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JOHN JOHN FLORENCE WINS THE 2014 QUIKSILVER PRO FRANCE


As the 2014 Quiksilver Pro France comes to an end, we wanted to reflect one more time on the magical little region known as les Landes. For two weeks a year, Hossegor and the surrounding area becomes a playground for both the world's best surfers and the common folk looking to mix and mingle with the elite wave-sliders. To illustrate the point, we tapped Surf Europe Mag's editor-in-chief Paul Evans and legendary European photographers Bernard Testemale and Timo Jarvinen.

 

 

Imagine Huey, God of ocean swell, making expert love to an endless stretch of golden French sands. 

 

Thrusting and parrying from his deep ocean lair, sending powerful, blue swell belts at a pristine, pine-fringed strip of steep, coarse, perfect sand. But no nervous teenage fumble. No. Expert, masterful lovemaking. Endurance, rhythm, skill, with just a whiff of danger. A mix of Sting in his 80's karma sutra phase, Rocco Siffredi and Bond. A gentleman lover of some prowess.

 

The result is the surfers' paradise of South West France. Where forest meets ocean meets mountains meets fun.

And the beach? A willing recipient. Sculpted from coarse golden sands, she runs sleek and true from the Pyrenees foothills in the south to the Bordeaux vineyards in the north. Her curves sculpt steep and voluptuous at the water's edge, before plunging deep to the abyssal depths offshore. Her sultriest, most provocative asset? A deep trench offshore of Hossegor/Capbreton, a deep seabed gash that brings raw Atlantic energy all the way to shoreline unrestrained, where it romps into spinning shorebreaks with unapologetic violence. 

 

 

The result is the surfers' paradise of South West France. Where forest meets ocean meets mountains meets fun. Meets good people. Good people from all over Europe, from all over the world. Where accents in the line-up range from obscure Slavic tongues, to local Gascogne slang, to weird Basque to Scandinavian robot to broad New World English vowels. Where all said tongues mingle on dance-floors until dawn licks orange fire over the great pine expanse to east. And it starts all over again.

 

 

If you come in autumn, the surf will pump, you might get sprayed in the face by your favourite pro. You might spray his face right back. 

 

You could rent a dream dune-top palace designed in the architectural style of Le Corbus or Frank Lloyd-Whassisname, if you got the readies. Or maybe sleep in your piece-of-shit van, eating cheap pasta from a saucepan standing up, and get tubed out of your mind between al fresco plops. Or tent flap it at Le Camping. Or rent an apartment next to six German girls from whom you really need to ask to borrow a cup of sugar. Or sleep on the beach under the stars lullabied by roaring whitewater. 

 

Leo Fioravanti & Ramzi Boukhiam

 

You'll surf the tide as it runs in calming the current, you surf it as it runs out, trying to drag you to Spain. If you come in autumn, the surf will pump, you might get sprayed in the face by your favourite pro. You might spray his face right back. The water stays balmy until Halloween and if you stay until the Beaujolais nouveau, you might see the ocean go mountainous. Or you might just come for a long weekend, a naughty French quickie. But don't say we didn't warn you; she's a mistress hard to rid yourself of. It'll be no one-off fling. As sure as the sun dips faithfully in the great Biscay west, you'll be coming crawling back for more.

 

Mikey Wright