Settle in, folks. We may be here awhile.
A challenging day, personally. There’s always
the chance that this sort of gig, moonlight flitting, of uncertain
start and end times but certain unsociable hours, would butt up
against other plans and life events. So it is today.
When competition was called on at 2330 GMT I’d just finished
packing the van to drive to a ferry in just over five hours
time.
A planned family holiday was now going to be a solo surf trip.
The reasons why are not worth recounting here.
And I was getting sick. Sore throat, tiredness and aches. It’s
been doing the rounds.
Fine, I thought. I’ll manage. I’ll watch the first couple of
heats to take the temperature of the day, forgo sleep if I need to.
Otherwise I’ll put the YouTube stream on for the drive to catch
what I’ve missed (Highland roads are quiet at that time of the
morning), catch up with the rest on the ferry, make a start on the
writing, then crack out the rest in the back of the van when I get
there.
My writing conditions today are best described in the same
manner as the surf conditions at Winkipop, sufficient but
inglorious.
Let me paint you a little picture of my current setting. I’m on
the ferry. At my back the Atlantic shimmers and thrums with the
promise of swell and favourable winds for the next few days. But I
can’t see any of that, because I am sitting on a backless stool,
facing a mini-cubicle lacquered in some pale appropriation of wood
grain. And I am sitting here because I need to write about
professional surfing, and because soon I will have no way of
charging my laptop in the van, nor assurances that I will have
enough phone signal to do anything with it.
The man next to me, not thirteen inches to my right and
separated only by a ten-inch-high privacy screen on the desk, is
not writing about professional surfing. Whatever he is doing, it
involves lots of talking to himself, twitching wildly and swearing.
“Come on to fuck, man”, he is saying. Then “Ya fuckin dancer”, in a
seemingly dramatic change of tone and fortune. “Get tae fuck!”
But that’s fine. The twitching is disconcerting, but I’ll
soldier on and hope he doesn’t glance over and see I’m writing
about him. And the swearing is not the worst thing. The worst thing
is that he’s ginger. Not red-haired, not auburn, not strawberry
blonde, just plain, minging ginger. He’s likely in his twenties,
has a skin fade haircut that shows off ginger freckles on his
scalp, and has the kind of translucent skin that would turn pink as
a pomegranate with just the glance of a UV ray. An unfortunate
example of a human. He’s dressed in worky trousers, the ones with
loops hanging off for tools with reinforced knees. “Fucking
dickhead”, he’s saying now. “You fucking dickhead”, he says, then
hums tuneless hums.
If you’re reading this he didn’t kill me.
On the other side of the world, competition commenced at Winki
in mediocre, often wind affected conditions, which lent themselves
to two or three turns in non-critical sections and the potential
for mostly-forced airs on the end section for those with that in
their locker.
Griffin Colapinto has that bag. Extending the form he showed in
Portugal, Colapinto looked smooth and composed in his opener, but
with enough technicality to wow the judges. He seems to get more
relaxed by the day. He’s onto something this year, Colapinto, and
I’m buying it.
By contrast, Zeke Lau will face yet another elimination round.
Unless it runs in quality Bells Bowl, I’d guess, once again, he’s
not long for this world of pro surfing. Neither the hapless Maxime
Huscenot, Barron Mamiya, Jake Marshall, Kelly Slater or Carlos
Munoz. For a variety of reasons, all of these surfers will take up
their regular slots in the elimination round, and likely all will
be cut after Margaret River.
Leaving of his own accord is Owen Wright, opting for retirement
after falling off Tour last year and competing here as the
sponsor’s wildcard. Wright’s career doesn’t feel like it panned out
the way most of us might have imagined, given how memorable some of
his performances were, but he made headway towards a fitting
retirement party today by winning his opening heat over Ian Gentil
and Filipe Toledo.
I can see Wright at the business end of this competition,
carried by a tide of well-wishing and vigorous backhand turns that
seem to spray carefree recklessness into the air. I’d love to see
it, especially if we go to the Bowl.
Alongside Wright, an assorted collection of has-beens,
never-quite-weres and never-will-bes advanced.
Michael Rodrigues and Jordy Smith sent Callum Robson to the
elimination round, despite Robson leading for most of the heat. For
my money, the wave that turned it for Smith was horrendously
overscored.
Future journeymen Ryan Callinan and Jackson Baker made their way
to the Round of 32. The former did it with some snappy backhand
surfing, the latter like a raging flamingo.
I’m sure that seems like a slight, calling them future
journeymen, and I suppose it is. I happen to enjoy the surfing of
both men immensely, but as always with this game, and especially in
the current format, there are two tiers, and neither are in the
tier marked Potential World Champion.
Once, though it’s hard to believe now, Kolohe Andino was in this
tier. He topped the list of renaissance men today by winning his
heat against stiff opposition in O’Leary and Ferreira.
How long since Kolohe won a heat? In his post heat interview
Andino indicated his desire to requalify through the CS, should he
fall off Tour. “It feels like I’ve been on Tour forever”, he said.
“But I’m not even thirty yet.” Staggering but true.
Two men on the cusp of the top tier are Yago Dora and Sammy
Pupo, who surfed superbly, given the ordinary conditions. Both men
are dynamic, solid on their feet, and retain the potential to
thrill. But of course, they’re from the finest surfing nation on
earth.
Robinson, Medina and Florence all looked good today, as they
should. And Kanoa finally surfed the heat he’s been looking
for.
Post heat interviews with our current top five surfers, all of
whom advanced, were adorned with the worst WSL graphic in some
time, informing us they’d Made The Cut.
I know some people still don’t want to hear it, but The Cut
works. These opening round heats seem meaningful, and that has both
improved the entertainment value of pro surfing, and gone some way
to improving the major issues of comps and heats being slow or
inconsequential.
What a point of difference, too, between the commentary teams
today. It was particularly apparent since I was driving and more
reliant on audio than usual. Bugs might be a lovable vet, but he
offers little in the way of insight. Turpel’s major problem, as is
well documented, is that his tone never changes. I’m sure in his
head he’s the smoothest cat in the booth, skipping from segue to
segue without pausing for breath. But the problem is it just
becomes noise. Half-stories and poorly executed anecdotes, all in
the same, flat tone.
Heartbreak, humour, joy, pity…it’s all the same to Joe.
Thankfully, Ronnie and Richie were refreshingly competent.
The ferry has docked, the disgusting ginger man has gone, and
the sun shines. I’ll be camped out in my van, hoping for a few lay
days, but dedicated to the cause all the same.
