X 5's (baby seal white or jaguar black) and every other kind of stooge and dreg of human society.

The Gold Coast is proof positive that evolution does not always work in one direction, sometimes there is regression. In this case on a grand scale. The skyline is dotted with ugly high-rises whose lower floors contain retail stores flogging the worst kind of asian made junk and useless trinkets, as well as low rent supermarkets where several generations of semi-literate morbidly obese bogan families wallow in the aisles, blood flowing like turgid rivers through sclerotic arteries jammed with cheap margarine and other trans-fatty refuse. Great clots of ghoulish old people stagger like zombies through the promenades with chunks of dripping flesh protruding from bandages where plastic surgeons have carved out malignant skin cancers.

What's that shipmates? You think I'm being too kind? I assure you the place is a monument to greed, short-sightedness, vapidity, vanity of every stripe and flavour, narrow fanaticism, monumental ignorance, idiocy, drunken and meaningless violence, local thuggery and faux spiritualism wearing the cloak of commerce; a vast, jumbled consumer wasteland created by pre-human or sub-human monsters in a delirium of greed. It is the very essence of the fake, the shallow, the meaningless and artificial. Even the very sand that lines the pointbreaks has been mechanically pumped over by great belching machines.

The surf is a clusterfuck of biblical proportions. Millions of tanned and tattooed rats tear each other to pieces to relieve the tension momentarily as they spazz their way over the wave they so viciously fought for. As a general rule of thumb I would rather take a jewess to Auschwitz on a date than take a surfboard to the Superbank. We note in fairness that the surf occasionally produces the most mind-numbingly perfect sand bottom tubes on the planet, with a water so perfectly blue and glowingly iridescent that it is capable of momentarily absolving the litany of sins and transgressions so far listed. There are surfers of sublime grace and casual skill fully capable of threading these blue caverns. History is clear on this fact.

Perched in the heavens atop this modern day Gomorrah, like the tower of Babel, stands the Surf Industry, with it's glittering showrooms full of shiny merchandise via which means pliant surf magazine hacks can be gently persuaded to continue to propagate the almighty myth of the Gold Coast (amongst other money making myths). A dream which has quite clearly turned toxic and insane.

In the words of Captain Willard: "Yes Sir. Quite clearly insane."

I arrived at Burleigh Heads at 10.36 am QLD time. The merciless QLD sun was beating down on me like Gods own blowtorch. I was lucky to get a park on the hill under the shade of a Norfolk Island Pine. Just to my left I saw Cheyne Horan talking to two elder Burleigh locals who shall remain nameless. One may or may not be a surfboard shaper of over 30 years, and the other may or may not be one of the best surfers Burleigh has ever produced, a contemporary of MP, Pro Surfing pioneer and a guy who saw it all go down. He's a large man of strong physique, barrel chested, slightly past his prime but with a piercing blue gaze which admits of excellent health and good spirits.

I greeted Cheyne, who I have known for many years and asked the local who I'll call Mr X if he saw the guy getting bashed...

"Hell yeah," he said. "I broke the fight up. I'm a friend of both Sunny and Adam [the local]. I knew Sunny was going to get into the shit again and I pulled him off and said, 'Sunny, we've got to get the fuck out of here'".

"What happened, who started it ?" I said.

"Oh, it was nothing. Weekend at Burleigh. Bit of fun and games that went too far. Few words. Adam and Flores took it into the sandbar and were having a few love-slaps. Sunny saw his son standing close by and thought he was in the fight. He wasn't. Sunny went in and gave Adam a little hug and a few love-taps"

"Fuck, it looked a bit more vicious than that on the footage." I countered.

"Nah. Adam didn't have a mark on him, just a bit of a sore neck."

Adam, by the way is a 21-year-old local surfer. Stone, Sunny's son, is 16. Flores is in his early twenties. Sunny is in his early forties.

Mr X went on, "Stone was telling his Dad, 'he didn't touch me Dad, he didn't touch me'. It was just a case of mistaken identity. I was pounding Sunny on the chest trying to get him to listen. His eyes were white. I thought he was gunna deck me," he laughed uproariously.

"So what about the Brazzo camerman?" I said.

"Well, when Sunny was in the shower, the guy came up with his camera and started mouthing off saying 'Hey Sunny you think you in Hawaii...how bout you go back to Hawaii?'"

"Sunny said, 'You fucken make me.'"

"Well the guy kept mouthing off and Sunny charged him. The guys courage deserted him at the last moment and he turned tail and ran (never seen a guy run so fast....bahahahahhha). Sunny caught him on the carpark there and pushed him and you saw the grazes. Sunny calmed down, looked at me and said, 'What the fuck have I just done...shit'"

I nodded.

Mr X continued, "Storm in a fucking teacup. Few of the local boys were like 'Fuck Sunny, we're going to fuck him up' but I said, calm down boys we've got a good thing going with the Hawaiians...lets not fuck it up. Remember what happened when D(local enforcer) punched Dane?"

I assumed he meant Dane Kealoha. Cheyne nodded sagely and added, "No need to make things difficult for the boys over there".

"So Sunny got together with Adam and they sorted it out. No fucking drama." And with that Mr X considered the matter closed. Others did too, as I was to find out later.

"Now Cheyne, you out there or what?" said Mr X.

Cheyne nodded. There were some fun chest high peelers on the rock break. Cheyne turned to me, "What about you Shep? Coming for a paddle?"

"I'll get the scraps of the scraps after you guys have finished with it. Got a board for me to ride?"

"Only one of these learner boards. I'm gunna ride one."

Cheyne runs a surf school and we went to his van and pulled out two 8 foot long canary yellow soft boards.

Mr X rode a finless board and fucking dominated with some tasty trim lines and side-slips.

I sat wide on a bright yellow soft board. The perfect weapon to blend unobtrusively into the Burleigh line-up with it's cadres of dirtbags ready to punch on. I went in to the line-up and hustled for an inside wave. It looked unattended so I caught it and delayed a bottom turn to set-up a little inside tube-ride. I caught a rail and out of the corner of my eye I saw a board fly past my head. What the fuck, there must've been some goon take off in the whitewater. I came up eyeball to eyeball with a tattooed tough-guy.

"Sorry mate. I dead-set didn't see you."

A frosty atmosphere descended on the line-up. Was I about to taste the famous Burleigh hospitality? I sat on the board. To be honest, I had the superior and more stable fighting platform. And a faster means of escape if things turned ugly. The local shrugged and paddled away with a shake of the head.

Cheyne thought it hilarious.

"So, you going to the ASP awards night Shep?" Cheyne asked.

"Mate, Julian Assange'll be having cups of tea in the Whitehouse before the ASP invites me to one of their shindigs."

It was time to go visit the Plod and see how the official investigation was proceeding. Actually the case had been dropped but I wanted to find out why. Hadn't the assault been captured on video and made the lead story in the nightly news? Surely the police would proceed just under the weight of the video evidence.

I stopped at a second hand book-store in Burleigh to find directions to the cop shop. Picked up a lightly thumbed paperback copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment while I was there. It might make a nice present for Sunny if I ran into him. Figured he hadn't read it.

The Brazzo camera-guy had dropped his charges and the police had announced they were halting the 'investigation'.

Why? You are about to find out readers.

I drove around the back streets of West Burleigh hoping to talk to someone in the Gold Coast CIB. Ended up driving down Taliban Street. I shit you not, sports fans; you can't make this stuff up. I parked opposite the cop shop still dripping wet. Personal hygiene and grooming have never been my strong suits. My back-up career plan is to move to Ventura and try for bit parts as a homeless drunk in Dane Reynolds' videos.

In bare feet and mouldy boardies I entered the police station. My relationship with the QLD Police force had not always been harmonious, I was hoping my 'paperwork' was in order. The constable came to the front counter. She was a petite brunette who was a dead ringer for Ali McGraw in The Getaway. The day had taken an unexpected turn for the better.

"Can I help you?" she said.

"I'm a freelance journalist trying to find out some information about the Sunny Garcia/Jeremy Flores incident on the weekend," I said. (Damm my black-hearted soul if I wasn't thinking something more lascivious).

She took a long look at me. I shoulda at least worn thongs.

"We have a media liason office which answers enquiries in this matter"

"Um, I was hoping to talk to a detective on the case".

She fixed her pretty little mouth into a rockhard grimace. "That won't be possible, I'm afraid. Here is a number to call".

I called the media flak catchers on the way to Coolie. I meant to stop at the ASP HQ on the way home to Byron with hopes to catch Brodie Carr on his way to the cubicle. A little conversation is all I wanted. Maybe ask him why the ASP was continually looking like amateur hour and couldn't seem to understand why it's inaction looked so hopelessly impotent.

I ran a red light at Palm Beach due to the fact I was on the phone to the Plod's media liason office. Yes, the flak catcher told me, the charges had been dropped. But why, I wondered, had the investigation been scratched. Surely the video was strong enough prima facie evidence for the cops to make a charge? Well, the spin doctor explained to me (he was a lovely chap named CJ...true!) assault cases were assessed on a scale from common assault to GBH and only in serious cases would police continue with an investigation.

Yes, I said. But have police taken the video into account in their deliberations?

"Ummm...." he said. "Which Video?"

"The damm thing was the lead story on Channel Nine News," I exploded.

"Not exactly sure but I think they have made their assessment based on that," he said.

"Sounds like you have to stab more people than Brutus before the police will act," I said.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Thank you CJ, you have been most helpful." I put the phone down.

"NOT!"

I could see now why so much of journalism had been reduced to reprinting press releases. Goddam spin doctors and flak catchers controlled everything. It's not evil so much as depressingly banal. No wonder Assange feels so compelled.

I was at Coolie by now. Running through the shopping mall in bare feet to reach the upper levels where the ASP controls the future of Pro Surfing. Or not, as the case may be. At the front desk an attractive dark haired woman asked me in a heavy french accent if she could help.

"I'm looking to talk to Brodie Carr," I said.

She looked at me, at my bare feet, with naked disdain. "Ees not ere."

"OK. Do you know where he is?"

"Ees in a meeting"

"Fine, do you have a phone number for him"

"You email im."

Great. I took a business card and left the building. School was getting to ready to break and I had to pick up my daughter. On the way home I called the ASP number. The French women answered. I got a strong impression she remembered me. No, Brodie still wasn't there. OK, how about Dave Prodan. Dave's the media guy for the ASP. I met Dave in Taheets. He's a friendly fella. He didn't return my email but he took the call and I thank him for that act of humanity.

"The police investigation is closed Dave, so why is the ASP delaying it's disciplinary decision?" I asked.

"Oh, they're not delaying it...it's just that they've been in meetings and haven't reconvened yet"

"OK, what options are available to them?"

"Options? Bans, fines, expulsion, that sort of thing," Dave answered.

"Do you know if any of those are being considered here?"

"Uh, not to my knowledge."

"OK, the ASP has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to violence. Could you explain what zero tolerance means?"

"Well it's in the rule book so it means the organisation doesn't accept violent behaviour."

"Hmm...OK."

"Is the ASP aware of the depth of outrage over this incident in the broader surfing community?" I asked.

"I'd say they would be."

I was at the Byron Bay turn-off. A car cut in front of me. I waved my fist and shouted abuse. He gave me the finger. I slowed. He slowed. I felt a murderous rage rising in my chest. Christallmighty shipmates, Sunny isn't the only one with anger management issues.

I got to the school exactly on time. Christchurch was in ruins. Tapis and West Texas Crude were skyrocketing in price. Libyans were being threatened with mass murder by a tinpot dictator. Amidst this chaos I felt supremely peaceful, like a statue of Buddha deep in a remote forest.

"Hey Dad, how was the Gold Coast?" My daughter cheerily enquired.

"Aw, you know, just another day at the office."

"Hey," I said, "fancy a pie at the servo? I've got to pick up a new pair of thongs."

Postscript:

What have we learned from this mess shipmates? That human beings are incomprehensible monsters? Oui. Well, it's a spectrum of course. We'll put Jesus and the Buddha up one end and Pol Pot, Stalin, Hitler and every other murderous dictator up the other. But even Buddha abandoned his family and Jesus hung out with whores and tax collectors. You get my drift? Morality is a funny old game...the rules seem to depend on who is playing it.

Sunny's been called out by a million anonymous internet heroes whos courage has ran fiery hot on the keyboard. A dumb thug is the most common refrain. But if we cast a cool and dispassionate eye over the 'recovery plan' from this incident we see strong evidence of a first rate mind.

His first port of call was to hire top Gold Coast criminal lawyer Chris Nyst. Nyst is an author of crime fiction, a screenwriter and has represented talents like Pauline Hanson, Joh Bjeke-Peterson and Peter Foster. I'm sure he wouldn't mind me saying he is the go-to guy if you've got cash and have royally fucked up. Like, serious jail-time fucked up.

We can be almost certain from Nyst's body of work and reading his fiction that his first advice to Sunny was 'shut the fuck up, don't talk to anyone. Let me handle this'. This advice doesn't come cheap though. While Nyst didn't tell me, industry figures confirmed his billable hours would come at around $500/hr.

What inducement was offered to Adam Clarke to ensure he didn't press charges and kept his trap shut? We'll probably never know but whatever it was, if anything, it has worked exceptionally well, so it was probably a good one.

I rang Nyst in his office yesterday to ask him. I spoke to several secretaries who did an excellent job of screening my call. I left my number and went to check the surf. I was shocked to discover when I got back that Nyst had personally returned my call. I quickly called him back.
I introduced myself. He had a voice as smooth and deep as a piece of aged wood. "Where are you from Steve?"

"Lennox Head."

"So you're not the guy from the newspaper."

I thought to myself, 'You mean that kook Fred Pawle'.

"Nah, I do independent online stuff."

I asked Chris if he could confirm if there had been any monetary inducement offered to Adam Clarke to persuade him not to lay charges or if there were any civil actions now pending against Sunny. Nyst sounded just ever so momentarily taken aback...I heard him inhale. He told me he'd have to ask Sunny whether he was authorised to talk to me.

I tried one last tack. I asked him if there were now doubts over the official story that Sunny was protecting his son from 'assault by a larger man' when all the photo and video evidence clearly showed the fight between Flores and Clark.

He chuckled a little. Sorry Steve, I'd have to ask Sunny whether I could answer any questions. "Well," I said "I'm pretty sure I know what he'll say to that request".

"Thanks for your time Chris."

If Dane Reynolds were here none of this would be happening.