“Just woke up.”
J-Bay is back. And though it stuttered a little on return, a few days of flaccid energy, long lulls, and longer lay days, it did not become a bloated carcass of anticipation, which might easily have happened.
The finale was both solid in waves and superb in spectacle. More than enough to rescue the waiting and whale-watching.
I was also on the lookout for big scary grey fish. It’s a morbid curiosity that J-Bay always brings. I saw one “incident” during the heat between Jordy and Luke Thompson. A dorsal shadow slid into the lineup, swift and silent. A mild pause, a stifling of air, but no limbs lost. Competition resumed. Scant comment from the booth, of course.
Which brings me, with some guilt, to Filipe Toledo. I’ve taken swipes, like we all have. And look, if I had his skills, I’d heave myself over any ledge in the world, but I’m not sure I’d paddle happily out in places with known shark activity.
Filipe ripped at J-Bay, a place he’s always done well, but still carries the air of a man who has swum with a fear far deeper than sharks.
Poor Jordy was surely smarting on his decking today, having limped out with an unlikely loss to rookie Mignot. This should’ve been the one. The wave that detonates within spitting distance of his house. He’ll be moping around that house right now, in the fug of a Red Bull comedown.
The quarters started with a proper spark: Yago Dora vs Leo Fioravanti. Their first match-up on Tour (how?) and Dora played it perfectly. Flow and patience woven with enough torque to rip the boards off Jordy’s deck. For my money, he was underscored on a 7.87 with two mins to go, but it didn’t matter.
Next came Kanoa vs Griff. Colapinto’s soft, low hands and easy lines felt real. Kanoa Igarashi was sharper, perhaps even more radical, but it’s a simulacrum. Radical-by-design. Nothing spontaneous.
Filipe dispatched rookie Marco Mignot in the third quarter with comfort and control. Mignot had earned his spot by taking down Smith, but he looked spent, wide-eyed. Toledo was an assassin with manners.
Then came the heat: Ethan Ewing vs Connor O’Leary. Forehand vs backhand in a cathedral built for worship of both. And the best versions of each that currently grace the world stage. Ewing, typically, was all rail and rhythm. But O’Leary’s backhand was doctrinal. Needing a score, he summoned forth an 8.60 from the heavens at the buzzer. Big Jordy Smith cheered from his deck. Half-crying, half-worship.
Dora vs Colapinto in the first semi was a marquee clash. Griff was flaring. Dora was just pure geometry. He moved to World No.1 off the back of this victory. A position few people could argue with in the landscape of his talent.
He’s also somewhat of a thorn in Griffin Colapinto’s pale side. 6-2 up on head-to-heads now. There are doubtless reams of sticky journal pages dedicated to cartoons of Yago Dora meeting more unfortunate endings than Wile E Coyote.
But the moment of the event came in the next semi, and it belonged to Connor O’Leary. Trailing to Toledo he notched his first ever perfect ten. A blitzkrieg of backhand surfing followed a short barrel. No styling, no posing, just a critical line and full commitment. The commentary team lost their minds, and justifiably so. Even I was shaken from existential beleaguerment. Something about the pace, something about the power. O’Leary’s backhand has a visceral groove.
He came ashore early with two mins left on the clock, and who could blame him. If he’d gone home right then I’m sure he’d have been satiated, but more was to come.
The final was an unexpected all-goofy match-up: Dora vs O’Leary. Not a match to make you salivate on paper, but here, today, it was perfect.
Somewhere, Gabriel Medina stirred.
“Just woke up” he posted as he rose from his coffin of earth to observe. He licked his lips, a metallic taste of last night’s kill fresh again on his tongue. He will feed again. Soon.
O’Leary edged a final that lacked the verve of the heats that preceded it, as is so often the case.
“The Tour wins when Connor wins,” said Jesse Starling. For once, a line in the booth that didn’t make me want to walk into a shark-infested sea.
Commentary throughout was disappointingly bland and often annoyingly competent. Flat. Safe. Like a fireworks display called from behind bulletproof glass. We can’t win. either it’s painfully ludicrous or achingly dull.
Your top five heading into the penultimate event in Tahiti is: Dora, Smith, Igarashi, Ferreira and Ewing. There are only two surfers I care about watching in Teahupo’o on that list.
But there’s a punch or two packed in the chasing pack.
Griffin Colapinto, having returned from the wilderness of a poor start to the year, is right there. If Teahupo’o pumps, Jack Robinson is the grim reaper. And Barron Mamiya has a shot, too.
The new format changes make the chase for the number one spot a little more interesting. Maybe a little less theatre for Finals, but fairer all the same. The number one surfer will now only need to win the first heat of his or her match-up to win the world title. Only in the event of a loss is the best-of-three contested.
No posthumous gravy for Carissa Moore, who lost her opening heats on Finals Day (and two world titles) when she was clearly the number one. No medals for ghosts.
But today Connor O’Leary was very much alive. He said he’d aimed to do the best backhand surfing that had ever been seen at J-Bay. It may well be his first ever Tour victory, but that statement doesn’t seem ridiculous now.
