“And suddenly, it looks like we could be heading to one of the most compelling finishes to a season in recent memory. Everyone who matters is in the mix (and Jordy Smith).”
Straight reporting I hear you cry?
Well ok then. I’ll save my digression for a separate essay.
For once, the day might warrant talk just of surfing.
An almost hitchless day of inviting, glassy waves peeled down the Punta Roca point, and when the two men who attacked them with the throbbing vigour of engorged bullocks met in the final, all seemed right.
There was progression of the highest order, committed turns, and ranking shake-ups that titillate even the prospect of Trestles.
However, before we get into the weeds here, let me ask this: if all you want to hear is a simple post-match analysis of pro surfing, then what are you?
Do you not see with your eyes?
Are you such a simple organism, an amoeba, say, that you cannot formulate thoughts?
Worse: are you Joe Turpel or Mitch Salazar, primitive AI programmed solely for surf commentary (one a rudimentary Spanglish version)?
Go on, live a little.
But I suppose it’s true that on days like today, not even mealy-mouthed Mitch could mis-pronounce or matttarrrrrr the vibe.
And it’s true, as Chris Cote proclaimed, there is little us comment board heroes can cast across the interweb to darken his cloud of joy or lay waste to the WSL after days like this.
Gabriel Medina began the day hacking and slashing at the bared throat of Joao Chianca. A pair of high sevens were enough to dispatch Chianca, who exhibited enough in this competition to remind us what we’ve missed. The tenacious violence he applies to heat strategy is much needed on this Tour.
But Medina is Specimen X in this regard, and although Joao tried to paddle him up the point and sit on his nose without priority, it was too little, too late.
Despite the obvious competitive tension, the two men embraced at the end, and not for the first time I admired the ability Brazilian surfers have to treat heats with life and death importance, yet show genuine warmth towards their countrymen before and after the horn.
Quarter final two saw friends and travel partners Yago Dora and Jack Robinson face off. From the beginning it was clear that Dora was in a rare rhythm.
Yet he was disconcertingly lowballed for a clean and explosive rotation that Chris Cote labelled as a backside 540.
The wave had surely elicited guttural utterances from all who witnessed it. 7.67 felt inappropriate for such a visceral reaction.
And what do you make of the deep dive into the history of skateboard culture, as led by Chris Cote and Kaipo Guerrero?
It seemed a calculated (and slightly desperate) attempt to assimilate surf and skate “tricks”, which Cote has long been a proponent of. We learned (from Kaipo) the origin story of both indy grabs and varials, among other things I probably missed.
I can only presume that Kaipo bears the mark of the last person who spoke to him, and as such Chris Cote has been the most prominent yap in his ear in El Salvador.
I can take it or leave it, but I broadly agree about spin conventions.
Yago Dora was the catalyst for nearly every discussion. Even under the priority of Robinson he was busy, a tactic he employed to great effect all the way to the final. He struck first and conclusively in both his quarter and semi-final, leaving his opponents searching for a great wave rather than just a good one, and therefore neutralised by his aerial vivacity.
John Florence employed the same tactic in his quarter final match with Crosby Colapinto, perhaps owing to rhythm rather than design. His first two scores were his keepers, an 8.00 and a 7.17, both of which spoke to the sharpness of rail and focus he would carry til the end.
The heat wasn’t much of a contest, but Kaipo’s segue to begin is worthy of note.
“Yesterday was the anniversary of Michelangelo’s Statue of David being erected in Florence, Italy”, he began. “This is John John Florence, and this is David & Goliath.”
Truly, Kaipo’s brain should be studied.
Both semi finals took place in comboland. (If comboland was a world where your most vile nightmares as a pro surfer (not involving Sarge) come true.)
Rarely have both match-ups at this stage been so one-sided.
On one side, Yago Dora hung, drew and quartered Gabriel Medina, sending pieces of him to Cuba, Mexico and Ecuador, and leaving his head on a spike, embedded in Mama Roca.
On the other, John Florence disembowelled Matt McGilivray, leaving his entrails floating uselessly in the silt.
Dora’s flow was undeniable. Notching an 8.33 early, he followed quickly with a 9.33 for a tweaked rotation with an indy grab. It could’ve been a ten, perhaps it should have been. Regardless, every time Dora took off on a wave it was edge-of-your-seat stuff.
Gabriel Medina’s surfing (and I can’t believe I’m writing this) looked flat by comparison. Pedestrian, even. He stuck to the face of the wave, notching typically solid backhand hits. But they were beige in comparison to Yago, who was just too smooth, too incendiary.
Medina tried some airs late, realising his predicament, but it was too late. Everyone knew it, most of all him. I can’t recall ever seeing him beaten so comprehensively.
Has Medina deadlifted himself into a corner where he’s lost an edge in waves like this, I wondered? He’s certainly heavier than at any point in the past, and perhaps his surfing lacks lightness as a result.
Or perhaps he simply met a man in such a high state of arousal that there was nothing to be done.
Similarly aroused was John Florence. And even if his victory in the opposing semi final against Matt McGilivray was predictable, the style with which he did it was absolute.
Florence gralloched McGilivray with a perfect ten point ride for a high, clean spin followed by some typically incisive carves. At first I was affronted that this wave could elicit perfection from the judges but Dora’s could not, but the replay showed that Florence had not only performed his spin on the first section, but lost no speed on the landing, then followed up with some razor rail work, the likes of which perhaps only he can do.
And so it was a Florence vs Dora final. The two form surfers of the event, both locked into an elevated state of consciousness that seemed to carry from heat to heat.
How often do the two best surfers of any given event actually meet in the final? Was this testament to running the whole thing in three days, more or less back to back?
But the final was to be a comedown of sorts. John Florence had retained his rhythm, opening with an 8.50, followed quickly with a 7.83.
Dora’s flow was disrupted, then more so when he landed awkwardly on his board, breaking a fin and needing a replacement. His 9.77 came almost from nothing and gave him a chance. Then the ocean went flat for the longest period of the day. All Yago needed was a mid-six, but he couldn’t even find a wave. It was a limp ending to a day that deserved a better climax.
Undeterred, Mitch Salazar proclaimed “he (Florence) must be on top of the moon right now”.
Right enough, it was Florence’s first win since 2021, a stat that might seem shocking. But with it, his top five berth has been assured.
And suddenly, it looks like we could be heading to one of the most compelling finishes to a season in recent memory. Everyone who matters is in the mix (and Jordy Smith).
The Brazilian triumvirate of Medina, Ferreira and Dora are howling at the gate of the top five in positions six to eight. With Rio and Fiji to go, you’d have to fancy their chances of displacing Smith and Ewing at least.
So, that’s the surfing. All filler, no killer. What larks etc.
I’ll be packing my bicycle and moseying down to Germany this week. But I’d like to give you a little something before I go. Something a little sexier. A little dalliance with darkness. A musing on purpose, envy, lust, and John Florence.
Look out for it.
