Filipe Toledo shed tears “over a contest won in poor waves, in front of a thin crowd, which doesn’t alter his ratings or season in any way whatsoever.”
An all-time low for me in terms of engagement with a finals day. I mean, I watched it, for penance and payment, but I found little to get excited about in terms of clientele or conditions.
The waves were of the kind that may excite a progressing beginner. Low stakes, likely low crowds, maybe you’ll luck into two or three turns. How the pros get themselves up for this sort of day I’ll never know. But get themselves up they did, and Filipe Toledo choking back tears in his victory speech was the most intriguing part of the whole day.
Ironically, as my passion and drive to ruminate on professional surfing hit its lowest ebb, I was confronted by Toledo’s, and couldn’t help but admire it.
For all of my remembered life I have longed for the thing to throw myself headlong into, the thing that would consume me forever. I’ve seen glimpses of this light, but everything eventually drifts into greyness. I have lots of interests, lots of things I “love” but no one thing has captivated me unconditionally, not even my partner or children.
Is this true for you?
I wonder often if other people feel like this, then I watch Filipe Toledo and know they don’t. He shed tears today. Real tears. Over a contest won in poor waves, in front of a thin crowd, which doesn’t alter his ratings or season in any way whatsoever. He was second in the world to start, and would be second at the conclusion, regardless if he won or lost. His top five position and attendance at Trestles seems assured.
It was more or less meaningless. But still he cried, dedicated the win to his mum as a birthday present (shit present btw), surfed through intense back pain, and cited faith and dreams and hard work etc etc. It seemed more than a little hyperbolic, yet not inauthentic.
His rivalry with Griffin Colapinto could be motivation, the final being a reprisal of last year at the same venue, the result switched. But the two men seem such polar opposites in character, as well as genuinely decent people, that it’s hard to imagine there’s any real malice between them.
Mastery can be motivation. With it must come a deep rooted fear that you might be knocked off at any moment, a hunger to keep proving you’re the best. Toledo has a world title already, but it hasn’t lessened the chip on his shoulder. Colapinto is still laser focused on winning his first, an end goal he perhaps doesn’t realise will never be the end.
Colapinto and Toledo were the best surfers of this competition, so at least that was right. I have nothing bad to say about Ian Gentil or Liam O’Brien, but both are a tier, if not two, below the finalists in terms of talent.
I’m afraid I have neither the will nor words to comment much on the actual surfing in any of the three heats today. I watched them, even rewound them at points, but still couldn’t muster any analysis. Call it lethargy, call it ignorance, call it whatever the fuck you like.
Toledo’s nine pointer will cause some raised eyebrows and should, but really it’s a drop in the ocean when it comes to chronically horrendous judging decisions, especially recently. At some point, like in any abusive relationship, you get ground down. The bad stuff doesn’t seem so bad any more. The truly awful gives you pause, but then you pick up the pieces of your teeth, dab the blood from your lip, layer on the make-up, and just carry on.
For me, this event, and what the WSL is becoming in its slow but predictable descent to utter obscurity, was best summed up by the closing ceremony.
You didn’t watch it, of course. Few did. So allow me to recreate the scene.
Mitch Salazar stands on a very blue, very empty stage. He is dressed in board shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, each with a boldly clashing pattern that suggests the man wearing it is either a simpleton or is being deeply ironic.
His smile is that of a man for whom irony might well be a planet in the outer reaches of the solar system.
The crowd, or more appropriately, “the crowd” for they are often referenced by Salazar and the surfers who will momentarily receive their prizes, are largely a fiction. They have the enthusiasm and depth of a pub crowd at a Tuesday night open mic session.
It’s a tragi-comedy in real time, a sad indictment of the WSL’s status as a professional sporting league. No-one gives a shit, except Mitch and his mangled patterns but impressive duolingo.
A few sparse claps echo around the empty beach.
Surf city.
“This crowd…this crowd…” the competitors say as they receive their trophies then shuffle awkwardly on stage.
Except Toledo, who still seems caught up in the moment with a mysterious verve that even leads to speaking in tongues.
“Can I try my Spanish?” he asks, then slips into what appears to be absolute fluency, thanking all and sundry. It is the second moment of the day in which I am surprised and impressed by the man.
Caroline Marks says “Bueno”.
Lots of Corona is sprayed.
Beer, crucially, not champagne.
But aside from Toledo’s enthusiasm and spraying beer, If this is surfing’s elite professional league, then what is the future?
At least we have Rio to look forward to next. Say what you like about the waves, at least the fans are proper. Real fans with real passion and fake death threats.
Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to my son’s fifth birthday party. There’s going to be a bouncy castle. I don’t like birthdays or kid’s parties, but I’ll be there all the same, hating every minute.
If nothing else, El Salvador was good preparation.
