It’s only been a minute, but somehow in my absence
the WSL has transitioned beyond recognition.
Has the tide really turned?
It’s only been a minute, but somehow in my absence the WSL has
transitioned beyond recognition. Where once she was a flaccid auld
whore, sooking up the dregs of desperation; now she appears as a
supermodel gliding into a Berlin club, whilst we look on,
open-mouthed, saliva dripping.
I apologise for the Burleigh Pro passing me by, as well as the
opening to Margaret River. I have watched some. I even took some
notes. But it was just too hard in the current climate of my
life.
There’s been no rain in three weeks or more in Scotland. To
spend my days watching pro surfing whilst the sun splits the sky
outside seemed mental. Home renovations have played a part, the
stress of trying to write a book has been significant, and, for the
first time in my life, I’ve been trying therapy. Couples’
counselling, to be precise. I’m not sure I’d recommend it. Unless
you enjoy airing simmering resentments and long-forgotten
grievances in front of a complete stranger, in an awkward, three
chair room with cloying walls that seem to fold and warp before
your eyes.
Plus, therapy is so fucking…American.
On top of all that, this weekend I’m off to the island of Jura,
where George Orwell wrote “Nineteen Eighty-Four”. Then died. The
reason for my visit is a stupidly difficult race over the Paps of
Jura: 28km, 2370m of ascent, over mostly pathless ground and
lacerating chunks of quartzite scree. The weather is supposed to
break this Saturday, so I’ll be facing this in torrents of rain and
visibility of just a few metres. There’s a high chance of getting
lost and/or ending up on dangerous ground.
But at least stone and rain and mountains are real things. Pain,
misery and joy at the behest of elemental forces has got to be
better than therapy, right?
So it was today, as we were treated to a short but glorious few
heats at The Box. The OG slab, according to Ronnie Blakey. A wave
competitors and fans alike have brayed for in its six-year absence
from competition, and rightly so. A fickle, squared beast of a wave
the armchair viewer can scarcely imagine. It’s a test for even the
best surfers in the world, and one that lays bare technical barrel
riding skills.
It’s also what we want: jaw-clenching, testicle-retracting
moments that make us realise why these people are professionals and
we’re just shoegazing pricks in therapy.
Griffin Colapinto’s journal will surely be ablaze with
adjectives and self-love this evening. His first attempt was a
threaded beauty, somewhat lowballed for seven points, as the judges
flubbed the scale. Yet on his second he fell from the sky,
pindropping into perilously shallow water. It was a sequence that
justified the decision to run at The Box. Anything might
happen.
And it did. Colapinto’s second scoring wave was the most
spectacular of the day, and one of the most confounding makes we’ve
ever seen on Tour. It’s impossible to discern what happened at the
end of the tube, even on slo-mo replays. Griffin himself couldn’t
tell you. It was some combination of instinct and alchemy.
Kaipo called him the water bender. For once it seemed
appropriate. The nine points awarded weren’t enough. Kelly Slater
agreed, chipping in via text message to Ronnie Blakey. In a later
heat it was certainly a ten. Undoubtedly the entire judging panel
would retrospectively agree.
No contest vs wildcard Mikey McDonagh, who was at least there on
merit after dispatching Yago Dora yesterday.
Heat two was a little slower, but there was no shortage of
commitment from Leo Fioravanti and Miggy Pupo. Indeed, the
broadcast revealed that Pupo has a month-old child he hasn’t yet
seen, such is his commitment to the Australian leg and his career.
He’s been vindicated by a top ten position in the live rankings.
Fingers crossed he doesn’t need to go to couples counselling
somewhere down the line.
Scores took an age to post in this heat, which surely didn’t
help the men in the water. Perhaps judges were still decompressing
from Jack Robinson’s wave in the morning before competition began,
which was bigger and throatier than anything that rolled through
thereafter.
Fioravanti is having his best season in memory. He built on a
stupendous performance yesterday at Main Break, and the mid-range
scores awarded today were not indicative of the waves surfed. Leo
is a superb tube wrangler, and proved this once again.
The broadcast of these past couple of days has hummed along. The
waves have helped, of course, and so have the Blakey brothers.
Kaipo being banished to the line-up has been great, too. His brand
of corny inanity is somehow more palatable when he’s floating in
the line-up and we hear from him less. It’s almost endearing.
And a note of excellence has to go to Jesse Starling. A complete
unknown to me, she has been resoundingly superb in commentary.
Heat three between O’Leary and Igarashi was forgettable, with
O’Leary taking the win. But things sparked to life again under the
feet of Barron Mamiya in heat four.
This sort of wave was always going to favour the young Hawaiian.
His opponent, Jake Marshall, AKA the Temu John Florence, was always
going to have the fabric of his facsimile stretched by The Box.
Mamiya exerted his will over the squared pits. Fresh off a
near-drowning at Main Break yesterday, when he’d found himself in a
cave underwater and had to rip off his leash in order to make it
back to the surface, he approached The Box with similar,
unflappable coolness.
If it hasn’t been noted already, let it be noted now: Barron
Mamiya is a legitimate world title threat, both this year and
beyond. Especially in the new complexion of the Tour.
Mamiya’s verve was carried into the next heat by Chianca and
Willcox. The two men paddled so furiously at the beginning of their
match-up I scanned the screen for signs of a dorsal fin.
Local boy Wilcox, having ousted the current world number one in
Ferreira yesterday, again made west Aus pride swell with another
confident win over the high seed.
Jackson Bunch vs Crosby Colapinto was a non-event in terms of
makes, but not commitment to the cause. With victory, Crosby
assured his place on Tour for the remainder of the season.
“Slab surfing belongs on Tour”, asserted a typically
effervescent Vaughn Blakey, giving voice to the groupthink of the
day. And he may be right. But slabs can be fickle, sensitive
beasts, which might wilt or vanish in the minutiae of wind and
tide. In this, there are several logistical problems with running
lengthy competitions on them, not to mention some unfairness in
competitors having an equal playing field.
So it was today. After a short break, and little in the way of
explanation bar some vague references to wind, competition resumed
back at Main Break. This scuppered my betting entirely. The one
remaining leg was a Cleland victory over deVault, a result that
seemed predictable at The Box. At Main Break, not so much. As it
was, deVault continued the stylish approach that saw him oust event
favourite Jack Robinson.
deVault began this competition in a lowly 32nd position, and
although he’s made the quarters, it might take two more wins to
assure his place on the remainder of the Tour. It seems unlikely,
but it would be a good story.
As is the season long narrative of Jordy Smith, who surely must
feel stars aligning this year. At The Box he’d have been competent
enough to beat rookie Mignot, but at Main Break he is imperious. A
9.50 for three searing, critical turns on a huge wall was testament
to that.
With Ferreira out, Smith will assume the number one position
with another heat win here. Other than this, the top five going
into Trestles looks set, even though this competition is far from
done. Mamiya might move up from five. If he doesn’t, Leo can crack
it with a place in the final. And what a strange little collective
it is: Ferreira, Smith, Dora, Igarashi and Mamiya.
But the points are tight, and five events this season have
elicited five different winners, two of whom (Toledo and Robinson)
aren’t even in the top five as it stands.
Looks like more swell on the way to finish this one off. If I
don’t get lost in the hills or sink into the chair of a therapist’s
room, I’ll try to be here.
