When we’re left with a top five at year end that doesn’t include Medina or Florence, someone, somewhere, should be asking serious questions.
It was a still, humid day in August, and the clocks were striking three AM.
And with that, the regular season was done.
If you could script it (but of course you Can’t) you would certainly have pitted two of the world’s best tuberiders against each other in the final. A final that would decide which man had the chance to compete for a world title.
It was a seemingly perfect scenario from a WSL perspective. The kind of scenario Erik Logan surely pitched in clammy Santa Monica boardrooms.
Why, then, did it not feel perfect, or even exciting?
Did you feel anything? Were you rapt with the pleasure that great sporting moments bring?
Did you Australians cry tears of jingoistic joy when Robinson assured his place in the WSL Finals?
The waves were not perfect, this is true. They weren’t even particularly good, unless your baseline is the wave quality of the 2023 World Championship Tour as a whole. In which case they were well above average.
Maybe it’s the gloomy prospect of Trestles. Maybe the various final five scenarios were just too complex. Or maybe the WSL just did a poor job of communicating them. Likely all are true.
Certainly the little montages with Kaipo’s narration (after the final had started, no less!) were distinctly amateur. Partly it was Kaipo’s tone and the simple (and I do mean simple) content of his speech, and partly it was the dramatic strings, a scant attempt to make things seem momentous.
It was reminiscent of a kids’ short story, where the writer bungs in a murder, drug deal, or explosion, hoping it will make the story exciting.
It was a flaccid end to a day that could’ve been so much more.
We had salivated over the prospect of Medina vs Florence in the quarter final. “The guys are gonna try and eat each other”, promised Robinson. That’s what we all hoped, too. But in the end one devoured the other.
It was a match-up that might have been a classic. As it was, the confused, inconsistent swell which had declined from yesterday played into Gabriel Medina’s hands. It completely nullified Florence, who often seems lost in inconsistent seas.
Medina was vicious from the horn, locking in a low eight and a back up six with his first two waves. He was too strong, and Florence was comboed early and throughout.
It’s clear that Medina is the best barrel technician in the world. At Teahupo’o he sees things others cannot, and this is made clear on marginal days like today. Pete Mel noted the fact that he takes off already in the barrel, a technique which means he disappears for longer than anyone else. But this is far from his only technique, and it’s this adaptability that allows him to make the waves on any given day look far better than they are.
But it’s his relentless energy and sheer physicality that also separates him. Effete style be damned, speed and power equate to jaw-dropping surfing. In this regard, Medina is unmatched. Those who persist in criticism of his style should perhaps content themselves with Torren Marytn videos, not pro surfing.
Florence tried limply, first taking off on a dud that shut down ahead of him, then going over the falls on his next. It’s clear Medina makes him nervous. He makes everyone nervous.
In an ideal world, Medina and Florence could be the rivalry that
makes pro surfing, in the same way the Andy vs Kelly battle lit the
collective imaginations of the surf world: two men diametrically
opposed, each with ardent supporters. But it seems unlikely this
potential will ever be realised.
Medina went on to dispatch Barron Mamiya in the semi, catching
seventeen waves to Mamiya’s three. Barring the opening exchange of
furious paddling, at no point was it competitive.
The highlight was Medina’s nine point ride on his third wave. A deep barrel with a clean exit on a set wave. He was blown out with his arms clasped behind his back, part claim, part assertion of superiority. You can’t do this, he seemed to say to Mamiya. And he was right.
Quiksilver prodigies Robinson and Fioravanti met in the opposite semi. It was a match-up of simmering jealousies, the two having been pitted against each other and billed as the Next Big Thing since they were kids.
Hats off to Fioravanti, despite his loss to Robinson, he was clearly one of the most skilled surfers at Teahupo’o, testament to both his competitiveness and the gym work that so impresses Joe Turpel.
But Robinson is now 5-0 in these battles, and Fioravanti must find a depth other than that of his squats if he hopes to challenge this.
This result bumped Yago Dora from the fifth seed at Trestles, which should be a genuine disappointment for surf fans who want to see Toledo challenged in September.
The final was truly a game of two halves.
Medina started with the same frantic pace that had demoralised Florence and Mamiya, catching everything going and somehow making it work. Priority didn’t seem to matter.
Robinson, finding his present and centre that served him so well in the early part of the season, sat and waited.
As a result, he was comboed early, and it looked for all the world like we were heading for another Medina walkthrough.
It might be spun that Jack Robinson is one of the very few men impervious to Medina’s all-consuming aura. In light of the result, Robinson himself might even believe it. But it would not be true.
Halfway through the heat, when Medina already had fifteen points and Robinson only had one score, it was Medina who sat calmly in the line-up, knowing he could afford to be more selective.
Robinson was not composed. He kept standing up on his board, like a meerkat, scanning for signs of waves. Left and right he looked, all around, and very consciously over Medina’s head. It was an attempt to rattle Medina, to assert a physical presence over him, the way an adult might tower over a scolded child. And it was a sign of Robinson’s insecurity.
But perhaps it worked, because Medina eventually paddled away, sitting far deeper than Robinson, as if they were surfing separate peaks.
The heat lulled. The early flurry from Medina had fizzled. The tension that should have been apparent was not. The commentary team gushed over Medina, repeated the same superlatives, adding nothing.
Then, with seven minutes on the clock, Robinson’s patience paid off. Taking just his fourth wave of the heat, a mid-sized wave with an open face, he threaded a drama-free tube, kicking out with a little fist pump that wasn’t trying to sell the score, but simply acknowledging he had it.
It came in at 7.83, exactly the same as the score he already held, and it was enough to seal the final.
The commentary team, in an apparent case of schizophrenia, immediately swung their allegiance and superlatives towards Robinson, as if he’d seemed like the winner all along.
And that was it.
We’re left with a final five of four at Trestles which includes: Filipe Toledo, Griffin Colapinto, Joao Chianca and Jack Robinson.
Once again, the “rule” that states Ethan Ewing should not be replaced is baffling. It’s yet another short-sighted WSL decision that can only serve to further alienate sponsors, fans, and crucially: talent.
I can’t say I’m enthused by the slim chances of anyone dethroning Filipe Toledo in the limp-wristed mush of Trestles. Colapinto is the only one with a shout. Dora would’ve pushed him, as would Medina. Florence if the waves were good. Not including these men is a wild loss for everyone.
When we’re left with a top five at year end that doesn’t include Medina or Florence, someone, somewhere, should be asking serious questions.
But let’s not go out with such negativity. Let’s believe that Trestles will turn on and everyone will be primed for blood and battle. Let’s believe the whole thing will be a fantastic finale that leaves us thoroughly entertained, satiated and satisfied with whoever our world champion might be.
Too much?
Well how about some humour: in accordance with the WSL qualifying protocol, the representatives for Brazil, at the Paris 2024 Olympics, to be held at Teahupo’o, will be Joao Chianca and…
Filipe Toledo.
If we can’t bring the WSL down, perhaps Brazil can.
If there is hope, wrote Winston, it lies in the proles.
