Julian Wilson falls under the axe of the
God/Brazilian teen combo…
Is there anything more heartbreaking than opening
the door of the McDonalds family restaurant in
Coolangatta? Under banks of cruel, green fluorescent
lighting the observer is presented with a holding pen for the
obese, the stupid and the sad, all picking over their sugared bread
rolls and reheated meats. A cola or healthy juice option completes
the scene.
But, just one hour ago, we see a man who is neither obese nor
stupid, but, yes, he is sad, very sad. Sadder even than the sulky
world champion who couldn’t fathom the inflexibility of competition
surfing the day before.
It is Julian Wilson, the 26-year-old Australian, we see, rich
enough to pile all his friends into a fine dining hall, but now, so
sad, so desperately sad, and the bleak little parlour of McDonalds
is where he must go to feel wretched.
McBloody great
watching Egg! BIG MAC FINISH BAH! @julian_wilson !!
Filipe Toledo, the 19-year-old from Brazil, meanwhile, continues
his conversation with God that began prior to he final, continued
after each wave and even upon the stage.
“God helped me win the whole event!” says Filipe. “God is the
most beautiful person in the world!”
Filipe boils salt water. While Julian Wilson fossicked around on
dreary and futile waves, Filipe was like a swollen boil that had
suddenly been pierced. Watch Filipe surf and you
are intoxicated. You look at your own surfboard and you want
to ride it. He completely stupefies the viewer. It is absurd to
pretend that a boy of nineteen, however sound he is as a human
being, is a fully grown man.
Room to grow, move, improve.
“He got Eazy-E on the waves!” says Ross Williams.
And when Julian need a high-nine with a minute to go, Filipe
strolled into a crummy little wave and unfolded perfectly. A
ten.
“This is the best wave ever scored on the Gold Coast,” says
Striker Wasilewski.
It’s true.
“He can turn a wave I can get a five on into a nine. There’s not
much I can do about it,” says Julian, smart enough to wear
sunglasses in the near darkness to hide eyes that revealed sadness,
bitterness, hurt.
Little Filipe, not even 10 stone, and with his Hurley trunks
stuck above his right knee, and speaking in a second language,
thanked God again, and waved at the sky.
“God knows what I’m doing to win the world title,” he says.
A world title?
“This is a whole flip of the tour,” says Strider.
The mood of the event, or at least the smell, is soured when the
usual French champagne that is used to douse the winners is
replaced by the sponsor’s beer, Carlton Dry.
Carissa Moore, who beat Stephanie Gilmore, crouches, cringes,
under the shower of the sticky, repulsive, brew.
Filipe bravely withstands the shower.
A boy, his god and, for now, the title of World Number One.
Hit the link (here!) for replays, scores
etc.