Surfing rules Olympics as viral Gabriel
Medina photo becomes “image of the Games!”
By Chas Smith
"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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Discount-minded surfers shriek as Hayden
Cox surfboards sell $35 a pop* on mega-marketplace Alibaba!
By Chas Smith
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’s return from horrifying
injury to win at massive Teahupoo is a near-perfect Olympic
story!
By Jen See
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.
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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Chas Smith issues rare mea culpa after Filipe
Toledo rides a smallish tube to become King of Teahupoo.
Filipe Toledo rallies entire nation behind
gold medal dream, “This was more than one brave hero threading that
smallish tube!”
By Derek Rielly
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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Filipe Toledo fails in bid for Olympic gold
as Teahupoo turns into “a deadly paradise”
By JP Currie
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.