“His turns, viewed in slo-mo, were a study in
ecstatic wavepool mastery. His board was a piston, the wave the
cylinder.”
The day rose bright and clear in the Scottish
Highlands and the clocks were striking thirteen.
There were no laboured breaths of slaves of any kind. No
particulates of anything in particular in the air. Only the iced
dawn and gin-clear rivers tumbling from ancient summit to verdant
glen.
Somehow, I didn’t feel like staying indoors and watching the Abu
Dhabi Pro. Instead, I hiked to a bothy with the kids and
dog, smashing ice and frolicking in the winter
sun.
But I am nothing if not a slave to pro surfing.
So I caught up on the day’s action later that evening in the
back of my van.
I was primed for another takedown. Quill sharped, ink dabbed.
Lightly sparkled.
But then something changed. Some invisible bulk within me
shifted, stirred.
And I realised I was actually enjoying the wavepool. The
repetition and routines. The psyches and coaching strategies.
The passion and pageantry!
All raw and fleshy and splayed on imported Siberian Larch
decking.
Was it Rio Waida, growing before our eyes, that did it?
It could’ve been Jack Robinson stalking artificial waves like a
sixteen-pointer stag who’s had his fill from the herd.
Certainly, it was Italo Ferreira, becoming saved and saviour all
in one day.
But it had not begun with promise. A sandstorm blew from desert
to pool, turning everything into a Mad Maxian nightmare, obscuring
even AJ McCord’s teeth and blowing Ethan Ewing’s fringe to
shit.
The BG comment section remained lightly trafficked.
But, believe me reader, you missed things.
Ferreira was a burning ball of energy. “You sleep and you go to
gym and you stretch and you eat and you sleep again and you watch
movie and you waiting for your heat…” he lamented breathlessly
following his quarter final victory over Igarashi.
He was bored of the downtime, he said. He needed more. More
waves. More needles for a thirsty vein.
This restlessness is why we must love Italo, why we need him.
He’s a fascinating case study in what happens when surfing consumes
you. Of what happens when you birth a beast.
What must you sacrifice? What does it take to execute carbon
copies of gigantic, waterdroplet-perfect alley-oops in the heat of
competition?
His turns, viewed in slo-mo, were a study in ecstatic wavepool
mastery. His board was a piston, the wave the cylinder. The
compression came from the depths of his soul, transmuted by granite
thighs.
Part man, part machine. A surfer to lead us into the age of the
android, complete with Action Man beard and hair.
Jack Robinson, by contrast, was pure, throbbing humanity.
He elicited some discussion of shamanism.
“How old does one have to be to be
considered a shaman?” Evans mused.
There’s a guy in the place who’s got a bittersweet face, And he
goes by the name of Paul Evans. His friends call him ‘Ezer and E is
the main geezer, And E vibes up the place like no other man could,
E’s refined, E’s sublime, E makes you feel fine, Though very much
maligned and misunderstood, But if you know ‘Ezer E’s a real crowd
pleaser, E’s ever so good – he’s Paul Evans.
It was the first but not last segue into the mysteries of human
consciousness on Finals’ Day for Evans.
Flick tittered some appropriation of language in response.
It was ironic appreciating the beauty of Jack Robinson’s surfing
in a pool. But it became a parade ring. The unbackable favourite
among his moves was an airdrop from lip to stall to barrel. A move
carried out with the finesse of man brushing the mane of a
stallion.
It’s true, I hear you cry. Italo Ferreira cannot surf like this.
Will not surf like this.
And if this is the surfing you admire then you will assert that
wavepool competition is worthless.
You will doubtless also admire the surfing of Ethan Ewing.
But at least Jack Robinson puts a hand on your throat, lightly
choking. Ethan Ewing performs only gentle and insistent lovemaking
in a pool, and the eyes begin to glaze after a while.
Ewing could not reach his vinegar strokes against Rio Waida, the
young Indonesian surfer blossoming before our eyes.
Quite aside from his increased physicality, added muscle, and
flex of his linguistic skills, Waida is establishing himself as a
contender on this Tour, as unlikely as that may seem.
A clear example of “not having an ego being the path to
increased learning” dared Evans, cobbling together something from a
Sam Harris podcast.
Almost as soon as the words left Evans’ mouth, Waida hung him
out to dry by exhibiting wild claims and gestures that, dareisay,
belied a little…ego?
“It’s a pool party,” Waida beamed to AJ McCord post victory.
“Everybody drinking, cruising…look at this beautiful place!”
Waida was sold. His ego had been prised from his roots by a
series of mechanised waves, six-star hospitality, and the
availability of high-class Eastern European escorts.
“Rio Waida show, more coming,” he urged AJ.
And with that, Evans’ cursory research and cultural assumptions
were dead in the water.
Besides, the counterpoint to humility and lack of ego leading to
fulfillment is this: a giant fucking ego eats everyone alive.
Italo Ferreira gnashed his jaws on the decking, just waiting to
be released. He was a pitbull on a chain. “You’re stronger!” his
coach affirmed. “Power!”
The fluffing worked. Italo vaulted into next level flow against
Robinson.
It was hard not to picture, somewhere, in simmering bloodlust,
Gabriel Medina looking on, nodding thirstily.
The sun slunk low in the desert sky as the final drew near. It
was ominous, somehow. Like we’d been flying too close.
Italo, still high, needed just his first two waves.
And with that, Brazilian Jesus was born.
A flag was draped over his shoulders. He was possessed in
celebration. He chanted in tongues, head tilted skyward.
“It’s for him. It’s the only way,” he said, pointing to a
message on his board that read “Jesus Cristo é o senhor”.
And as he entered the water he became him, baptised by
appropriately filtered and salinated water. His arms were spread
and Christ-like. He was touched by stadium lighting as if by
heaven.
He skipped gaily to the ski to ride his final unnecessary
waves.
God (or cloud-seeding technology) sent raindrops that prickled
the surface of the pool. And again, Ferreira was lost in prayer,
arms aloft to the sky and fingers spread wide with wonder.
I began to wonder if I’d missed some critical juncture of the
event.
Was Italo Ferreira really just the Abu Dhabi Pro Champion?
He walked on water (switch stance) on his final wave, and his
acolytes bayed loudly from the decking.
It was the singularity and the second coming all wrapped into
one.
He had won the victory over himself. He loved Brazilian
Jesus.
He was Brazilian Jesus.
