By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
The lagoon-style pool of the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel is surrounded by lounge chairs and palm trees, with groupings of wicker furniture around ornate fire pits. Most of the sun-worshipers look like they can afford to soak up the $500-per-night sunshine, though it’s not clear how the young men at the bar can afford to drink $7 beers all day. Maybe they’re faking it. The clouds have burned off, and the hotel suites surrounding the pool are mostly quiet. A man is reading Haruki Murakami’s novel Dance Dance Dance; a young girl in a white uniform that looks like a tennis outfit weaves around the chairs gathering used towels and plastic cocktail cups. All in all, it’s a very swanky Sunday afternoon at the Ritz-Carlton.
And then Molt and EG show up with a surfboard and a camera.
Right at the pool’s edge, Molt, a rough-around-the edges, pushing-40 guy, rips off his shirt but leaves on his jeans. EG stands in the shade of tropical shrub, camera in hand. Molt pauses in front of the pool, looks back to make sure EG is ready, then throws himself into the water with the shortboard in front of him. The board lands the water, and he lands on top of the board on his knees and starts paddling. EG snaps photos. A few people notice but seem content to ignore it. The security guard standing nearby is talking into her walkie-talkie—but that’s all she’s doing about these interlopers.
By the time a curious pool guest gets out of a cushy lounge chair to ask the pair what they’re doing, exactly, Molt already has one of those $7 beers in his hand. EG looks at the guard, still muttering into her walkie-talkie, then back at Molt and his dripping-wet jeans.
“You better chug that before they kick us out.”
“You wanna be in our mission?” Molt asks the questioner with a manic look in his eyes.
It turns out this apparently random act of jackassery has a purpose: Molt and EG are from Sector 9 Longboard Skateboards and Apparel, based in San Diego, and they’re teammates in Transworld Surf magazine’s Cali Rally. The Rally is in its third year of scavenger-hunt-style madness spanning the California coast from San Diego to Santa Cruz—nearly 500 miles of bro-tastic action sport antics.
There are four teams of four to six members each: Team Analog, the reigning champions; Team Sector 9; Team Ergo; and Team Rusty. The Rally began last weekend, at the Action Sports Retailers (ASR) convention in San Diego, where each team received a book listing more than 100 missions. Each one they complete, with photo proof, gets points for the team. Extra points can be awarded if the mission is completed with extra flair. The people back at the Transworld base tally it all up at the end.
The event’s kickoff was the Rally’s first checkpoint challenge—one of four along their journey north—which involved the Long Beach Roller Derby girls sharing a track with all these sweaty boys, oblivious to the body-contact rules and ruthlessly driving one another into the cold, hard floor. Someone dislocated a shoulder. In the end, Team Rusty won, in its “Where’s Waldo,” red-and-white-striped shirts and beanies. (Team Sector 9 wore leather jackets that looked like costumes from Grease 2.)
The real madness, though, happens between the checkpoints, when the boys are let loose upon the world with a set of ludicrous tasks meant to both rile up the locals and test how far each team will go to win. Paddling through public fountains, playing tennis naked, making out with MILFs—that kind of thing.
“We’re definitely doing illegal stuff,” says team captain EG.
Team Rusty also won checkpoint challenge two. At Fox’s Sidehack BMX Race of Death at Fox Headquarters in Irvine, bikes were Frankensteined into two-man machines. A driver, with a rider standing on the sidecar platform, circled the small dirt track behind the building.
EG isn’t worried, though. “It’s still anybody’s game,” he says.
The rules are flexible. Take, for example, the “Pose like a queen on the Queen Mary” challenge. EG suspects the other teams will dress in drag on the ship. He’s thinking he’ll get some extra points for creativity and style if the team dresses up as actual queens—a full, royal court of dudes in costume.
At some point between the Fox checkpoint and the Rally’s third in LA, the boys of Sector 9 drop off the map. According to the Transworld Surf blog, which tracks the teams’ progress, no one had heard from them. Then, all of a sudden, there’s a captioned photo of shirtless Molt and two team members, standing among a group of women on a street at night. The text reads, “Sector 9 got a bit sidetracked when they ran into a bachelorette party in downtown San Diego.”