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.

Nothing trivial or tinkling about a final's day in six-foot waves with Filipe Toledo, John John Florence, Gabriel Medina Ryan Callinan, Jordy Smith and Italo Ferriera…

How did you sleep? Me, poorly.

Tossing and turning all night mulling over the action from an epic day.

We all pondered the effect, mostly the energy balance equations for each competitor and seeing as surfing is a drug free sport minus recovery aiding PED’s like EPO, how much they would be diminished going into the Finals Day.

But we didn’t stop and consider the fatigue effect on judges after a full day of over-lapping heats in giant surf.

Imagine how fried the priority judge was last night after a day on the tools like the one yesterday.

Unprecedented. More on this later, of course.

Seeing as we have all had so much fun analysing in real-time the days action the wrap today will be focussed on turning points, to try and add value to what has already been mulled over.

There were many.

Excuse me though, I need to go pee. Japanese bladder. I once stood in front of the magistrate in Byron Bay Court and (successfully) defended myself on a charge of public obscenity using the Japanese bladder defence. The defence was suggested to me by a certain manager of a certain pro surfer who went on to a long and illustrious career.

Can anyone now successfully defend the current career phase of Kelly Slater using the “wait till he gets in good waves” D? Totally erased in clean six-to-eight-foot Bells Bowl. Kelly lost on all levels. Positioning gone. Bizarre mid-heat Hail Mary paddle up to somewhere near Rincon.

I digress.

Can anyone now successfully defend the current career phase of Kelly Slater using the “wait till he gets in good waves” D? Totally erased in clean six-to-eight-foot Bells Bowl. Kelly lost on all levels. Positioning gone. Bizarre mid-heat Hail Mary paddle up to somewhere near Rincon.

Equipment, not cutting it, even according to the champ’s own admission.

Three ten-point heat totals got him to the quarters where he was brutally exposed. Judges squashed down R-Cal’s heat total to at least keep Kelly nominally in the heat but the 5.67 heat total says it all.

Mercifully, Rosie threw him the angel ring of an injury get out in the post heat presser and he clung to it like a drowning man does.

He said he had been “in denial about how bad it is.”

How much denial can the GOAT tolerate?

I assume you watched the JJF/Medina super heat and have your own opinions on it. My initial take was JJF won it clean.

Other opinions took a contrary view.

The crux rested on the scoring of Medina’s first wave. One huge perfect turn on the outside and a huge perfect upside-down smash on the shorebreak. Judges awarded a 6.67. Looks a clear underscore on the analyzer, by a point and a half. A low eight.

The other contention was Florence’s high score, an 8.87, which Peter Mel said contained “two errors”, including a question mark (dreaded question mark!) on the final turn. You can’t deny the power, aggression and commitment of the turns in between, but bringing it back a half-point seems reasonable.

The turning point. Fifteen minutes to go.

Medina catches his last scoring wave. Please go and look at the “high-line lip float” and study. Insane, yes. 8.5? Maybe even a nine.

Gabe Medina, superior strategist, lets a beautiful mid-sized wave drift underneath him right into John’s paw. Florence tears it about three new orifices, causing Peter Mel to groan orgasmically, “Oh my God!” Eight-point ride. That was the heat-winning wave. A crazy unforced error from Gabe, completely unremarked upon in the booth.

11.21 remaining, John ahead, Medina needing a 7.17. With priority. With motherfucking priority!

Gabe Medina, superior strategist, lets a beautiful mid-sized wave drift underneath him right into John’s paw. Florence tears it about three new orifices, causing Peter Mel to groan orgasmically, “Oh my God!” Eight-point ride.

That was the heat-winning wave. A crazy unforced error from Gabe, completely unremarked upon in the booth.

Back in the line-up John paddled slowly around Gabe in a slow, circling arc. A “soft” Zeke. Glorious hustle! Gabe did not ride another wave. It could have gone either way but for that piece of brilliance alone John John erases last year and takes the bikkies.

How would Italo respond to yesterday’s shellacking in the southern Ocean, where the cold gets in your bones and makes young men feel old and old men feel their mortality creeping in on them. He looked unsteady against a Jordy Smith who, by comparison to the previous heat, looked slow through the turn.

Italo came back with an excellent ride before he was cruelled by an interference call.

Every pro sport has officials who have to make judgement calls. And to eliminate another competitor from the contest via such a judgement call should only be done for the gravest of reasons, with a very high burden of proof.

Beyond reasonable doubt, at least.

Italo took a wave, a clean set wave, doubtful he saw Jordy lurking under the lip and spinning in the whitewater until he was passed him. He kicked out immediately. Jordy rode the wave well for a mid-six. Very, very long minutes passed before the interference call was announced to a disbelieving commentary booth, who seemed coached to not question a major call.

It was what UFC Middleweight Champion Khabib Nurmogomedov would call “Number one bullshit”.

The interference rule was supposed to apply where there was a hindrance to the scoring potential of the wave. Seeing as Jordy was still on his guts in the whitewater before Italo’s track even reached him then rode the wave successfully in what universe was his scoring potential hindered?

Answer: One where severely fatigued judges made a judgement call which should never have been made.

In a proper pro sport there would be an oversight committee where calls like that would be reviewed and if not able to be reversed at least admissions made or alterations to rule interpretations conducted.

There were shades of J-Bay 2017 for Filipe Toledo in his semi-Final against R-Cal. Except he couldn’t close out the final manouevre.

Rcal let him off the hook – major turning point – when he bogged a hard rail-turn on a major set wave. “Shhiiiiiiiiiiitttttt” went coach Dog Marsh on the stairs. Filipe needing a six caught a wave on the buzzer, fat outside, got good work done on the inside.

Fell on the finish.

I wrote “Nope”. Judges went “Yep”. R-Cal should have got that but let him off the hook.

You could feel the fatigue setting in for JJF in his semi with Jordy. Jordy was coming to life, putting a 6’6” Arakawa through the full arc of a turn. Slower, yes, but with variation.

John started to fall on the closing turn.

I do not subscribe to the view that the closing turns from John John were boring or monotonous. There was variation in angle of approach and rotation. Always the turn speed and aggression > Jordy.

Seven Minutes to go, John slipped away outside from Jordy and caught the biggest set wave of the day, carving a deep trench in it on multiple turns before a clean finish.

A cute Norwegian looking gal clapped on the stairs. Where did she come from? Who knew John had a gal? I saw the 9.43 as a historical rebalancing after the injustice of 2017, when John clearly the best surfer of the event was robbed of a final’s berth.

The Final was JJF battling fatigue and Filipe bringing turns that were a bit soft, blurry, lacking in focus.

John fell and fell again. Maybe he’s a cooked goose, I thought.

A set wave came with John holding priority. He allowed Filipe to go. Major turn on the outside, big cutback then Filipe kicked out, dodging the close-out hit. At the halfway point that was it. A big score there and John would have been toast.

A major turning point arrived.

A set wave came with John holding priority. He allowed Filipe to go. Major turn on the outside, big cutback then Filipe kicked out, dodging the close-out hit. At the halfway point that was it.

A big score there and John would have been toast.

Twenty minutes remaining and John had to start again. He showed no nerves. Cut a smaller inside wave into pieces with a blade that was looking duller with each strike. Mid-six was enough to get back in.

His next wave, a 7.63, was far from his best, but good enough to be a heat winner.

Like he did with Gabe he sat right next to Filipe. Not in his grill, but at a competitive distance. Filipe got his wave on the buzzer but it was nowhere near enough. Another 15 minutes and John would have been cooked, properly. A perfectly timed run. Props to his crew, they prepped their man beautifully.

Edit: I just read the WSL rule book: the rule is clear about crossing paths. Which means, shit rule that needs changing. What do you think? I just hate whistle-happy refs ruining the contest and an otherwise perfect Final Day.