“Unequivocal ten point rides were logged. Fliipe
paddled (a bit). Whales breached. Kelly shed tears.”
It was a long time coming, days that seemed to
span out longer than the hours that were the sum of their parts.
Stretched and aching towards flaccid forecasts that not even
Surfline’s fluffing could revive.
But today, it delivered. It wasn’t all-time Pipe, but it was
more than good enough.
Sunshine and light offshores made for picture perfect moments in
Hawaiian blue. Unequivocal ten point rides were logged. Fliipe
paddled (a bit). Whales breached. Kelly shed tears.
We cantered through the whole of the men’s round of 32 then 16.
Forty minute overlapping heats once again raised the question as to
why this isn’t the standard format? I see fewer drawbacks and more
gains every time it’s deployed.
Kaipo was spitting stats again, tripping from heat winning
percentages, to heat win totals, to niche jokes and multilingual
colloquialisms with breathless tones of profundity.
“I need to calm my mind”, he admitted, in conversation with Tom
Carroll. “All sorts of stuff zig zags up here.”
Strider, elvish on the sand, talked about sand. He had been
usurped in the water by Ross Williams, perhaps owing to an injured
paw. On the first day of the broadcast he was garnished with a
neoprene wrist support and mild glumness. Both were quickly
disappeared.
The only results that may be considered upsets in the round of
32 were rookie victories for Al Clelland and Joel Vaughan,
dispatching Jack Robinson and Jordy Smith, respectively.
Vaughan noted in his post-heat interview that he’d just got his
first proper wave at Pipe. How ludicrously brilliant, I thought. In
which other sport would an elite competitor not be able to get reps
on whatever stage he or she chose?
Clelland has certainly had his Pipe reps, and is living up to
considerable hype at this early stage. Most hyped rookie
since..?
He had Jack Robinson scratching after logging a 9.50 for a
double Backdoor barrel.
Undeterred, Robinson, as he is wont to do, went slightly better
with a perfect ten and zero arguments for a better formed Backdoor
wave.
Jack has a way of making completely disconnected take-offs look
assured, such is his mastery in heaving waves. Note the smooth
compression flowing from shoulder to knee to rail as he sunk into a
feline crouch after making a drop that would cause aneurysms in
mortal men.
But it was not enough.
“You know what”, chirped Clelland on the sand, “I’m Mexican. I
go all out. I never go half way.”
They could make a good rivalry, Clelland and Robinson. Both seem
fearless and composed in heavy waves. Clelland has a little more
stray voltage than Robinson in his demeanour, but this is exactly
the sort of personality that can crack Jack’s zen exterior and
release the demons we all want to see. Open the box, Jack. Let
those fuckers fly.
Another hyped rivalry is that of North Shore boys (NSBs,
according to an abbreviation that Kaipo apparently made up today)
Mamiya and Florence.
Florence had trotted through his early heat against rookie
Jackson Bunch, throwing away an eight-five. But it was hard to get
too excited. There was lots of talk in the booth about Exciting
Things for the Florence brothers, but I’d rather see the raw,
unedited talent of John in a heat. Watching him here was just a
sour reminder of what we won’t get to see all season. Watching
edits of him and his brothers, swanning round the globe, would be
equivalent to the forced voyeuristic torture of watching your ex
(slimmed down and hotter than ever) have sex with a new
partner.
But Barron Mamiya had his number in the round of 16. Kaipo, with
a tone thick with desire and pride, pimped him as The Prodigy. His
early perfect ten for a Pipe bomb was not prodigious, but vastly
accomplished. And it was good to see the judges recognising the
wave could not have been surfed better, instead of hemming and
hawing with nine-point-eight-whatevers.
Florence came back with a ridiculous 9.63 for a Backdoor wave he
pumped wildly through, and then a solid seven-something back-up.
But Mamiya’s back up was that little bit better, as was his marquee
wave.
Another stylish performer was Italo Ferreira. Despite no scores
in the excellent range, he’s comfortably through to the quarter
final after defeats of rookie Groggia and local specialist Moniz.
And I mention Italo specifically here because he is oft criticised
for his style, and it’s about time someone noted his flawless
forehand barrel technique. Look again.
As for Filipe Toledo, well, clearly still a man in some turmoil.
Although for my money, drastically lowballed and cheated in his
eventual loss to Jake Marshall.
He waited forever to even attempt a wave in his first heat
against Silva. After twenty-four minutes he logged a small Pipe
barrel for four points. “So much psychology”, said Ross Williams
from the water as Toledo paddled by. “Getting rid of that
fear.”
It was a prescient statement. Moments later Toledo slotted a
cool, solid Backdoor wave for eight points, clearly feeling it. And
why not? This is the eternal question. Toledo’s technique is
flawless. He should be gliding through right hand tubes all day
long.
Post heat, he seemed invigorated, mentioning “real waves”. What
he comes to Hawaii for. What he wants. It was almost
convincing.
And then he paddled out for his next heat against Jake Marshall,
and the swell had jacked up, and again he sat for twenty minutes
doing nothing as his opponent got busy.
He was of course somewhat gaslit by Mamiya and Florence, dancing
merrily around him in the overlapping heat and getting spat out
left, right and centre.
When he finally paddled for a decent Backdoor wave, there was a
palpable release of tension. Just like in the previous heat, it
seemed what he needed. And when he laced a clean Pipe wave near the
end, with a closeout section hit to boot, it seemed certain he’d
turned not only the heat but perhaps began to usher the demons away
from the gates.
When the score came in at just a 5.17, it seemed far too low. My
only summation being that the judges are taking commitment and
optics into account. Perhaps the non-makes of others, like
Marshall, are just as important as the makes.
The fact remains: Toledo attempted just five waves in eighty
minutes of competition surfing. Consequential waves remain a
monumental psychological hurdle, and he’s a fascinating study in
sports science.
But as always, the most fascinating psychology remains in the
orbit of Kelly Slater.
Kelly is through to the quarter finals, owing to clear victories
over Rio Waida then Ethan Ewing.
He left his roll late against Waida, doing nothing for thirty
minutes before slotting two Backdoor waves with less than a minute
between them. He ran back up the beach in front of an adoring crowd
and quite unlike any nearly-fifty-three year old man you’ve ever
seen.
This little touch of rhythm was all he’d needed. He nailed a
bigger Pipe wave and the heat with an unequivocal eight points,
making it one hundred heat wins at Pipeline.
He was unusually demure and factual, post-heat, but this facade
was to crack after beating Ethan Ewing in the round of 16. A deep
Backdoor wave garnered every bit of the 9.33 it was awarded, and it
was the best heat Kelly has surfed anywhere since his win here in
2022.
Post heat, his hyper-analytical adrenalin was back in full
effect, though his words contradicted his demeanour just a little.
He noted that he was pumped to see his friends excited, he wasn’t
sure about competing, but he did love being out there.
It had all the conviction of a relapsing addict, and when he
mentioned his infant son, he seemed struck by a rogue wave of
emotion. “(I’m) so obsessed with my baby”, he said, “just learning
how to be a dad.” And after that, he could say nothing more.
You sense, even in this glimpse, that Kelly is still struggling
to come down. It’s a process of recovery, this retirement, and he
isn’t quite healed. Not yet.
And the baby’s name is “Tao”? A red-headed child. Did I pick
that up right via Ross Williams? Chunky, too, according to
Strider.
I was beginning to wonder what was with the code of silence
around the Child With No Name. Given the nonsense Turpel spouts
about entirely irrelevant and dull personal anecdotes, it was
conspicuous by absence. But perhaps I just missed it.
Did I also miss anyone referring to Slater as the GOAT today?
Not once did I note it. It’s almost as if someone’s paying
attention!
On to finals. The best of the swell has likely gone, and we’ll
finish in a quite unbecoming Pipeline grovel fest. Such is life.
Such is pro surfing.
