Pro surfing feared dead after lifeless Corona J-Bay Open, “An endless drone of punditry. Empty statistics, half-remembered anecdotes”

None of what happened at Jeffreys Bay was important in the fading years, days or seconds of your life.

In journals unpublished until four decades after his death and based on years of personal psychological journeys, Carl Jung presents his theory of the two presiding aspects of our consciousness.

The Spirit Of The Times governs our present. It is concerned with what we should do, how we are supposed to act, our image and duties and obligations.

The Spirit Of The Depths, by contrast, is our animalistic nature, our ancient self. It responds to forces of the natural world, and not always things we can understand or control.

To be content, says Jung, we must find the balance between these opposing spirits.

I am here, writing this now, not because of a deep love of professional surfing, but because I like to write. Because I can.

I’ve been flagellating myself recently for not being able to write the Big Thing I’ve been working on. And today that manifested in being fed up with the WCT. I lost a lot of money. That certainly didn’t help.

I was also annoyed at myself for posting so late yesterday. Despite the fact I got up at 0430 to finish it before the next day started, and despite the fact I sit here now watching the long lulls of Finals Day, after three hours sleep, with life happening around me that I am not part of.

Despite all of that, it was still sloppy.

But the thing was, yesterday I was Living. We hiked with the kids to a secluded beach of white sand, and swam in azure waters that might have belonged in some tropical idyll if not for several degrees. Later, her mum took the children for the night, and we had a rare night to ourselves.

Still I watched nearly every heat in snatched moments, and still I wrote something. But I didn’t feel good about it. I was paying too much heed to the Spirit Of The Times, when The Spirit Of The Depths was calling me back.

So today I’m compelled to write what I want, and that’s not the hyperbolic ins and outs of a half-formed sport, practised by skilled strangers in places we’ve never been, presided over by people we don’t know.

Lots of things are more important than this. You should recognise them now.

None of what happened at Jeffreys Bay was important in the fading years, days or seconds of your life.

None of it.

Regardless. A note or two to satiate The Spirit Of The Times.

The day began dark and grim. Moody. There was lots of talk of weather. And cold. Everyone was cold.

The waves, which happened between the lulls, were shoulder high. Goofy footers who had so entertained us in the preceding days struggled with the reduction in size.

The first semi final between Ethan Ewing and Gabriel Medina was bereft of quality opportunity. These giants of men, these monsters in the art of surfing, mostly floated and pumped and looked out of their element. I couldn’t see the hope in it.

Except there was a turn. One turn by Ethan Ewing as the closing turn of his first wave that made me gasp.

But really, it all left me a bit numb.

Medina is said to have been tinkering with boards to satisfy the whims of the judges. Why, I wondered. Why change what you do, who you are? Why search for consistency in an entirely inconsistent system?

The waves looked a little bigger in semi final number two, but the men, Kanoa Igarashi and Filipe Toledo, were just smaller.

Kanoa got an eight to start then just sat, catatonic or composed for forty minutes, doing nothing.

Toledo surfed frantically, almost making it look exciting. But it was a bit like a tight angle of an RC surfer on a miniature wave.

There were very, very

L O N G

L U L L S.

Minutes ticked away, vanished from our existence.

Joe Turpel never stopped. On and on he talked. And I questioned my present and my purpose.

The Spirit of the Times told me I should pay attention, that this was work, of a sort. That Derek was depending on me sending something in, and that it was good for me to force myself to write something under duress. And besides, it’s fun to connect with all of you.

But The Spirit of the Depths was telling me to fuck it all off. Go for a run. Immerse myself in cold water. Just write whatever I want.

And still they talked.

An endless drone of punditry. Empty statistics, half-remembered anecdotes apropos of not very much, tales of waves that were, been and gone and meaningless.

Fin templates.

Strider Wasilewski is perhaps my polar nemesis. He is chemically incapable of criticism or negativity. It would be endearing if not for the fact it often leads to bare-faced lies.

All day they announced who had made the Final Five, asking the athletes how do you feel, how do you feel, what did it take…

I just wanted someone to shrug and say Whatever. It’s Trestles. It’s shit. So I made the Final Five. What do you think I’ve been out here trying to do?

When they told Filipe he’d provisionally qualified for the Olympics at Teahupo’o, I wanted someone to ask him if he really wanted it. Or if he felt he was the right Brazilian for the job.

Cruel, maybe, but honest.

Toledo put on a one-sided performance in the final against Ewing.

When he was given a 9.93 I looked up, briefly, acknowledged the score, but realised it changed exactly nothing.

“We’ll be talking about that one for a while,” said Richie.

But we won’t.

Filipe Toledo cried in celebration when he won. He cried in his post-heat presser. He cried when he was given a trophy that looked like an alien helmet.

This is Toledo’s passion and skill and career. I admire him for his dedication and effort, and for connecting to his present. He seems like a genuine person.

But none of it compares to whatever you are doing right now in your space. Your little kernel of the present.

Your stories hold the world together and pull it apart.

Nourish that. Ignore pro surfing. It is ignorant and empty.

It is flaccid, occasionally fitful entertainment, and that is all it ever is or will be.

Unless, of course, Teahupo’o pumps.

Medina, Florence and Robinson are positions six, seven and eight on the rankings, respectively. There are only two spots left in the Final Five.

How do they FEEL?

At the End Of The Road, they must turn to the Spirit Of The Depths to find out.