Medina walking on air. Photo: Jérôme Brouillet/Instagram
Medina walking on air. Photo: Jérôme Brouillet/Instagram

Surfing rules Olympics as viral Gabriel Medina photo becomes “image of the Games!”

"It’s not really a surf photograph so it captures the attention of more people.”

Surfing’s initial Olympic offering, after being included in the 2021 nee 2020 Tokyo Games, was, and always would have been silly (save a wild typhoon). Japan, for all its magic, is not a known wave banger. And, so, surf fans and surfers alike were thrilled when Paris announced it would contest its 2024 Olympics 10,000 miles away from the City of Love all the way at Tahiti’s End of the Road.

Teahupo’o.

As soon it was announced, surf fans were both thrilled but worried. Would Head Place turn on or would nature not cooperate thus creating another li’l flippy few days of mediocre surf absolutely non-understandable to the family watching in Dubuque.

A suspect forecast leading up to the waiting period had the aforementioned (surf fans, not Dubuque family) maybe sad.

But nature is an unpredictable beast and roared to life creating one of the best days of competitive surfing in memory/history.

Thus birthing “the image of the Games.”

The Frenchman Jérôme Brouillet, who has called Tahiti home for the past li’l while took the image off a boat in the channel declared, “So he [Medina] is at the back of the wave and I can’t see him and then he pops up and I took four pictures and one of them was this one. It was not hard to take the picture. It was more about anticipating the moment and where Gabriel will kick off the wave.”

As a true surfer, added, “It’s very cool, it’s a nice shot and lots of people love it. It’s not really a surf photograph so it captures the attention of more people.”

Knowing, very well, that our Pastime of Kings is an acquired taste.

Bravo, anyhow, to Medina who absolutely deserves to be the face of these Olympics and Brouillet who made art.

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Chairman Cox (insert) and his happy cultural revolutionaries.
Chairman Cox (insert) and his happy cultural revolutionaries.

Discount-minded surfers shriek as Hayden Cox surfboards sell $35 a pop* on mega-marketplace Alibaba!

A second cultural revolution on the way?

The biggest surprise of these Teahupo’o Olympics, aside from Filipe Toledo’s masterful 9.67, is China’s Siqi Yang. The pint-sized former wrestler, who hails from China, had never surfed Teahupo’o before her Olympic debut and the prudent thing would have been to doubt, Yang fearlessly sent it, cementing her place as the hero of her nation and possible the entire Games.

JP Currie wrote Yang attacked Teahupo’o’s “critical four-foot walls with a backhand that belongs at the highest level of women’s surfing, and certainly leagues ahead of two-time world champion, Tyler Wright.”

High praise from one of our world’s most important critics.

It would come as zero surprise if Yang’s epic show ignited a surfing passion amongst China’s billion-plus population. The biggest boom ever and one man, “the world’s most beautiful surfboard shaper,” will be there for the moment.

Cox, of course, burst onto the scene with his Hypto-Krypto model described by Derek Rielly as “a spruced-up seventies style design that was more fun that the vigorous operation of your sex glands,” and likely the biggest-selling surfboard model in the world.

Small ‘taters, though, with his new soft tops being offered on Alibaba, China’s Amazon, for $70 each or, $35 each when 100 are dropped into the basket.

Discount-minded surfers shrieking.

The accompanying video features a factory buzzing with workers glassing, finishing, etc. while an overseer in a mask makes sure they keep on task.

Dimensions are not given. There is one type of product listed as “surfboard” but 100 “surfboards” at $35 each should not be looked at in the mouth.

A second cultural revolution over China’s horizon?

Hayden Cox the new Chairman Mao?

Exciting days.

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João Chianca at Teahupoo, day three, Olympics
João Chianca fought a brutal hand-to-hand battle with Ramzi in which they traded nearly non-stop barrels. It was up there with one of the best heats I’ve watched lately — and maybe ever. | Photo: ISA/Tim McKenna

João Chianca’s return from horrifying injury to win at massive Teahupoo is a near-perfect Olympic story!

If his story doesn’t make something under your breastbone feel a little warm, I’m not sure you have anything in there.

I am a bad surf journalisming.

On the first day of the Olympics, I drove the 405, because I am a Californian and that’s what we do. I did not watch surfing on the opening day. As I traversed the 5, the 73, the 405, the 10, the 1, and the 101, updates from friends hopscotched the cell phone towers. Once in a while, I sneaked a look. Mostly, I didn’t know what was happening and I felt fine — as fine as a girl can feel on the 405 and all the other freeways.

Driving in the summer in Southern California is an adventure, and not in a good way. Every time I get in the car, it feels like paddling out on the most crowded day I’ve ever surfed. There’s always that one guy. Parking is about as likely as scoring a set wave during a Surfline Swell at Trestles. I’m desperately trying to focus on doing the thing — catching a wave, or driving the car — while fighting against becoming the worst version of myself. I’m just an idiot surrounded by a sea of other idiots.

Last Tuesday I surfed tiny Swamis, mostly just to savor the absurdly warm ocean temperatures. I got lucky and scored a parking place not that far away at all. I wore a bikini which felt delightfully breezy after so much time in rubber. Two long-timers paddled around, happy to be there. How’s it going, bro? Oh, you know, living the dream!

On Saturday I was in San Clemente at Sur Coffee — they have a delightful elderberry hibiscus iced tea — when I messaged my friend to ask if Caroline won her heat. Parked on the 405, I eventually saw the answer. Caroline won — and by the end of the day, she had the highest heat score of the opening round.

That was right around the time that a friendly dude tried to tell me that the hood on my rental car was not securely latched. Now, you would think that a modern car with every convenience would tell me this very important thing. It did not. Also, it is very hard to understand a helpful dude while driving in traffic on the 405. Only once I went much faster did I see my hood begin to levitate. This seemed bad, actually.

I pulled over to the slim excuse for a shoulder and punched the hazards. Crawling through the car, I exited on the passenger side. I smashed that hood down. But it didn’t stay! This also seemed bad. I smashed it again! Then it stayed. It just needed some extra convincing. I crawled back through the car, merged into traffic, and continued on my way. Thanks, helpful 405 dude!

In Malibu, I saw four bros packed into a GTI with a Sex Wax air freshener hanging from the rearview and four boards stacked on the roof. The whole setup looked like a clown car, what with the bros, the giant boards, and the tiny car. Living their best life! Bro Summer is here, baby!

At the Malibu Blue Bottle, where a crazy lady had locked herself in the bathroom, I learned that Caity won her heat, too.

On the second day of the Olympics, well, you can see how this whole thing was going. You’d think that the next day, being home and no longer on the 405 — which, at a certain point, I began to think that maybe the 405 was going to become my home — I would in fact, watch the Olympics. But, I did not.

Blame the fleas. Living on the coast in California is great. Really, it is. But occasionally, there are some minor threats to the tranquility of the whole situation. Eventually, inevitably, there will be fleas. And you know what? I hate those little assholes. Burn me on a good wave on your stupid Wavestorm and I will still hate you less than I hate fleas. But fleas, we had them.

Between vacuuming the couch and combing the cats, I dropped into the Olympics livestream. The waves looked bad. Also, I had fleas to kill. So, I did not watch the second day of the Olympics. My cats were very happy about this life choice.

I do know that Molly lost to Johanne and it didn’t seem right that they met in the second round. Eventually, the gaps in performance levels on the women’s side should narrow, and the double-CT heats won’t stand out quite so much. At least, I hope that’s what happens. For now, the draw is weirdly lopsided. Caity meets Tati in round 3, for instance. I don’t love it.

On the third day of the Olympics, I watched the surfing out of one eye, while I tried to finish a story on deadline with the other eye. This was not an easy task. Do not try this at home. I am a trained professional. At something. My editor wanted his copy. Teahupoo was firing.

I stopped writing long enough to watch Kauli dispatch Griff. It’s a tough loss for Griff, but it’s hard not to be happy to see the local boy advance. I skipped some heats to finish my story. It’s hard to be responsible.

But the men fucking sent it today. João’s return from his horrifying injury at Pipe to win his heat in massive Teahupoo caverns is a near-perfect sports story. If his story doesn’t make something under your breastbone feel a little warm, I’m not sure you have anything in there. He fought a brutal hand-to-hand battle with Ramzi in which they traded nearly non-stop barrels. It was up there with one of the best heats I’ve watched lately — and maybe ever.

After that no-holds barred fight, the much-anticipated John-Jack heat felt anti-climactic. The wind began to hit it, and both of them got smoked on their opening waves. The swell lulled out. Jack managed to put it back together and get the scores. Inside three minutes to go, John pulled into deep one, but it was too little, too late. Jack advanced, and both Americans are out.

If João’s heat was one of the best I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure the final heat of the day was one of the scariest. The wind whipped through the lineup and turned it to chaos. Ethan and Connor surfed like they believed in immortality. Watching Connor cartwheel down the face, I wasn’t sure he was going to come back up. Ethan won it in a ballsy as fuck performance. If you were thinking he’s just a pretty face with stylish turns, guess again. They played for keeps.

The men’s quarterfinal draw is hilarious, really. Alonso Correa and Inaba Reo open the party. Then it gets silly, and I’m beginning to think ISA needs a rule against seeding surfers from the same country against one another. Kauli and Joan, Gabe and João, and Jack and Ethan all meet in the quarters. Two Australians enter, only one can leave. You get the idea.

Next call is tomorrow morning, and women’s round 3 could be next. Caity and Tati meet in heat 6, and it should be straight fire if it runs in good waves. Looking at the seeding, I’d expect most of the CT girls to advance, though there’s always the possibility for surprises. I do like surprises.

Unless they’re fleas. Fuck fleas.

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Filipe Toledo rallies entire nation behind gold medal dream, “This was more than one brave hero threading that smallish tube!”

No stakes higher for Filipe Toledo. A father behind him, a nation rallying and an evil villainous surf journalist brought low.

In today’s episode of Chas Smith Hates Surfing, the controversial surf journalist issues a rare mea culpa after his claim that Filipe Toledo would never stiffen his spine at Teahupoo.

Well.

“Yesterday, Brazil’s Filipe Toledo scratched into a four-footer and, now, Filipe Toledo is the King of Teahupoo. Ladies and gentlemen, I was proven wrong. This was more than one brave hero, threading that smallish tube.

“Filipe Toledo rallied a nation and the Brazilian surf fan came ready. A trademark mixture of death threats and poop emojis rained down upon the offending surf journalist, bashing and breaking him, allowing Filipe Toledo to come out of the barrel, arms raised in victory.

“A day that maybe is the most historic in surfing history. I would argue Filipe Toledo’s Teahupoo Olympic tube rivals any great moment that you care to conjure. No stakes higher. A father behind him, a nation rallying and an evil villainous surf journalist brought low. 

“Yes, I only played a small role in this epic tale, but it was a necessary role.”

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Australian Jack Robinson, Teahupoo, Paris 2024.
Jackie Robinson, always a thrill to watch when the surf gets a little hot. | Photo: ISA/Tim McKenna

Filipe Toledo fails in bid for Olympic gold as Teahupoo turns into “a deadly paradise”

Nearly every man met the challenge head on. Nearly every man.

Who’d have thought the Olympics could provide the most entertaining day of men’s professional surfing in memory?

Teahupoo was huge, cerulean blue, and fearsome. It looked exactly like the deadly paradise it had been hyped to be.

Nearly every man met the challenge head on. Nearly every man.

TLDR: if you missed today’s action, I implore you to re-watch heats four, five and six, at the least. The sixth, between Brazil’s Joao Chianca and Morocco’s Ramzi Boukhiam, may well belong somewhere in the pantheon of greatest ever.

I missed the opener between Jordy Smith and Peru’s Alonso Correa, and the convoluted process of getting a stream means no chance of a replay at this early stage. Please let me know if I missed anything of note, beyond the fact a virtually unknown surfer put paid to Jordy’s Olympic dreams.

I did catch the second heat between Japan’s Reo Inaba and two-time world champ, Filipe Toledo. But we’ll return to this.

Suffice to say that when Griffin Colapinto and Kauli Vaast hit the line-up for heat three, their smoothness and composure was such stark contrast to the previous heat it was like being bathed in blood-warm water by a bevy of beautiful handmaidens.

Both men were selective, catching just five waves between them, but local boy Vaast chose the best brace, edging out Colapinto, who might have won three or four of the other heats today.

Vaast had looked very stern on the boat before the heat. His comfort in the line-up here is a certainty, so we might reasonably assume the occasion was the cause for tension. This seemed to be evidenced by an exuberant claim for a chunky wave that he was not especially deep on.

On paper alone, I was not especially hyped by the prospect of the next heat between veteran Frenchman, Joan Duru, and a surfer representing Mexico (but entirely unknown to me), Alan Cleland.

More fool me. And from this day forth I will take note of the name.

Cleland was brash and swaggering, and his surfing backed it up. A no-hand barrel was the greatest example of this. If he’d been dressed in a pair of Billabong rising sun boardies, we might have been forgiven for thinking the Second Coming was upon us.

But he came up against Duru in the form of his life. The Frenchman expertly threaded deep, technical barrels to earn a pair of nines and a heat win which was ultimately deserved, yet not as comfortable as the scoring discrepancy might suggest.

And then came the Medina show.

His level of excitement to be unleashed upon these conditions was palpable, and the 9.90 he was awarded for his second wave should really have been a ten. Two judges agreed.

It was a perfect wave, the stuff posters are made of. He hung onto the drop by the tips of his toes, committing his entire soul to the make. Flying out with the spit, he launched off the back of the wave, body straight and torqued, as if he was walking through the air.

The score made mockery of the history of high nines.

“A beautiful, life-threatening wave,” said Chris Cote.

After this he was rampant, even grinning from ear to ear as he was plucked from the melee of a non-make by the Tahitian water patrol. He backed up with a mid-seven, and the heat was over.

Medina lives for days like this.

All that power, all that love of the game. On days like today it comes to the fore.

If you’re one of his few remaining detractors who professes to love surfing, well, you should hang your head in shame and set fire to your wetsuit.

In truth, he deserved a better opponent than an out-of-sorts Kanoa Igarashi, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The only man in the world who can defeat Gabriel Medina at Teahupoo on days like today is himself.

Somewhere around this time I noted the cleanliness of the broadcast. There were no breaks, no missed waves, no irrelevant interviews, and no clown princes spruiking ladders or noodles.

The surfing simply flowed in all its glory, and that was enough.

And it would have been criminal to interrupt any second of the heat between Joao Chianca and Ramzi Boukhaim.

It was an exhibition of such quality and commitment that, truly, no man deserved to lose.

Both held high nines backed up by eights, and both threw away further eights.

Boukhaim looked like he’d flipped the heat late with a 9.70, the highest score of the match, but Chianca was undeterred, turning the heat with an 8.80 as the clock ebbed away.

Really, you should just watch it and savour it for yourself.

But the story of this heat is much deeper than what we saw in the water.

Boukhaim, the veteran who battled for years to make the WCT, only to injure his ankle in the days prior to the first event and miss the whole season.

Then Chianca, who is only now returning to competition after being pulled unconscious from the water at Backdoor prior to the start of this year’s Tour.

In these men, there is nothing if not total commitment.

It was hard to imagine we could better this heat, and that turned out to be the case.

The match-up between Jack Robinson and John Florence held promise of explosive beauty for fans of professional surfing, but as is so often the way with these marquee match-ups, it failed to flare.

Both men came out primed for tens or zeros. They blew two waves apiece to begin before Robinson found a little rhythm to take the win with just mid-range scores.

Florence failed to make even double figures in his heat total, as unlikely a scenario as you might imagine given the conditions. Perhaps one of his heavy beatings early in the heat was to blame.

The waves were a little less perfect and a little less consistent throughout the match-up. The irony of the two best waves we’d seen all day rolling through unridden in the seconds after it finished was not lost.

After this the wind turned, strengthened and ruined the party. Ethan Ewing bettered Connor O’Leary and the comp was called off for the women who had been slated to follow. More’s the pity.

And so what of Filipe Toledo? What did our two-time world champ do on this day of days?

Well, for a long while it looked like he might repeat his infamous zero point heat total, but as it was he notched a 2.46. Three waves attempted, none critical or close, the highest coming in at a 1.43.

He was roundly trounced by the committed Japanese surfer, Reo Inaba, who deserved the victory regardless of Toledo’s no-show.

Inaba charged and grinned throughout. Even when he was ragdolled by the heaviest wave in the world, he still came up smiling.

Toledo, by contrast, was locked back into his familiar grimace, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Ideally 24 hours in the past, posting an obscene number of Instagram stories highlighting his waves from yesterday.

But pay for his hubris he did.

With all sincerity, I hope he is ok, because I can scarcely imagine a greater swing from high to low.

Yesterday, his demons had been vanquished, silenced and sent back to that dark chamber in the pit of his soul.

Today, they are back upon his shoulder, wailing and cackling into the shot blood of his eyeballs.

And I fear that when it’s all said and done, it won’t be two world titles and some of the most dynamic surfing ever done that is Filipe Toledo’s legacy, but simply a handful of waves he refused to paddle for.

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