Once again the USA stamps on the heathens and little people of silly little nations with imperialist certainty.

Round 1 of surfing’s bid for Olympic glory in the books.

Perfunctory, without death or drama.

Teahupo’o (or “Teahupoo’ooo’ooo’oo”, as Shannon Hughes insisted) was without claws. Overhead sets at best. Still requiring elite level commitment and skill, of course, but nothing to set the world alight.

A layman, tuning in on the back of pre-event hype in mainstream media, might well have wondered what all the fuss was about.

This is the world’s deadliest wave?

This is surfing’s most spectacular amphitheatre?

As it was, the competition struggled to hold my interest. I tuned in for the third heat of the day (featuring Toledo, mercifully) and lasted through the rest of the men’s and into the first half of the women’s. But it was an effort not to switch to House of The Dragon.

Barton Lynch presided over half of the commentary, Chris Cote the other. It was like a busman’s holiday.

Lynch did his best to explain surfing to the man on the street, if the man on the street was an imbecile.

“It’s called a tube, because that’s the exact shape of it that you see from the inside.”

Both Lynch and Hughes fulfilled the classic punditry trope of apologising on behalf of our double world champion, and his inability to make a backhand tube in even mediocre Teahupo’o.

If you didn’t see it, Toledo’s late effort that garnered a 6.23 and saw him finish second does not tell the tale of the heat. It was his final wave of three attempts, caught under priority and shakily made.

The first two attempts, decent quality waves that he was in prime position for, saw him pitched over the falls, looking for all the world like a surfing dilettante, as opposed to the two-time world champion, supremely gifted surfer, and man who has (allegedly) been training specifically for this competition in lieu of his day job since January.

The struggle, the inner turmoil, is very real.

As such, he finished just ahead of Kanoa Igarashi, who, in equally confusing fashion given his vast experience at Teahupo’o, only attempted one wave. It was the worst performance of the round.

Gabriel Medina dominated the next heat, as expected, but without looking dominant. That honour was split between John Florence and Griffin Colapinto, both of whom flew the Stars and Stripes high and hummed Star Spangled Banner as they locked in heat totals over seventeen points.

God bless America.

And a firm nod of respect to the least known of the three Japanese surfers in Reo Inaba, who put his WCT challengers in Rio Waida and Leo Fioravanti firmly to the sword with a comprehensive victory.

In the women’s division, the athletes of surfing’s top tier prevailed, much as expected.

Once again the USA lorded it over the rest of the world, stamping down on the heathens and little people of silly little nations with imperialist certainty.

 

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Caroline Marks, Caitlin Simmers and Carissa Moore laid waste to all countries before them, taking heat wins with a Trumpian disrespect for their rivals.

Marks, for her part, did the best barrel riding I’ve ever seen from her. She was top American dog in both men’s and women’s competition with a stupendous (and thoroughly deserved) 17.93 heat total.

The likeable Molly Picklum once again failed to find the spark she had in Hawaii at the start of the year. Even a meat tray won’t console those down under who surely have the highest hopes for her.

But it should be noted that her total of 8.44, underwhelming as it may have been, would still have been good enough to win the previous heat, won by teammate and medical marvel, Tyler Wright.

Scant consolation for Australia, a real shame for the rest of the world.

I’d drifted off the world of deceit, dragons and Targaryen lore by the time the fourteen-year-old Chinese phenom Siqi Yang surfed, but she remains my hero and heir to any throne she wants.

It’s an odd sort of experience for these Olympians though, isn’t it?

Cast away across the narrow sea, far from the buzz and thrum of all the real Olympic action in and around Paris. I found myself feeling a little sorry for them, subjected to what amounts to just another surf contest. The bastard children of the Olympics.

But I did note a thing or two the WSL might learn from Olympic/ISA handling of this contest. The website, for one, is vastly superior. A far more pleasurable experience in many facets of finding the information you need, as opposed to that abominable WSL effort.

And if you go to the Olympic site today, you will see not an infuriating and ambiguous clock that might signify the restart of competition, or may morph into another clock of ambiguity, ticking away the lay days. No, on the Olympic site, it clearly states that “competition is very likely to be called on”along with the scheduled time. What a delight.

Furthermore, all the judges are listed on the site by name! A rare transparency when compared to the cloak and dagger judging approach preferred by the WSL.

Anyway, I see some swell in the forecast. Winds are sketchy, but the baying Olympic crowd might yet be treated to Teahupo’ooo’oooo’oooo’ooo’ooo in all its death defying glory.