Calling it the sloppiest display in Bells Surfing history was both wrong and wilfully flat-earth a-historically ignorant.

We, the Australian Underground Surf Media, have always had, what they call nowadays, a problematic relationship with the George brothers.

I use the Royal We, meaning independent contractors, commenters, plumbers, cube monkeys, tradies, chalkies and others who were traditionally locked out of calling bullshit on the old-style print editors.

Thank God things have changed, evolved even.

We recognize that Sam gave Chas Smith his start in the biz when he backed him on the Yemen escapade. We recognise his brother Matt changed the course of history by backing the revival of paddle-in for big wave surfing in his Hollywood epic In God’s Hands. We recognize their skill in deftly handling pathos and emotion that the Australian man runs a mile from. We recognize the hair and the Navy Seal attitude.

But we don’t come here today to praise Caesar but to bury him.

For his Bells article.

Calling it the sloppiest display in Bells Surfing history was both wrong and wilfully flat-earth a-historically ignorant.

In any argument it’s always the detail that makes it sink or swim. Like the error I made in calling Khabib Nurmagomedov a middleweight, instead of a Lightweight. Instant red flags, instantly marked as a despised “fucking casual”.

George dropped a similar clanger when he tagged the Kelly Slater/Julian Wilson round three matchup as having taken place in “clean, four-to-six-foot Winkipop.”

How could you get that wrong unless you never actually watched the heat, in which case what authority to comment? The heat took place in three-to-four-foot Bells Bowl.

Yes, it was a terrible performance from Wilson, almost unbelievably bad and Kelly was only marginally better.

But that low point should not be used to mar what followed, on the Friday and Saturday.

I wasn’t born the last time four-man heats were in the water at a Bells Beach Easter comp, Rip Curl was still a twinkle in Doug Warbrick’s eye, and yet that innovation on Friday allowed for the best, most entertaining day of competition in Bells Beach history.

That day was the most effective and efficient sorter of wheat from chaff in the last twenty years, Teahupoo excepted.

Wave for wave, ride on ride, as a complete heat, it showcased the best Bells Beach surfing ever seen from it’s two current undisputed masters: John John Florence and Gabriel Medina.

If you could watch that and not be capable of putting it into an historical context of top five or best-ever surfing at Bells then you are a despised casual who has abrogated their right to be taken seriously. Seriously.

Bush league moments abounded.

Owen Wright signed a $1.25 million a year contract with Rip Curl before he could legally buy a drink in the US of A and couldn’t organise a waxed back-up board.

Jeremy Flores was even worse, his hadn’t even made it down the fabled stairs.

Italo almost perished, boards snapped like tooth picks.

It will always be bush league, that is it’s beauty. These people did not, by and large, finish school. Between the desire and the potency, as they say, falls the shadow.

If they would only stop gussying it up and trying to sell it to insurance salesman in Minnesota life would be apples and peaches. But they do and it ain’t. It is, like democracy, the best we’ve got.

For now.

What we got, on finals day, was patchy, but mind-bending performances. The super heat that should have been the final, between John John and Medina, delivered.

We’ve waited for almost twenty years to see a rivalry between two greats at the peak of their powers. Maybe the Pipe Final of 2002 with AI and Slater with Dorian and Fanning playing spoiler was the last one.

Please, look at the two turns Florence did on his 8.87 and tell me Bells has been ridden better.

What Medina did for the opening turn on his best wave on a silky double overhead outside section, carving under the lip at full speed and then adjusting mid-carve to slice across a thirty yard piece of pitching lip before free-falling, is yet to be understood.

Find me an analogue. You’ll search in vain.

A turn like that has never been seen before. He pulled two of them off in that heat, seamlessly.

Perfectly.

It’s true everything else on that day, save maybe John John’s semi-final with Jordy, had the whiff of anti-climax about it.

But that is the nature of the sport.

John was close to spent in the final. It was on a platter for Filipe to take and he haired out. John recalibrated mid-heat when a lesser competitor would have folded and produced two good, not great rides.

It wasn’t the cherry on top, but the cake was already so magnificent it hardly mattered.

Pro surfing is such a slog through so much dross.

When we finally do get great champions operating at the peak of their powers in surf that does them justice it seems, I don’t know, ill-timed, disrespectful, dumb, to call it the sloppiest display in history.

Pro surfing looks like junior tee-ball, where the little kids can just keep on swinging until they finally connect, then get cheered all the way to first base.

I tuned into the last hour or so of the WSL’s broadcast of the 58th annual Rip Curl Pro at Bells Beach, the longest-running professional surf contest and certainly one of the most storied.

In the whack-a-mole world of pro contest sponsorship tradition isn’t a word that’s bandied about much, with venues and vibes changing as regularly as surf company CEOs.

Not so, Bells.

Same place, same time, same sponsor, same chilly parking lot. Same prestige, too, hefting that Bells Trophy.

Joining the ranks of The Immortals: Peterson, M.R., Simon, Curren, Carroll, Occhilupo, Irons, Parko, Fanning. And that’s just the men’s division; Lisa, Layne and Stephanie have their own seats on Olympus.

So much good surfing has gone down in those long, broad-based Victorian walls that a highlight reel would need as many sequels as The Avengers franchise.

So is it just me or was this one of the sloppiest displays of elite surfing competition in Bells’ fabled fifty-eight-year-history?

The Slater/Wilson Round of 32 heat, for example, in which the Greatest of All Time won with a score that barely hit double digits. This, in clean, four-to-six-foot Winkipop. But his tepid tally still bested Julian, Oz’s perennial world champion hope, whose highest scoring ride was a 3.87.

I mean, really.

The Slater/Wilson Round of 32 heat, for example, in which the Greatest of All Time won with a score that barely hit double digits. This, in clean, four-to-six-foot Winkipop. But his tepid tally still bested Julian, Oz’s perennial world champion hope, whose highest scoring ride was a 3.87.

Is this really what all the Vicco surf fans froze their Ugg Boots off to see? Let alone the online community who, if they had the sound turned down (you know you do it, too), might’ve thought they were watching an 1987 NSSA District contest at C-Street in some weird Flashback Friday episode.

Like I said, sloppy.

How about Owen Wright, snapping his board on a duck dive, only to ski-race in to the beach and find his backup board unwaxed! Seriously, these are pro surfers. The waves were double overhead on the sets, the shorebreak cracking, and the backup board is un-waxed.

What, did Owen come to the beach that morning with his coach or an Uber driver?

The latter heats were no less, let’s say (and generously, at that) uneven. Again with the GOAT, proud recipient of four Bells trophies, surfing, sort of, against Ryan Callinan in the quarterfinals: pumping, beautiful Bells Bowl and not a single wave over 5.50.

How about Owen Wright, snapping his board on a duck dive, only to ski-race in to the beach and find his backup board unwaxed! Seriously, these are pro surfers. The waves were double overhead on the sets, the shorebreak cracking, and the backup board is un-waxed. What, did Owen come to the beach that morning with his coach or an Uber driver?

Almost half of Kelly’s scored rides were wipeouts and his highest score maxed-out at 3.50.

The semi-final with Toledo vs Callinan: eight-to-ten-foot, offshore, thirteen waves ridden and not a single one in the excellent range.

I won’t even talk about the top bogs and over-the-falls, ass-over-tea kettle wipeouts. Watching all this wetsuit flushing had me trying to think of any other world-class sport where in the heat of competition there’s absolutely no penalty for spectacularly screwing up.

Pro surfing, at least judged by these performances, looks a little bit like junior tee-ball, where the little kids can just keep on swinging until they finally connect, then get cheered all the way to first base.

Like, “Yay, you did it! Finally.”

Pumping, beautiful Bells, clean, offshore winds, two of the best young surfers in the world and not a single ride in the excellent range? Only plenty of nursed turns and few spectacular wipeouts punctuating what was, judging by the aggregate wave scores, about a half hour of slightly above-average surfing.

And speaking of the final?

Pumping, beautiful Bells, clean, offshore winds, two of the best young surfers in the world and not a single ride in the excellent range? Only plenty of nursed turns and few spectacular wipeouts punctuating what was, judging by the aggregate wave scores, about a half hour of slightly above-average surfing.

C’mon, you guys, this is Bells! Where Simon debuted the Thruster. Where Occy won that awesome Skins event. Where Kelly did the epic Air Reverse. Where Courtney got that 10-point ride (Oh, wait, that was this year. At least the ladies delivered.)

But you get the picture.

Ride bigger boards next time or fire your coaches or go back and watch the Michael Peterson/Bells contest segment in Free Ride while repeating over and over, “I will not hop, I will not hop, I will not hop.”

Do something to honor the Rip Curl Pro’s legacy.

To honor the Bells Beach legacy. Something spectacular, not just slightly above average.

And for fuck’s sake, don’t forget to wax your board.