The Grove in Anaheim is a mid-sized concert venue located just outside the border of Disneyland in Anaheim, California.  Once the site of orange groves and perhaps a few historic battles in the wild, wild West, it's now the location for regional productions of Rent, George Carlin LIVE!, and other events for the SoCal bourgeoise.

The Grove itself is an ugly stucco, boxy, early-'90s-strip-mall-architecture building, in a color that can only be described as “dark tan” with mustard yellow undertones – much like the skintone of the crowd that now gathers at sunset for the Billabong XXL Big Wave Surfing Awards.  Big waves are defined as death-defying swells over 25 feet tall and sometimes as big as 70 feet tall.  Most of the guys (and yes, they're mostly guys) who surf these waves are towed into them by Jet Ski, though there's a separate category for those who paddled into the waves the old-fashioned way -- with sheer upper body strength.

Billabong started the XXL Awards in 2000, and it used to be that the winner got $1,000 per foot of wave.  But once guys started riding 69-foot-plus waves, well, now the big prize is a flat fee of $50K.

This is a better-than-average-looking demographic: very stereotypically Southern Californian -- tan, slim, athletic, blond.  There's not a single person of color in sight (unless you count a handful of Brazilian surfers), and the crowd is 70 percent strapping 20-something surf lads, the desirable demo for surfwear and surf lifestyle brands.

“Single, big dick,” chant two snarky guys, only slightly under their breath, as they weave in and out of the people who are milling around.  This is a hot-ticket event in the surf world and a lusty night for various reasons.

Organizer Bill Sharp is touting the event as “the Oscars of surfing,” and there is a red carpet and velvet-rope area on the walkway leading up to the entrance, where press are invited to do interviews and snap photos, much like at the Academy Awards or Golden Globes -- but the comparison ends there.  No one respects the idea of an orderly procession inside: Photographers are forced to catch as catch can, so you had better know who you are looking for.  For the most part, we do, since the surf world is highly documented.    Unfortunately, all surfers kind of look alike (short, blond, wiry, tan).  And in person, these mythic big-wave surfers aren’t very big at all (though my impression of their size and personas will continue to shift as the night wears on).

Corporate sponsorship and logos bombard you everywhere you look – Monster Energy Drink, ESPN, Verizon, Honda, Hawaiian Airlines, and Surfing magazine are all paying for this.

Three giant banners bearing the Billabong XXL logo hang on the front of The Grove, flanked by two banners with photos of big waves.  The pink and black Billabong tour bus is parked out front, and it seems a private pre-party is taking place inside.  Either that or the Billabong-sponsored surfers are getting outfitted and styled.  You’ll be able to spot the  sponsored surfers.  They are the actual surfing talents (as opposed to the majority of this crowd of wannabes and fans), who provide the fodder for the surf fantasy lifestyle.  They will look awkward and self conscious in their stiff new clothes, tags just ripped off, when they take the stage.  It's important to sponsors to see their logos emblazoned on your body – they pay for you to be here, to surf, to live this dream, and for that, they own your ass.

“Yo Rippy!” and “Shasta – wassup?” are typical of the exchanges around me.  Dudes greet each other using ridiculous nicknames.  It seems everyone in the surf world has one. It's like knowing someone’s nickname and using it are part of being in the “in crowd” in what feels like, for better or worse, a giant fraternity of surfers.

Adding to the chaos, there are no less than four camera crews on hand.  Two crews (of two people – cameraman and interviewer/field producer) seem to be roaming among the crowd, and two have official black, curtained-off, stand-up areas, where they lead VIPs for interviews.  ESPN is shooting the awards show and a special to be aired at a later date, and there is a live streaming webcast.

There is a steady rank-and-file crowd inside that swells to about 1,500.  There is some junk food (pizzas, hot dogs, etc.) on sale and a cash bar both outside along the red carpet leading up to the building and just inside the lobby; the drinking is starting full blast.  The only free beverage is Monster Energy Drink, so I sip on a citrus-flavored one.

“Taurine, the stuff inside that drink, is actually bull urine,” a friendly stranger feels compelled to tell me.  “That will make you jump out of your skin.”  He’s sticking to beer.

I am struck by this: These are the people who claim to worship healthy-living musician/environmentalist Jack Johnson, yet they are all wearing cheap, toxic surf brand clothing manufactured in China, logo-ed within an inch of their lives.  There will be no green talk tonight – I guess this isn’t that segment of the conscious-living surf world.

This is a slick production in the sense that along the red carpet there are giant photos of the nominees surfing the biggest waves in the world set up like artworks on easels.  Up for awards tonight are not just the surfers themselves but the photographers who capture them, sell them to surf mags, and give them glory.  This is how these awards are judged – photographic evidence.  If you rode a big wave and no photographer was on hand, tough luck. 

People are still outside when the show starts with film footage on a giant screen over the stage of the year of big wave surfing in review. It’s a very slick video, like surf movies these days – fast-cut edits and driving rock music.  The great thing about seeing film montage is you really feel the weight of these giant things coming down on the surfers like a mountain of bricks.  And I'm struck by how all the waves look so mean and cold, and rarely seem to form in tropical sunny places.  But it goes on too long – maybe 45 minutes.  At first I think it's foreplay, getting the crowd revved up, but then I start to realize that the pics and the film footage really are the action and main event.  The actual surfers aren’t much to look at and though some surprise me with eloquence, most don’t have much to say.  At least not here, not tonight.

The wipe-outs in the film montage elicit the strongest reaction – people moan and groan and hoot and holler.  I laugh when the host of the event, legendary Aussie surfer Mark Occhilupo, or Occy, jokes, “Surfing is an orgasmic experience for all of us but these guys are fishing with longer poles.”  Size certainly matters here.

Five thousand people have filled up the arena tonight, and I’m not sure how strict they were about letting people in at the end of the night – a big crowd looks better on TV.  There are some rough-looking people around – white trash is no longer a politcally correct term, but that’s what it seems like.  Girls dressed like strippers (I overhear one of them complaining about how she has to go outside to get drugs for her man).  Guys dressed up in pimp costumes – afro wigs, smoking jackets, pink Elton-John like sunglasses.  Just like a bad college party.

I am sitting in the press section just in front of the stage; the surfers themselves are sitting behind me, so I can hear some of their chatter:

“That wave was soft,” one says of a mere 40-foot ride.  He’s not nominated and I don’t recognize anyone at his table, but they call out friends' nicknames, and by virtue of where they are sitting, they must be in some big-wave surfers' entourage.  During the footage of the women surfers (a new category this year!), they seem to lose interest and start talking amongst themselves, perhaps uncomfortable with the idea that some girls are surfing at a level they themselves are not.  Later in the evening, when Maya Gabeira snags the “Girls” Award (its always “girls” vs. "men" events), they seem to not know what to say to each other about it, finally conceding and agreeing, “She’s hot.”

Besides the handful of women who surf, the majority of women here are the girlfriends of surfers.  Not all of them seem vapid or are provocatively dressed, but most play into this stereotype.  I am reminded of the old Reef flip-flop ads – faceless women shot from behind, long hair, tight little bodies, wearing only a thong, with a strong emphasis on perfect, tan, exposed butt-cheeks.

But it's not just women who are new players – there are waves from all over the world and surfers from every corner, Tasmania to France to California.  The XXL event seems to increase in scope and appeal and relevance each year. There are 500 entries from around the globe this year, and part of the reason is climate change.  Bigger waves are being created by changing water temps, weather patterns, and freak storms.

A new challenge has been issued.   Who will be the first to ride a 100-foot wave?  It sounds like crazy talk, but the waves are out there, the ability to track them exists, and the surfers willing to ride them are standing by.

There are two women in short, black mini skirts who are the Monster Energy Drink escorts.  Their job is to walk the nominated surfers, who are getting increasingly loaded as the night wears on, to the stage.  I ask them about riding 100-foot waves:

Girl #1:  “ I think the idea is insane.  It's insane that they want to do it, they are insane.  But I’ve been doing this now for three years and each year the event gets bigger and the waves get bigger.”

Girl #2: “They say they don’t care about all this [points to the room full of people, the stage], but they totally do – they love it and live for it.  It's not cool, so they say they don’t care, they do it because they love it, but they totally do.”

Girl #1: “Yeah, they are competitive with each other about anything and everything they do.  They will turn anything they can into a competition, from getting a certain girl to getting into the bus first.”

When the big wave surfers themselves take the stage, Mike Parsons and Greg Long stand out.  Both of them seem so nice and reasonable – going against stereotype.  Also, Long bucks the trend of big waves being the forte of men over 30, many of them retired from professional surfing.  He's one of the newbies, and shows the advantage of youth.  Fearlessness.

But the big prize of the night goes to an elder stateman, former pro Shane Dorian (in his mid-thirties) of the Big Island of Hawaii, for surfing a monster tube at Teahupoo, Tahiti.  He accepts, tears in his eyes and beer in hand.

Stay tuned for my further adventures in Southern California.  Next up: Laguna Beach, the non-MTV version.