The no-names added a frisson of David v Goliath excitement, largely illusory, but that could mean more at Teahupoo in three years time.

Olympics, done.

Did ya dig?

Bona fide Olympic Sport?

Whatever that means.

I think, with caveats, yes.

Played as straight-up elite sport it came out smelling like roses, thanks to the superstar power of Italo, Moore, Medina, primarily. As a sideshow to the sideshow of WSL Pro surfing it works. The no-names added a frisson of David v Goliath excitement, largely illusory, but that could mean more at Teahupoo in three years time.

Absorbing Final Day with Carrisa and Italo dominating one-sided finals to no one’s surprise and the only serious rival to Italo, Gabe Medina, self-combusting in a Bronze Medal match against Owen Wright after losing a razor-thin semi to Kanoa.

Julian Wilson complained bitterly about being low-balled for a clutch air against Medina in his round three loss and it seemed judges laid down some retributive justice: high-balling Owen and low-balling Gabe for what seemed a clear, heat-winning wave.

Medina spent the play-off launching and falling huge airs – all of which would have won the heat – counting an 8.5 total after seven attempts and a third of the heat done.

Owen’s high score of a 6.4 for two lateral turns and a bog standard close-out reo seemed a massive score, compared to what had gone before and what was scoring. Judges had made a point of penalising safety surfing which made that confluence of scores baffling after three days of incredibly fine judging which sent a super defined message to competitors and the public about what was Olympic-level surfing.

No matter, O-dawg looked great on the podium in green, gold and bronze. Classic scenes, Fernando in tears handing out medals, Owen towering over Italo. Carissa looking sensational in a white USA track suit with a stars and stripes face mask.

They got the right guy and the right gal for Gold, as they usually do in the end. Italo dropped bangers all day. Big, lofted rotations into the flats, huge closeout hits, he went to turns in the Final against Kanoa when the implications of Medina’s failed air strategy became clear to him.

That was a brilliant display of composure, especially after knee buckling closeouts hit left his magic Timmy Patterson in two pieces on the first wave of the Final.

An absorbing Finals Day probably peaked around the Medina/Bourez and Italo/Ohhara Quarters.

There was some debate over an under-scored tube-ride from Bourez but Medina had gone huge and there was just no answering back. Except from Italo in the next heat, who went huger. The two Brazilian boys were cock a hoop, as relaxed as lovesick teenagers in a sunlit field of daisies.

Nothing earthly could seem to stop them.

Medina took the same scorched earth form into the semi with Kanoa. Bam, bam, there were two big scores on the board in the first three minutes, the first before Kanoa had even paddled out the back. He was smiling, laughing, goofing off in his claims.

A human being in love with the moment, to quote his Insta.

Coach King was on the beach laughing, whooping it up.

Six minutes to go, Medina in full control. Absolute full control, hands Kanoa a shitty little wave under priority. You could smell that old Medina arrogance, that I love and others love to hate, from an ocean away. Kanoa zig-zags against the grain and a ramp presents itself.

Launches a full rotation, so slick and perfect.

Judges had to pay the high eight score needed with a nine. Gabe on track for Gold and now so rattled he could not regain composure for the Bronze medal matchup. I think a preview for Trestles if someone can take a heat off him in the Finals.

In the second semi, Italo tried to blow Owen out of the water, knowing Wright would safety surf and refrain from the air. Huge attempts in brown water explosions followed, one after the other. By my calculations, Italo missed three or four ten-point rides by a beesdick.

Staggeringly, Owen did not respond in kind. His strategy was to rely on Italo not making any of them, which incredibly, almost worked. It was only a bit of sharp face work that gave a Italo a very narrow winning margin.

Question for Australia’s surfing brains in the High Performance Center, who accompanied the team to Tokyo.

How could you not have a surfer prepared to go to the air in closeout beachbreak with an air wind against the best aerialists in the world? It was almost a miracle they snuck a Bronze medal through with that commitment to mediocrity.

With the surf a turgid morass of rippy river-like waves in the final, Italo did not make the same mistake of burning too many opportunities with non-makes. On a day when everyone went right, he found a series of lefts with a coping to grind off and put on a skate-style surf clinic, then punched hard vertical holes in righthand closeouts like a brownwater Bells shorey to put the result out of reach of Kanoa.

Moore was equally dominant against Bianca Buitendag. Which was probably for the greater good of the Sport.

A Gold for Buitendag would mean a non-Tour surfer is better than the current world number one. No awkward questions though in a sport that almost fell over itself in a frenzy of self-congratulating after the Olympic cherry was finally popped.

Caz Marks got completely lost in her semi with Bianca then more lost in her Bronze medal match with Amuro Tsuzuki, which put Japan on the Podium for Guys and Gals.

No doubt many happy moments in Tokyo bars tonight.

Despite years of taxpayer funded focus on the Olympics, Australia could not get a woman on the podium. Our Sal, as Aussies know and love Sally Fitzgibbon could not get the job done, after Gilmore flubbed her heat.

We finish with a single Bronze.

Wilson, Done.

Wright, at thirty-one an outside chance to qualify for Teahupoo.

Gilmore and Fitzgibbon almost certainly not likely to make the next Olympics.

Kanoa, twenty-three and surfing for Japan is almost certain to be an enduring Olympian, at least for Tahiti and Los Angeles.

That is all ahead of us in surfing’s new glittering path to the future.

For now, Italo is our first Olympic Gold Medallist.

Can we live with that?

I think yes. Very much so.

Did you bet the house on it, as advised?

“This is it for me travelling outside of Australia."

Julian Wilson’s protest against Gabriel Medina after their round three heat yesterday was all a little behind-the-scenes, the machinations of the appeal opaque to all but journalists sequestered in Tokyo.

Live mics snatched mutterings of “faaarrrrrk…ripped off…faaarrrrrk” etc suggesting Wilson and the Australian camp’s displeasure at the result.

Australia’s beef was Medina caught a scoring wave outside of the contest area and therefore the hammer of righteousness should play on his skull. Wilson, also sad his buzzer-beat wasn’t, as it turned out, a buzzer beater. 

In a story in Australia’s national broadsheet, and titled “Aussie’s dream crushed by judges, Brazilian bias”, The Australian’s Tokyo correspondent Callum Dick writes, 

Wilson confirmed the Aussie camp had launched a protest following his loss, adding the team had footage of one of Medina’s scoring waves being surfed outside of the competition bounds.

But the protest was quickly shot down by officials, who told the Aussie camp the interpretation of the ruling was simply that athletes risked not having their wave scored if they ventured beyond the competition bounds, if judges could not properly see it.

The ruling only added to Wilson’s frustration, who minutes earlier said he felt his last wave of the heat – an aerial with 30 seconds to go – was worth more than the 6.83 scored by the judges.

“It was a set wave, doubled up, a critical section – me watching (Medina) and Italo (Ferreira) getting massive scores for those all year, I thought it was significantly better than anything else I did, but it only turned out marginally (better) so I don’t know how that worked,” Wilson said.

Wilson thought he had it with the aerial at the end, fist pumping and clapping as he rode the white water back to the beach – only to be greeted with disappointment from the judges.

The 32-year-old, who prior to the Olympics confirmed he would take an indefinite break from the WSL tour to focus on family, said he wasn’t sure what was next for his surfing future.

“This is it for me travelling outside of Australia for a while. I need to prioritise myself and my family and just be there for my wife,” Wilson said.

Reigning world champ Italo Ferreira adds Olympic Gold to collection… 

The Brazilian Italo Ferreira pushed hard against the expected narrative of a Japanese surfing gold medal with a triumphant and invulnerable campaign at Chiba’s Tsurigasaki Beach, forty miles east of Tokyo.

Against Japanese-born, American-raised Kanoa Igarashi, a twenty-three year old so flashy you could imagine him walking the streets with a tiger on a leash, the reigning world champion played an intelligent game to easily win gold, despite breaking his board on his first wave.

Of all the gold medal contenders, Italo, who is twenty-seven, was the only one that carries the perpetual ecstasy of the looter.

It’s an old and hackneyed story, but in Italo’s case it’s true: the key to the pro surfing kingdom wasn’t presented to him on an upholstered velvet cushion via a dad that surfed, a benevolent sponsor and a training program where men stand on the beach under an umbrella filming the children for later review of technique.

Italo grew up in a fishing town in north-east Brazil, population eight thousand, called Baia Formosa; a joint where the only paved roads are the ones that lead into the village.

Italo’s pops would wander the beach and buy the catch of local fisherman and make his profit, a slender one but enough to feed his family, selling fish to restaurants.

His skinny son wanted to surf so Pops gave him the foam lid from the box he kept his fish in.

Eight-year-old Italo was so small it just worked on Baia’s little righthander.

Then, and in short order, an older friend who saw the boy’s love of surfing gifted him a fibreglass surfboard, he won the first contest he entered, moved onto regional events and then national, trying to win “cars, motorbikes and tickets to fly overseas.”

The rest, the elevation to stardom, the world title, came quickly.

And, now, gold medallist. The first in history.

Finals day analysis following shortly.

Not what the Duke had in mind when he envisioned the Sport of Kings as an Olympic sport.

I could have sworn, after Day One, that today was going to be a no-name bloodbath, and it did in the end up being that way.

But not at first as Steph Gilmore, then Johanna Defay, were bundled out of the Olympics in very shitty three-to-four-foot-gurgled-out beachbreak by Bianca Buitendag and Yolanda Hopkins respectively. Potential super-star Ella Williams went early, Tati got knocked and from there it was close to a complete shut-out of the off-tour underdogs.

The two-point plus spread that we identified yesterday as the key metric held true for the most part. The Peruvian men provided the sternest resistance of the roughies, with Miguel Tudela just getting pipped by local Hiroto Ohhara (fellow Pipe stud, I think?) and Lucca Mesinas grafting a slim win against Leo Fioravanti.

It was a sloppy, muddy mess of a lineup, I feel quite sure not what the Duke had in mind when he envisioned the Sport of Kings as an Olympic sport.

Nonetheless, a bit of a revelation for the men’s commentary having the non-surfing Englishman in the booth with Barton. He quickly indentified the key ingredients of surfing as sport: character, match-ups, skill and reality.

Just such a refreshing relief after the drinking from a firehose rainbows and unicorns positivity of Turpel and crew. Seems when you take pro surfing out of the hands of the WSL and play it like a true sport with an independent commentary it comes out OK.

Maybe lessons learned for the next billionaire who hates space travel and wants an expensive toy to play with.

The muddy mess and incomprehensible scoring will not provide succour to ELO’s fevered dream of an Olympic led surfing boom.

It’s already happened, for one.

For two, VALS don’t give a fuck about competition.

Even the architect of Olympic surfing ISA Prez Fernando Aguerre is savvy enough to realise that, claiming in a media interview this week that, “We (surfers) exist outside of competitions. You can’t be a boxer or a fencer if you don’t box or do fencing against somebody. But everyone can be a surfer without competing. This is a sport you do on your own.”

And to drop a final unflushable turd into the Olympic Wavepool dream, he then took an aggressive, egalitarian, pro-ocean stance: “The ocean is free. It doesn’t belong to anyone. No one can buy it. Nobody can sell it. Nobody can charge you. You can be Bill Gates’ son or the janitor’s son, black or white, gay or straight, male or female, young or old, fat or skinny. Nobody cares. The ocean doesn’t care.”

It does care a little bit. But who’s counting.

The rest of the mainstream press coverage involved the typical pro surfer whining about how negative stereotypes were holding the sport back. Which is a complete load of cock and bull.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High was forty years ago. Everyone surfs.

Obama, Zuck, Thor and his bro that was married to Miley Cyrus, that cunt from Google who keeps a superyacht moored in the Mamanucas near Cloudbreak etc etc. The biggest outdated stereotype about surfing is that outdated stereotypes still exist. The mass market has had fifty years of exposure to pro surfing and knocked it back everytime.

It just don’t appeal.

Despite crap surf, the match-ups today did appeal to the hard-core. And no offence to the women, but there was no real heat in the exchanges until Andino and JJF hit the water for the second heat of round three men’s.

JJF on the maroon Dark Arts, which stands accused of having unreliable handling and a low make rate on airs and completions. Andino on a stock PU/PE Mayhem driver. Neither men making concessions to injury with visible strapping.

Brother opened the heat in emphatic fashion with a whipped and lofted slob reverse, full rotation. Seven and a half.

He waved his arms frantically to hear the score again. Not for information but as as psychological ploy to rattle JJF.

And, John did look rattled. The completions failed to materialise. The rail game looked solid but the final turns would not stick, adding fuel to the flame that carbon construction has too much of a rigid flex modulus, making it unforgiving for bumpy surf.

Brother was pumped by the judges on a very handy back-up ride that should have beem a mid-five. Judged not to have completed the final air and given a 2.7. He did not crack.

Twelve to go, JJF failed to stick an air. Nine to go, he failed again.
Four-and-a-half minutes to go, Brother nails a slick slash and air combo for a 6.33. 14.33 plays 8.93 with three on the clock.

The tension causes an intense physical reaction in me. My fingers are twitching and spiders are crawling all over the back of my neck. I want Brother to win so bad. John launches a tail-high air with a weird, fluffy landing.

It needs an 8.07. I think it’s a six. Will judges crack? They highball it a 6.77.

Ninety seconds takes an eternity. Brother catches a wave, gives JJF the dancefloor with twenty seconds remaining. He does not catch a wave. JJF exits without a medal. He will be thirty-two at the next Olympics, in his prime as a Teahupoo surfer, assuming no injury.

Medina starts his heat the exact same way. With a clean landed air for a mid seven. Jules responds with a two-turn combo. Slick, non-threatening, house building.

Medina falls and falls and falls, then falls again. He’s miles up the beach from Wilson, close to the next jetty.

Who has the highest completion rate in the air? Has to be Medina.

Failure seems not to bother a hair on his head.

Wilson stomps a single air. Takes a narrow lead with twenty to go.

It’s tight with a third of the heat down. Wilson 11.84, Medina 10.10.

Fifteen to go, tension once more rises.

Each man seems to revert back to previous, more primal stages of their surfing existence. Wilson as a kid surfing onshore slop at Coolum and Medina running thousands of hours in the closeouts of Maresias. Each in their own little world now, deciphering the confused patterns of mixed windswell in the Olympic Games.

Medina catches a wave. Snaps hard and runs a heavy roof-top float in the barrage of the shoredump. It’s a high six. Team Wilson will call it an egregious over-score.

The Private Idaho ends. With the lead Medina smothers Wilson, living all over him with ten to go. Too early to play total defence, I think. A risky, finely calibrated strategy that offers the maximum potential for a Medina interference call as he pushes the limit of heavy D.

Ninety seconds, “he’s living all over me” thought the Aussie crowd, inhabiting the psyche of Julian Wilson’s last moments as a professional competitive surfer.

Forty seconds. Wilson sells Medina on a block, the first wave he has caught in ten minutes.

Twenty seconds, Wilson gets his wave, hits it, launches a clean spin, greased landing.

God, he could have that, I thought. Ice veined judges lowballed a 6.83.

Wilson looked relieved. His team on the beach, ropeable.

Ripped off?

The spread flatters Medina, but the result: correct.

Who can beat him at an air-wind beachie?

Two guys. Italo, still going and the other: the best guy in the world in beachbreak surf, Filipe Toledo, did not make the cut.

For convicts, Our Sally and O-Dog remain in medal contention.