"Surf contests need waves, good ones. When this
happens, everything falls away but the surfing itself."
I watched Teahupo’o from the back of my van
last night, absent from my family home. An absence that was
unforced but not unnecessary.
I parked in a clearing by a river in a treasured area of
woodland. My own personal oasis where sunlit boughs of hazel
shimmer and you are lulled to sleep by the final throes of water
tumbling from the high glens, before merging into itself in the
main river.
When I started this gig I would stay up all night to watch
southern hemisphere comps then begin writing immediately. But that
approach isn’t sustainable without whisky and cocaine, and those
are not sustainable habits.
And so now I like to mull things over for an hour or four, to
swish up the dirt, and when it settles to see it all the
clearer.
This morning I ran into the woods. The air was thick with the
leaden hum of insects among the stillness of the unbroken day.
Chaffinches wittered to each other among Sitka Spruce and Douglas
Fir.
I moved into the undulations of the trail, hips swerving,
shoulders dipping, mind beginning to blaze.
Wild thoughts. Unhinged fantasies. Reveries dripping and begging
among the sap oozing pines.
I thought about Teahupo’o. I thought about Chris Cote.
I thought about the juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness.
Rhododendrons thickened, clambering and choking everything
around them. Their invasiveness offset by their prettiness, a
cerise dreamscape masking the tangled, strangling roots.
Originally imported from Asia in days of Victorian decadence,
today they’re everywhere in Scotland, spread through the
countryside like a poisonous confetti.
And I thought about how often we fall for beautiful, dangerous
things.
I ran through a stretch of trail that winds among an old stand
of Scots Pine. Many of them were dying. Rhododendrons clawed at
them. Ashen, bark-stripped trunks screamed into a listless sky.
I turned this last image over in my mind as I ran, shaping the
words to describe it like clay. I was consumed by reverie, flitting
through a fantasy of my own design, tumbling through the beauty of
it all like an astronaut without a ship.
And then, reader, I fell.
My feet disappeared from under me, swiped by a wet root, and for
a moment I was weightless, before hitting the ground with some
force.
I felt it was significant, this return to ground. A sign.
Momentarily stunned, I recognised the inevitably of falling when
trapped in the pursuit of beautiful things.
Beauty is deadly. Yet we will always chase it. It’s nature’s
kill switch.
And once you understand this, all that’s left to do is weigh up
if it’s worth it.
Is momentary bliss, fraught with danger, an acceptable trade for
safe but enduring mundanity?
Those surfers at The End Of The Road, flinging themselves into
the maw surely believe the answer is yes. The reward for commitment
to one of those waves can only be theorised by the likes of me.
Both Jake Marshall and Cole Houshmand claimed they had ridden
the waves of their life today. Young men they may be, but this
should not lessen their claim.
There could be few complaints from anyone at Teahupo’o, once
again exemplifying the lesson that hardly bears repeating: surf
contests need waves, good ones. When this happens, everything falls
away but the surfing itself.
Half of the eight men’s elimination heats were decided by less
than a point.
Approaches to the heaving Pacific tubes varied from finesse to
flagrant recklessness. For examples of the latter see Ramzi
Boukhiam’s 9.13 against Liam O’Brien, and Cole Houshmand’s 9.57,
both of which saw the men escape foamballs like they were fleeing
the darkest depths of their souls.
For the finesse, see Yago Dora’s victory over Jack Robinson, who
will surely be stewing at not going further here. The heat might
have gone either way, but Dora sealed it late by taking off deeper
than anyone had attempted to this point and threading a noticeably
longer tube.
Liam O’Brien was similarly stylish in losing to Boukhiam. The
margin between the two just 0.12 points. It was hair splitting
between two committed surfers, which never feels entirely just.
The most assured victory of the day went to Barron Mamiya in his
win over Matt McGilivray. Mamiya looked as comfortable as you might
expect a Hawaiian Pipe specialist to be, notching his 16.83 heat
total with his first two waves in the opening minutes of the heat.
His rhythm was palpable, despite citing nerves in his post-heat
interview.
But the jist of the day was very much blissed out gratitude.
There was a sense that everyone involved with this Tour was
relieved to see good waves for once.
For some, they were beautiful waves.
And even if the pursuit of beauty is reckless, or consequential,
or even if it’s only temporary, to hold it in your hand, just for a
moment, is surely worth it.
