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.
