Long live Filipe Toledo!
As readers and fans of surfing, I want to thank
you.
For the past few weeks I’ve suffered a bit of existential
gloom.
Like I’m on a precipice. Pitching over the ledge with the
realisation that I’m half a second too late, and what lies beneath
is more air and rock than water.
It’s work, it’s addiction, it’s communication, it’s purpose,
it’s ChatGPT.
All of which could shove me over at any second.
But Beachgrit, surfing, you…all of this has saved me.
I’ll spare you my extended thoughts about ChatGPT. I plan to
write an essay about it elsewhere.
In summary, the arc of my thinking has now arrived at one,
simple premise: human readers will always need human writers.
What would ChatGPT make of pro surfing?
It would take a very advanced (or malfunctioning) AI to describe
a character like Derek can.
An algorithm would never describe Griffin Colapinto as having a
heart-shaped face with dimples in his cheeks where viscous liquids
might pool under virginal, thirsty eyes.
Nor could it mimic the style of Chas, wantonly turning noun into
verb and back again.
Introspection.
So when I go off on tangents like this, that are little to do
with surfing, it’s not contrived, nor self indulgent (it’s a bit
self indulgent – all writing is), but rather it’s my attempt to
communicate on a simple, human level.
We belong in small groups, reading each other’s body language,
looking into eyes, seeing the humanity laid before us. Yet so much
of our communication is behind a screen.
So we find little niches where we search for our kin. Places
where we can communicate with people we understand, people we could
read face-to-face.
That’s what Beachgrit is.
We’re all here. Not because of me or because of you, but because
of what we’re doing together. This frivolous, pointless joy of
watching men pit themselves against the ocean and wiggle watery,
pretty patterns for us to ooh and ahh and spit and howl at.
The words we exchange become bridges to this experience.
And today, at Sunset Beach, was as good a finals’ day experience
as we might hope for. A day unimpeded by wave quality, questionable
judging, or bland commentary.
Just pure surfing.
Ok, ok. There were some lully heats early on. Dave Prodan
appeared via video link at some point and delivered some grey word
sludge. Kaipo referred to the shaper rankings as “a really powerful
storyline”.
And the “Stay Tuned” screens and ad breaks IN THE MIDDLE OF
TIGHT HEATS were infuriating.
But apart from all that.
Jack Robinson trounced Nat Young in the first quarter final of
the day, before eventually falling to a sparkling Colapinto.
Ethan Ewing went with a whimper, caught in the eye of a lull. It
would have been good to see him in the later heats.
He sat for twenty-two minutes before attempting a wave. For
once, his timing was off, and in comparison to Colapinto it looked
like he had seaweed on his fins. Griffin surfed like he’d had a
whole bag of Skittles.
I noted Colapinto exchanging some dialogue with coach Tom
Whittaker as he paddled back to the peak. I’ll need to scan the
rulebook, but I didn’t think that was allowed mid-heat.
On the other side of the draw, God downed tools and went out for
a fag to leave Caio Ibelli and Filipe Toledo to sort things out
themselves.
Toledo was ruthless and incisive.
Laying down a glorious top to bottom arc which was the turn of
the day to this stage, he paddled in with over a minute to go.
Contrary to how it might appear, there was no arrogance in this,
only a justified certainty that Caio didn’t have anything like that
in his locker.
This set-up a tantalising match-up with Joao Chianca, who had
carried his brutal form of the previous day of competition to
dispatch Matt McGillivray.
Both semi-finals were high quality affairs, in terms of the
match-ups and the resulting performances.
This might seem like the kind of trite observation you get from
the booth, but today each man truly seemed at the peak of his
powers.
Griffin Colapinto had risen fierce this morning, writing in his
journal, “I am calm. I am confident. I am powerful. I am fearless.
I am present.”
Regardless of how you feel about this, or the fact he chooses to
share it, you can’t deny he was all of these things.
Rhythm is vital in surfing, and Griffin was feeling it today.
Against Robinson, he had one of those performances where his
competitor seemed to fade into the background, leaving just him and
a perfect canvas for a silky forehand blitz.
Kelly Slater revealed recently that one of his tactics was
always to surf against the man, not the waves. I can see how this
works, but today Colapinto was in a headspace where the man hardly
mattered.
And when the man is Jack Robinson, that’s worth extra kudos.
Robinson, for his part, did very little wrong. There’s no shame
in losing with a 16.33 heat total, nor in having a nose for barrels
like a pig hunting truffles. I eagerly await the day Robinson,
Medina and Florence can go toe-to-toe in a pure tube slug fest.
Given the 6/1 odds the bookies were offering on Griffin prior to
this semi, they clearly hadn’t read his journal.
Their favourite was now Filipe Toledo, but a match-up against
Joao Chianca, arguably the most on-form surfer of the event by the
numbers and the eye-test, was far from given.
Just a note on these numbers: 13.64 for his opening (the second
highest score of the entire round); then 16.67, 16.83, 15.23,
15.54.
And you wouldn’t debate any of it.
Strider mentioned the “intensity” of Chianca’s surfing, and for
once he was spot on.
It’s not hard to see how it fits the criteria. Every turn he
does looks critical, like he’s trying to force the very core of his
being through the soles of his feet.
Pre-heat, Toledo prayed on the beach. You’d be forgiven for
wondering if he was simply pleading that Chianca didn’t strangle
him to death.
After the first exchange, it looked like a real possibility,
even if just in the figurative sense.
Both men paddled furiously towards an approaching peak, but it
was Chianca that managed to turn and go, a transition that would’ve
sent mortal men tumbling over the falls.
He had bullied Toledo to the wave, and his opening score of a
6.50 was followed swiftly by an 8.17 for a ferocity that is
becoming his trademark. His turns cause me to utter involuntary
ppffoooooooo noises.
But where Chianca was barbaric, Toledo was rapier-like.
The 9.10 awarded to his fourth wave seemed high on first
impression, but like the finest rail technicians in the game, it
was fully justified in slo-mo.
The aesthetic beauty of these carves was seared into the judges
eyes, and there followed an overwhelming sense that Filipe Toledo
had a capacity for turns that Joao Chianca does not (yet)
possess.
Toledo’s match-up in the final with Griffin Colapinto was mouth
watering. From the opening seconds it looked set-up for a
banger.
Toledo opened with a 7.83, but right behind him Colapinto
dropped a 9.17 after a miraculous end section that he had no right
to make.
It was a spectacular finish, but I did question the score, given
the only reason he finished in such fashion was because he was late
to the section. Surely, when fine waves are on offer, near perfect
scores should follow near perfect timing?
The joy in this final were the two wave sets that allowed us
direct comparison between rides. The second wave in each set was
always a little better, and those went to Filipe.
Griffin was excellent, but Toledo was magnificent. He locked in
victory with an 8.27, then added a 9.47 for the highest single wave
score of the event. A fitting end to a quality day of professional
surf competition.
It was a final between two men unafraid to show some
vulnerability, and as fans we should respect that. This sense of
shared humanity is really what we’re searching for in live
sport.
Toledo was surprisingly emotional in a lengthy post victory
interview. Surprising in the sense that he’s already a world
champion with many event wins under his belt.
Whatever your qualms about him, on days like today he deserves
nothing but respect. Not just for his skill, but for his
humanity.
And this is why I thank you.
Because I realise an algorithm could never communicate that.
I realise it could never consider you, a faceless reader,
somehow also a friend.
Nor could it understand why this dumb, debatable sport we’re all
obsessed with is worth poking, prodding and soliloquising.
And that, to me, makes it more important than ever.
Despite what Apple watch wearing, pool devotees might have you
believe, surfing is still a place where both perfection and
imperfection can co-exist with glorious unpredictability. A real
thing, with real fear and real joy.
I don’t mean to go all Sarah Connor on you, but cling to this,
friends. Cling to these dying embers of a life shaped by
people.
Algorithms don’t surf.
