Evaporated: What happened to the Andy Irons
Most Committed Performance Award at Teahupoo?
By Derek Rielly
"He was the people's champ! He's been fucked! Andy
Irons was one of the few real things left in surfing!" says legend
surfer-shaper.
A few hours ago, on the dreariest winter’s day
imaginable, my mood only barely elevated by a Foxtel connection to
Tahiti, I received a phone call from the swinging
surfer-shaper Maurice Cole.
In quick order, he told me of his recent health and emotional
travails, why Dirk Ziff has the will and the capacity to happily
lose, indefinitely, twenty mill a year on pro surfing (Maurice
explained that sports are a billionaires’ plaything and while some
are spending hundreds of mill each year to own a team, Ziff drops
pocket-change and owns a sport), that he was splitting
Torquay to live in a van near Bells and…
…what the fuck happened to the Andy Irons award at
Teahupoo?
The AI award has been given to the hardest charger at Teahupoo
every year since 2011.
Winners include Jeremy Flores, John John Florence, Ricardo
dos Santos, Owen Wright, CJ Hobgood and Kelly Slater, who won it in
2016, the last time he won a WCT event.
“Secretly I’ve really wanted this award for five years now,”
Kelly Slater said at the
time. “I was channeling Andy this week. I was thinking
about him a lot. He was a monster out here, he would just
man-handle barrels. The last heat I had with him out here was that
last year he won. I felt like I was part of that in some way. That
award is going to be front and center in my home. There is a lot of
emotions right now.”
Photo: WSL
Andy, of course, won the 2010 Teahupoo contest two months before
he was found dead in his hotel room at Dallas/Forth Worth
International airport.
In 2018?
No award.
Maurice is furious.
“Look at the comments,” he ordered, “They’re going fucking wild.
He was the people’s champ! He’s just been fucked! This is the
biggest fucking scandal I’ve seen today. Andy Irons was one of the
few real things left in surfing!”
What happened?
The WSL was contacted for a comment with no response although
Maurice assures me the great Nick Carroll, who has a sturdier
connection to the WSL than me, is on the case.
More tomoz.
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Medina defended a slender lead that never
looked like being enough. He sat while Owen drifted in and measured
up on an inside nugget, fluttering on the foam ball the whole ride.
That wave turned the heat, paddling back out he repeated the dose
while Gabe sat motionless on the outside and Charlie fumed and
fussed about like a wounded bird at the end of Owen's flight
path.
Tahiti Pro Finals Day: “Owen Wright wins by
fluttering on inside nuggets while Medina sits motionless on the
outside and Charlie fumes like a wounded bird at the end of Owen’s
flight path!”
By Longtom
"Poetic justice," says Kaipo Guerrero.
I do feel some sympathy for the minions at the coal face
of the WSL hype machine.
When you’ve OD’d on the most historic, the most epic, the most
crazy etc etc the comedown in the cold light of the next morning
will never be a pretty look.
Thus, groomed six-foot Teahupoo looked underwhelming for this
Finals Day.
For the first time in history I agreed wholeheartedly with
Turpel when, after Owen completed his five hundredth deep tube
ride, he intoned “Wright can do no wrong.”
I could not agree with the judges when they awarded Owen a
perfect ten for a leftover bomb wave from yesterday’s mack-fest.
That robbed fans of a genuine contest in the closing minutes of his
tube duel with OG Jaddy baby who was charging into them like a
maniac.
He deserved a shot, no matter how infinitesimally small the
odds, of taking the heat. The ten put him in combo land with a
minute to go. In the end though, it was nothing more than cosmic
justice: the Wright guy won and got to where he deserved to be.
Cosmic justice made a mockery of the next quarter between ADS
and Jordy. Deep charging goofyfooters were a cut above
naturalfooters all event and this heat seemed ghosted by the lack
of Italo Ferriera.
Both Jordy and ADS looked shakey and not quite up to the task.
The heat turned on a decision by Adriano to let Jordy go on the
only proper set wave and when judges lost control of their scoring
rigour and awarded a 9.23 the whole contest was in danger of
spilling to a very messy conclusion.
“How do you know what you don’t know?” asked Barton Lynch in the
booth, pertaining to the decision making process.
He claimed a vague interior process that lay beyond the bounds
of rational thought, which he called “feeling”, that was the
superior mechanism.
Whatever it was, or is, Gabe Medina had his Feels all lined up
in quarter-final three against Jeremy Flores. On paper, the best
quarter final of the contest. The waves did not show up.
No matter for Gabe. He walked Jeremy up the reef like a small
dog on a leash, and then walked him back. Jeremy cracked first and
took a small south insider, for a small score. That left Gabe with
an open lineup, which he luxuriated in for twenty minutes before
calmly opening up on very clean mid-rangers for an easy win.
The Seth Moniz-Caio Ibelli quarter was a mystery bag which,
despite the lack of any semblance of rivalry, Kaipo tried
desperately to spin as a grudge match.
Ibelli got the wave of the heat, a thick-set bouncer of a wave
that he snuck in under after slippery fins finally engaged to bear
hug to the safety of the channel. If it wasn’t for a display of
cockiness, paddling arrogantly up the inside of Seth and trying for
a too deep inside nugget he may have won the heat.
Moniz, like he was all event, backed his skill set and took the
next set on offer to take it out.
How many tubes did Owen complete against Jordy in their semi?
How much total tube time did he log for the event? Must be
minutes It seems a little obscene. A very one-sided affair. I
lost track of the final third of the heat after a kerfuffle out the
back door distracted me.
It was a duck beating up on a rooster. Have you ever seen a
drake beat up on a rooster? He was really kicking his ass. I didn’t
know whether to punish the perpetrator or comfort the victim.
In the melee, I could not help noticing the duck, tall and
handsome with slender but powerful neck, bore an uncanny
resemblance to Owen Wright and the rooster with his powerful
physique, plumage and proudly erect comb reminded me of Gabriel
Medina.
Pardon me Barton Lynch, but that was how I based my decision
making on who was going to win the final. My “feels” if you
like.
Seth simply made too many mistakes to trouble Gabe. And judges
could not pay the faked exits. Valuable learning for him. He’ll be
on the podium here before too long.
Which put us to the final, with the two best guys of the event.
Judges got the feels right. There were vapour trails from Owen and
Gabe paddling each other up and down the reef. A ritual that did
feel a bit played out by that point.
Priority was confusing and in the end all that tactical
showboating made no difference. It was past halfway when the wave
riding began. Gabe had the best of it, but the medium, large sets
now looked fluffy and inconsequential compared to the inside
nuggets which ran square across the very shallowest part of the
inside reef.
They shared an exchange.
Gabe came out low with a fade out of the tube, Owen came out
high with a speed pump. Scores could have gone either way. Owen was
favoured by a half point.
Five minutes to go.
Medina defended a slender lead that never looked like being
enough. He sat while Owen drifted in and measured up on an inside
nugget, fluttering on the foam ball the whole ride. That wave
turned the heat, paddling back out he repeated the dose while Gabe
sat motionless on the outside and Charlie fumed and fussed about
like a wounded bird at the end of Owen’s flight path.
Game over. Poetic retribution, Kaipo called it.
The Gods must be laughing to have Filipe Toledo, after all that
transpired at Teahupoo, leading the race into the Wavepool.
Meanwhile, in a stunning counter-factual, John John Florence,
who watches somewhere, surrounded by tasteful walnut and mahogany
fittings, in my imagination at least, remains in the top five.
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South African surf mag publisher to Jamie
Brisick: “Bugger off New York shit talker!”
By Chas Smith
"A place where hope for humanity goes to die."
I’ve been lulled to complete sleep by the
Tahiti Pro Teahupoo presented by Hurley. When the waves go dumb
there’s not enough on the broadcast to keep a boy entertained. My
mind wanders here and there and then I feel bad for letting you
down too. For only posting “comment live” and “event wrap” back to
back to back to back.
No.
You deserve more than Strider Wasilewski duck-diving a wave with
microphone in hand while Joe Turpel says, “Epic conditions on a
historic day here at the end of the road.”
So here.
You certainly read Jamie Brisick’s New Yorker masterpiece from
a few days
ago wherein he discussed our new era where cameras are
ever-present and how they have created self-aware styles like the
one possessed by Mikey February.
A passage:
His hand jive, soul arches, and toreador-like flourishes
play to the camera in a way that breaks the spell of the itinerant
surfer in far-flung solitude. His style is as self-conscious as the
duck-face selfie.
Well, South Africa’s Zig Zag
magazine took offense to the slight. (Disclaimer: I
love Zig Zag magazine more than any American or Australian surf
pub.) Publisher Andy Davis headed straight to computer and wrote In
Defense of Aesthetics and MFEB’s Style and shall we sample?
Surf media hyenas and outrage specialist Beachgrit
immediately jumped on this passage and shared it under the
headline: THE NEW YORKER: “MIKEY FEBRUARY’S STYLE IS AS
SELF-CONSCIOUS AS THE DUCK-FACE SELFIE!” A brief scuffle ensued in
the comments section. A place where hope for humanity goes to
die.
(Disclaimer: being described as surf media hyenas and outrage
specialists gives me a unique thrill.)
And then…
Ultimately, Brisick has fallen into the trap, of judging
February by a feckless and imperial first world Californian surfing
standard, where being caught trying too hard is the ultimate sin.
It’s a curmudgeonly and spiteful comment, that fails to grasp a
broader global context and ends up saying more about his own
privilege than whether Mikey February’s style is
pretentious.
And all this to justify a perspective that itself rests in
the eye of the beholder and is as ephemeral as the mist on a
morning up the Wesksus. Here at the Zag, we say viva MFeb style,
voetsek New Yorker kakpraat!
Which, I was gracefully told, translates as “Bugger off New York
shit talker!”
So, is dear Jamie Brisick a feckless imperialist? Is Mikey
February’s style misunderstood? Are you where hope for humanity
goes to die?
Much to discuss and much better than current Teahupoo.
Eat it, Joe Turpel.
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Comment live: Finals day of the Tahiti Pro
Teahupoo presented by Hurley!
By Chas Smith
Come celebrate one last hurrah!
Yesterday, a hot full day of professional surf
action, was fun. There were controversies, upsets, fear, bravery
and the omnipresent Wall of Cotton Candy Sweet Positive Sound
coming from the World Surf League’s wood pallet wall’d booth. And
what do you imagine happens during World Surf League commentator
training, or rather what did happen those five years ago when Joey
Turpel and gang received their first new order training?
Did onetime World Surf League CEO Herr Paul Speaker say, “I
don’t care what you think you see, what you say
must be POSITIVE” or some equal directive?
I do not understand it and it feels insulting. It feels
profoundly insulting when Yago Dora sits for 35 minutes in non-stop
waves, catches one and Joey Turpel says, “Dora gets one and is
hustling back out to get back into the heat.”
But Dora was scared. He was not hustling to get back into the
heat. He wanted it over. Everyone could see it yet no one in the
booth could say it.
Infuriating and it makes me rage inside, shaking an impotent
fist at the screen, cursing both 1988 and 1989.
Well, Longtom wrapped yesterday’s hot
professional surf action almost too beautifully, and
please forgive my rude fist shaking, for yesterday’s hot action
also brought the return of the Li’l Plumber and the unveiling of
Caio Ibelli. Do either have a shot to win the 2019 overall crown?
Hope springs eternal.
And today is the last Teahupoo we’ll see all year before we head
inland to cow country. A gorgeous day before hell truly cometh.
Delaying the bottom turn for a micro-second
put Gabriel Medina as deep as humanly possible. The foam ball
pushed him around and almost threw him to disaster. He emerged and
splayed ten fingers out to the judges with a shrug. The only thing
unseemly about it was the time taken for judges to award a perfect
ten.
Tahiti Pro, Day 3: “Medina imperiously
calm; close to perfect; Kelly Slater too cute for judges!”
By Longtom
Six-to-ten-foot waves distended nostrils and
quickened hearts in the best contest day at Teahupoo in five
years…
Going to the land of nod last night knowing I/we would
be waking up to a day of eight-foot Teahupo’o broadcast
live made me feel quite deliriously excited.
I didn’t need to neck any sleeping pills like Filipe Toledo, but
then I wasn’t one who would be paddling out with the whole world
watching.
If the Tour disintegrated under the weight of its own
contradictions and all we were left with were a couple of
speciality events: Chopes, Pipe, maybe something in Indo it
wouldn’t be the worst outcome in the world.
Long as we got to watch it live.
Gotta say though, the draw did not excite as much. Lot of
one-sided encounters on there, some of which did run to script
while some turned out to be almost surreal in their reversals of
expected fortune.
Barton Lynch was enthusiastic to a fault in the post-show wrap
claiming despite the evil nature of the surf, “The world’s best
surfers had a dig” The missing qualifier “some of” was starkly
visible to all, except the commentary team.
Only the most timid observations of reality were allowed to
escape, if at all.
Overlapping heats seemed a disastrous choice for the day.
Confusion was the dominant theme, in the judging panel, in the
broadcast, amongst the watching fans. Too many waves were missed,
commentary had no clue what was going on, it was a mess.
Inconceivably, the WSL looked to have shot the one Golden Goose
that managed to fly into its orbit this year. I never thought I
would utter these words about pro surfing: there was too much
action.
Riding forwards on a longer board, Italo sat deeper than
Adriano, surfed on the foam ball and threaded multiple huge
carverns perfectly. I am sure one of his eight-point rides was
critically underscored. Maybe all of them.
Italo Ferreira and Adriano De Souza were the first to give the
day some shape and an epic flavour. I’m still deeply baffled by how
Italo lost.
Riding forwards on a longer board, Italo sat deeper, surfed on
the foam ball and threaded multiple huge carverns perfectly. I am
sure one of his eight-point rides was critically underscored.
Maybe all of them.
The final exchange was emblematic of the day: the second wave of
the set was the heat-winning wave and De Souza rode deep and long
on a …..what do we call it now in the Wavepool Era? Twenty-foot
wave?
It was a surreal close, commentators had brought in a babe to
discuss the coral gardening. Barton spent half the heat engaged in
WSL talking points while the best heat of the year played out in
front of him.
Barton’s worst day on tour as a commentator. He missed the other
high point of the day. Medina’s ten. More on that later.
De Souza could not be denied.
But even after rewatching I still can’t reconcile the Italo loss
after one of the most incredible performances ever seen at Chopes.
That he was beaten while another surfer in the concurrent
over-lapping heat barely caught a wave seems a criminal
travesty.
In round fucking three! Wasn’t the seeding round supposed to fix
this?
De Souza claimed a spiritual advisor in the departed Ricardo Dos
Santos accompanied him to his epic win.
His advice, according to De Souza,“You have to treat Teahupo’o
like you treat your wife” was wisely left uninterrogated by Rosie
Hodge in the presser.
Cardoso could not take off. Ricardo Cristie struggled. Wade
Carmichael was a deer in the headlights. Thirty-five minutes of a
heat passed without Yago Dora molesting a wave,or seducing it ala
De Souza. This caused the mellow Williams to declaim without a
trace of irony, “Some guys are a little better than the other
guys”.
Do not get me wrong. I do not judge.
CJ Hopgood in an impassioned commentary performance of mostly
unintelligible gibberish said when you surf Teahupoo the “the black
pearl is right behind you” and that you get to find out “what’s on
the other side of your fears.”
Real things, as it turns out. Shallow reef to be slammed into.
Death, serious injury. As a rec surfer who has looked down into the
belly of the beast as those west bowls bend at you and drain the
reef, it is the most frightening reality imaginable.
Brother had everything to overcome in his heat to hold the
yellow jersey. His own fear, the hometown crowd baying for his
seventeen-year-old Tahitian opponent, the waves themselves.
He did not let himself down.
He surfed a smart, brave heat. And then with a minute remaining
the broadcast inadvertently captured a moment of pure pathos. Vaast
paddled right past Andino and Andino’s expression of startled,
unknowing arrogance as he watched him segued perfectly into Vaast
stroking into a blue cement mixer which delivered a wild foam ball
victory ride for the wildcard. It was beautiful sport.
The yellow jersey now shifted to Filipe Toledo, if he could
somehow prove the naysayers wrong and make sense of full throated
Teahupo’o.
He did, barely, against Jesse Mendes. It was obvious he wanted
nothing to do with it. Christ, the man was coming down from
sleeping pills! You want to be up to surf Chopes, not down. He
could not force his way in there and wrangle a bomb.
With a heat almost spent Pip did get behind one and threaded it.
Judges were generous but as Pip paddled back to the boat the look
he gave Tatiana Weston-Webb clothed in a black Thrasher T-shirt was
not one of machismo, but more of sheepish acknowledgment that he
had done just enough to get the job done.
Ace Buchan in the booth spent the heat throwing shade at both
men. On Jesse Mendes he noted that Jesse was the defending Triple
Crown champion but was yet to really pack a bomb. He wryly observed
that Toledo “needs to be deeper”.
With a heat almost spent Pip did get behind one and threaded it.
Judges were generous but as Pip paddled back to the boat the look
he gave Tatiana Weston-Webb clothed in a black Thrasher T-shirt was
not one of machismo, but more of sheepish acknowledgment that he
had done just enough to get the job done.
In the presser, as he accepted the accolade of the yellow jersey
he said “I’m blessed” four times in one sentence. He did not look
like a man blessed. He looked shell shocked and half dead.
Jeremy Flores in a helmet was magnificent, but that is not
newsworthy. Same with his fellow helmutee Owen Wright. Both were
almost insanely competent and hungry for the bombs.
The surprise was Kelly Slater.
After watching all day the danger was Kelly would get too cute
and try and showboat his way to scores. Which he duly did, and
which judges duly lowballed.
The second wave of the set had been the heat winner. He took the
first. Jack Freestone was solid, just drew a clean line from A to B
under the axe.
Kelly needed one bomb to make the heat.
The set came.
Kelly, after spending most of his commentary session the other
day detailing how to make the drop, could not get in. He
pin-dropped from the top. And watched as Jack Freestone rode the
second wave to a heat-winning score.
Either wave successfully ridden would have been Kelly’s heat
winner.
After calling Kelly and Italo on day one it was a bitter pill to
swallow to see both gone while a third of the tour floundered like
toddlers in a wading pool.
It was pro surfing overload but somehow the Bourez/Owen Wright
heat cut through effortlessly. Owen rode a million deep tubes.
Bourez was crushed beneath a collapsing west wedge that was so, so
heavy.
On the ski ride back over dry reef into the lagoon he looked
like a floppy puppet.
He can’t come back from that, can he?
Minutes later he paddled into an even heavier one. A legit tow
wave. Impossibly heavy. He needed a high Nine. They gave him a
9.43. For a fucking tow wave! If there was ever a noble defeat this
was it.
Moniz and Ibelli were grand. They get short-changed here in the
hope tomorrow gives them the coverage they deserve.
The final word has to go to Medina. He was imperiously calm and
composed in dispatching Zeke Lau. Against a hard-charging Colapinto
in heat six of round four he was much much closer to perfect.
He rode two waves separated by more than 30 minutes.
The first to open: a deep, travelling tube, weaving in and
around the foam ball. A type of tube-riding he specialises in.
The second a much bigger throatier set. Delaying the bottom turn
for a micro-second put as deep as humanly possible. The foam ball
pushed him around and almost threw him to disaster. He emerged and
splayed ten fingers out to the judges with a shrug. The only thing
unseemly about it was the time taken for judges to award a perfect
ten.
And Barton missing it while an interview with Flores played on
the split. He missed it! The two peak moments of a day of days
missed by the booth, for shame.
A day where almost too much pro surfing was barely enough.
