If Portugal was a character in a novel, today
completed its redemption arc. A wildly exciting day of surfing
eclipsed all the mediocrity that led to this point.
If Portugal was a character in a novel, today
completed its redemption arc.
A wildly exciting day of surfing eclipsed all the mediocrity
that led to this point.
The last few days had been a slog.
I thought of this today, trying to engage my bottom set 12 year
olds – reluctant readers, to put it mildly – with a graphic novel
about John Muir.
We all need beauty as well as bread, I told them.
Blank stares.
Think about something you love, I implored. Is that not what
makes all the boring stuff worthwhile? You know, like school? Like
this?
Silence.
Have you tasted Prime, sir? Someone eventually offered.
And that’s the problem. You can’t take for granted that people
know what beauty is, much less desire it. Some people don’t have
anything to love. Others can’t understand that sometimes life is
mostly bread.
But today, there was some beauty. The swell was “honking
through” said Paul Evans. It was still a bit unpredictable, and the
rips remained vicious, but there was plenty of opportunity.
The barrels were thick and the sections begged commitment, with
scores rewarding those who answered this call. Judging was based on
technical barrel riding, choosing the meatiest waves, and single,
cock-and-balls-swinging manoeuvres.
Standard fayre for exciting competition surfing.
By the time we reached finals, it had even cleaned up and gone
offshore.
Once again, the overlapping heat format proved its worth.
At times, it was a frantic pace. A day when anything seemed
possible. There were all types of waves, all flavours of surfing.
Italo, Griffin, Yago and Medina were all in the water together.
Each man obliterating sections and spelunking through deep, sandy
caverns. It was hard to keep up.
A colleague came to talk to me at some point, something about
having to go to the hospital unexpectedly, and would I do this or
that or something or other for her?
Sure, sure, of course, I said, not looking up. Then Griffin was
getting sandblasted from a tube for a 9.5 and I was yeeewwwwing and
might even have put my hand up to stop her talking, which is
immensely rude, of course, and I should apologise tomorrow, but it
seemed like the only possible response at the time.
“Was that…good?” she asked tentatively.
“The spit!” I stuttered. “Look at the spit!”
There was no way to explain it quickly. And she had to get to
the hospital anyway.
Off you go, I said, flapping my hand in her general direction.
Yeah, yeah, no worries, yeah.
I was frazzled all day, in the sort of manic way that addiction
can bring. It was a day when I very nearly made a lot of money.
Story of my life. If not for the unstoppable force of the eventual
champion, Joao Chianca.
But before we get to him, a note or two on the men he beat on
the objectively easy side of the draw.
Connor O’Leary and Callum Robson are two surfers I admire, but
never fancy. But O’Leary’s backhand in critical sections is
undeniable, as is Robson’s ability to perform in serious, hollow
waves.
The ten awarded to Robson in the elimination round remains the
best wave of the event by some margin. There wasn’t another like it
on offer for the rest of the comp. It should be remembered and
replayed. Unless there are heats at The Box, we won’t see a better
right hand barrel for the rest of the year.
Surfers with a little more flair who are not yet getting the rub
of the green are Gabriel Medina and Italo Ferreira. Neither are far
off, and one (or both) will have a serious run of form at some
point. There’s no venue where they can’t win.
However, Italo’s early brilliance and late brittleness in
competitions is an ongoing trend. His loss to Dora was a perfect
microcosm of this.
As a lucid Jack Robinson was announcing “Yago. Me and Yago” in
response to who he wanted to face in the quarter, Italo was spat
out of a deep left for a 9.33. He emerged in a low crouch with his
patented point for the ski which has become his trademark claim in
these darker, more introverted days.
Robinson turned in response to the cheers, and it looked like
Italo would sew up the heat. But Yago was to come back strongly,
leaving Ferreira needing a 5.60 with time ticking away. He threaded
a deep left on the buzzer which looked all the score and more,
making what appeared to be a clean exit before getting clipped.
The judges weren’t having it, giving him a 1.77 for what was
deemed to be a non-completion. I felt it was harsh at the time.
Looking again, I still do.
But the day belonged to the two men who made the final, who now
sit deservedly at one and two in the overall rankings, Jack
Robinson and Joao Chianca.
Robinson showcased a masterclass in poise and momentum building,
as have become his trademarks. Jack always seems in control. He
builds throughout the comps, often not a standout in the early
rounds, but inevitably peaking when it matters. He finds barrels
where no-one else can, racking up pit after pit whilst his
opponents sit stunned, as if blind to the waves he’s seeing.
By the final, it seemed impossible that Robinson would lose, let
alone be combo’d by Chianca until the final minutes. I’d nearly
dropped a very large wad of cash on him. For once, I’d hesitated
and was glad of it.
And what to make of Joao Chianca?
There are elements of his personality that might grate on some,
like Kelly Slater, irked by his energy and exuberance. He’s hyper
-aggressive in man-on-man heats, often sitting so close to his
opponents that he might as well have his face nuzzled into the nape
of their neck. And he takes public and performative praying to
whole new levels, even for a Brazilian.
But his skills are without question, as demonstrated by two
semi-finals and a victory in the first three comps. Remember, he’s
more or less a rookie.
If you believe the mid-season cut has the capacity to set
competitors ablaze, in fury or desire, then Chianca could be its
poster-boy. He may well have evolved by nature rather than nurture,
but he might not. Sometimes you need to lose to win.
Joao Chianca fears no-one, and even in spite of the Trestles
situation, he might be a bonafide world title threat this year.
So Portugal’s arc came to a fulfilling close. In moments it was
both frenzied and thrilling, and a couple of days ago this seemed
impossible. We might have questioned why we were bothering. As a
competition, it was symbolic of what surfing so often is. And
depending on how far down the tracks you are, you may or may not
realise that in the end, the chase is the best of it.
There’s no joy in life without tension. If you’re not standing
on the precipice, the fibres of your being don’t tingle with
anticipation of what might be. Chance, fortune, dumb luck, these
are reasons for living. Surfing’s as good a metaphor as anything
else. We’ll suffer days and weeks of nothingness and disappointment
just to luck into one. And when we do, the cycle begins again.
Once you start chasing, you can never stop. There will always be
some part of you that’s still committed to the pursuit, red-eyed
and slavering, with a raw, wild energy that might mean salvation or
end.
This is what life is for.
Beauty and bread, but mostly just the pursuit of beauty.
