“Not for my money.”
I have returned from Jura safe and well.
Unlike Orwell, whose lungs were consumed by The White Death.
Or the unfortunate runner who fractured both femur and fibula
and was carried through mist and mountains on a stretcher because
the helicopter couldn’t land.
The weather was grim. Not cold, but visibility of perhaps five
metres. Bodies poured through the fog like a zombie hoard. Winds
gusted to 50mph and more on the summits. Enough to knock you off
balance in places where a loss of balance might mean loss of
something much greater. The scree chutes were immense funnels that
shifted like liquid beneath your feet.
Once, shouts of ROCK! ROCK! from above had everyone gasping as a
boulder the size of a football materialised from the mist,
careening past our ears then shattering somewhere far below.
I completed the race in a shade under five hours. The badge of
honour is sub-four, for which you’re awarded a whisky glass. Finlay
Wild, the subject of my book, won for the sixth time in seven
attempts in 3.07.16. His record of 2.58.09, set in 2022, is
unlikely to be beaten in this lifetime or the next.
The Jura Fell Race is iconic in UK mountain running. The island
is awkward to get to, with the only direct boat being a small
tourist craft that takes a handful of foot passengers and only runs
in summer. There’s a hotel, a distillery, and a small shop, all on
the shoreline where the boat lands and the race starts. All the
runners camp on the field between hotel and sea, and everyone is
there for the weekend, regardless of weather.
There are no frills, you understand it’s going to be
uncomfortable, but it feels real. A world away from the glamour and
hyperbole of nearly all other sports. No-one boasts about their
times or embellishes their experience in the pub afterwards.
There’s no need to. We’re all out there together.
It was in this context that I returned home to watch the finals
of the Margaret River Pro, which in the end spread to two days.
There was no consequence here. Just WSL gloss to make up for
it.
It was not The Box any longer. Not those gravity defying heaves
over the ledge and into oblivion.
Nor was it the double-overhead walls of Main Break that invite
scything rails and end sections opening up to be smashed like the
plumped pink fleshy parts of an animal in season.
All we had was a fading south swell, solid enough for quarter
final match-ups, then woefully inadequate for semis and final the
next day.
Joe Turpel glossed like only he can. He rode the crest of
caffeinated verbosity like never before. Nonsense followed
nonsense. Superlative followed segue to non-sequitur. Then back
again. An endless splurge.
Here, in its breathless entirety, please examine this verbatim
excerpt from the quarter final between Griffin Colapinto and Leo
Fioravanti:
There’s that unscripted type formula from Griff adding some
extra excitement to that end section but dealing with some big
wipeouts seems like he’s always pretty comfortable in heavy water
it always appeared that way when he made those early trips to the
north shore some of his best friends in the world are part of the
Moniz family like Seth they push each other a lot heavy water
conditions Backdoor and Pipe you could make a surf movie with all
the clips he’s had out there in his lifetime a Triple Crown champ
almost accidentally when he was shadowing Kolohe Andino that winter
season that’s that type of X-factor feel that magician that he can
really attach to a feeling that he’s got he got so into trying to
understand that feeling he got deep into meditation started going
on retreats with Dr. Joe Dispenza and it wouldn’t just be him, he’d
bring Crosby, Jett Schilling, Alex Schilling, a lot of the crew
from San Clemente to see what they could create and manifest in
their life Griffin’s been doing that well the last couple of
seasons on tour. Numbers in for Griffin’s last, the 4.33, the last
for Leo 6.73. So, Fioravanti out front with priority, Griffin now
needs a 9.4.
You know who’s got that X-factor feel that magician that can
really attach to a feeling, Joe?
You do.
Except the feeling is like being trapped in a giant biscuit tin
full of gravel which is rolling down a hill.
In spite of Turpel, there was a smattering of fine surfing in
the quarters.
Leo Fioravanti looks spunkier than ever this season. He has the
loose hips and swagger of a fourteen year old who’s just delivered
a wild fingering to a girl several years his senior.
And so he should. The 9.00 to begin the match-up with Colapinto
was the digestivo at the end of a magnificent Margarets
performance. With a solid back-up and a 15.73 total, he would’ve
won every other quarter but this.
Unfortunately, Colapinto, needing a 9.40, launched a huge
rotation from the end section and garnered unequivocal ten points
from all judges. Few voices would dissent.
“When I landed, it took me a while to realise this was real
life”, the homeschooled son of a wealthy Californian contractor
who’s spent his entire life surfing around the world, said.
Connor O’Leary vs Barron Mamiya in the next quarter was mostly
dull. O’Leary caught a wave at the beginning of the heat in
deteriorating conditions, then sat for half an hour in a heat that
foreshadowed what was to come the next day. With 40 seconds left,
he took his next wave, but it was a dud. Victory Mamiya by virtue
of four mediocre waves.
Turpel droned on.
Crosby Colapinto bested local boy Jacob Wilcox in the next, but
I can’t recall a single memorable thing about it.
Richie Lovett chirped about how the younger Colapinto has all
the tools in all conditions, will make a run at a title sooner or
later, etc. But I can’t see it. Something about his surfing passes
through me like a zephyr in a pine forest.
Jordy Smith continued his march to victory and world number one
by ending Imaikalani deVault’s almost-hero story in the last
quarter final.
It’s true that deVault illustrated a style at Margaret River
we’ve not seen too often from him. But his smoothness was a
scribble too late. Ta-ta, we hardly knew ye.
Which was all a precursor to the next day for semis and final,
in a further fading swell which was insufficient but necessary on
the last day of the waiting period.
In the first semi Griffin Colapinto took on Mamiya. What a
battle this would’ve been at The Box or such like. As it was, the
best thing about it was the furious (but unnecessary) paddle battle
in the opening seconds.
Colapinto notched two mid-range scores early, then creased his
board. He was to catch no more waves, but they were enough. Mamiya
could not eke the scraps from the gutless swell.
In the opposite semi, the younger Colapinto took on froth
juggernaut Jordy Smith.
The heat was restarted owing to lack of waves. Colapinto sat for
the best part of an hour before attempting a wave. It came with
less than ten minutes left. There was no other.
Smith, on the other hand, frothed his way to victory, finding
pockets of power where there were none, and even going left.
The final was dire.
Just three waves were attempted. Two to Jordy beats one to
Griffin. Not a final for the ages.
Over two heats, in an hour and ten minutes of surfing, Griffin
Colapinto only paddled for three waves. That, you might
unequivocally say, is uncontestable.
It was a sharp return to earth for the WSL and its fanbase. A
flaccid ending to the vaunted Aussie Treble.
The saving grace, if you need one, is that Griffin Colapinto and
Jordy Smith were arguably the correct finalists, and that Smith’s
earlier performances when the waves were meatier probably deserved
to edge it overall.
So, Jordy Smith is your world number one.
Are vibes high?
Under the old scoring system he’d be a solid bet to take the
title. The next three events – Trestles, Rio and J-Bay – are all
comps he’s won in the past, albeit a decade or more ago.
But to take it out in a one day event in Teahupo’o?
Not for my money.
