A Final Five without Gabriel Medina is exponentially less interesting, and Griffin Colapinto knew it.
An unexpectedly good day of competition surfing in Fiji, before a vicious cross-shore breeze came up and spoiled things, as the wind is wont to do.
And can we just take a moment to question Surfline and the much vaunted Jonathon Warren, snake-oil salesman. Man on site, expert forecaster for this region, allegedly, with two decades of experience. A man Joe Turpel claimed was “born to do this” in his inimitable awkward style of complementing studio guests.
For Surfline, with all their data and all their models and all their cams and expertise and men with floppy hair dedicated to the science of predicting weather, did not forecast this day. Nor did they forecast many other days we’ve seen this season.
Regardless, waves or no waves, everyone is stoned on the joys of Fiji, which really makes me wonder if it’s the right place for a Finals Day next season.
Perhaps it’s just my dour, rain-soaked, Highland perspective, but I’m not sure I enjoy watching blissed out surfers #livingtheirbestlives. I’d rather watch them clawing tooth and chewed nails over one another, battling sharks and cold water and spouting spumes of pure hatred for their compatriots.
Who wants to watch a bunch of surfers on holiday with nary a care whether they win or lose? Not I.
And if someone can explain the deal with the new judging tower, drilled into the fragile coral reef by WSL overlords, I’d appreciate it. The WSL have gifted it to the Fijian community, right?
What do they do with a purpose built tower for judging surf competitions when there are no surf competitions to judge? Fish from it? AirBNB it?
The whole thing has a whiff of imperialism.
But to the competition (since precious few of you appreciated yesterday’s Slater-Lit).
Jake Marshall, the Most Improved Surfer this year if we dolled out such an award, put it to Medina in the round of 16.
Needing to make the semi-final at least to get into the Final Five, Medina’s back was against the wall and so his hackles raised. In response, he found the best wave of the day by far, putting his foot down through an impossibly deep barrel. He pumped through it with schizophrenic velocity, exiting with the ten-finger claim he patented at the Olympics.
But just as he was denied a perfect score then, so he was today. 9.87 was the decree, with two judges giving the ten it deserved.
It was enough to take the win. Post-heat, looking like Robocop in his silver wraparounds, he was all too mellow once again. “I give up on trying to get a ten,” he said languidly.
For once, those in the booth were vocal in their support of the claim. It was ten points all the way and no argument.
But where is the Medina who would’ve responded to this in more of a “You have twenty seconds to comply” fashion, before riddling anyone in range with bullets?
I miss that guy. And that guy would’ve made the Final Five this year, which this new, toned-down version of Gabriel Medina will not, despite his overwhelming talent.
He would lose to Griffin Colapinto in the quarter final, the last heat of the day, mucky and wind-blighted before it was all called off.
The decisive blow was a wave Colapinto dropped in on in front of Medina, utilising priority. He executed a series of critical backhand blows for a mid-eight. In context of the conditions, it was as good as a ten.
Gabriel Medina threw himself into the air in the cross-shore wind, but it all seemed a little desperate, and the death knells were beginning to toll.
In the aftermath, Colapinto said he was conflicted. He’d wanted to see Gabriel Medina do well, he claimed. I believed him. A Final Five without Gabriel Medina is exponentially less interesting, and Griffin knew it.
What could be interesting, if the awkward exchange between Colapinto and Robinson was anything to go by, is a match-up between the two of them.
The camera cut to the boat as they met following their round of 16 victories. Colapinto had beaten Seth Moniz and Robinson had squeaked by an in-form Connor O’Leary in a highly entertaining tussle.
The exchange was at once congratulatory and combative, a silent grapple between two men who profess to be masters of internal headspace, limited real estate as that may be.
Perhaps it was just stray voltage of a post-heat adrenalin surge, or the curious neurodivergence of the men in question, but for me it was reminiscent of the Andy vs Kelly “I love you” moment. Worth a watch. About an hour and ten into the YouTube stream, from memory.
“Ah, the glory of Cloudbreak,” said Joe. Apropos of nothing in particular.
John Florence was upset yet not upset in losing to Imaikalani deVault in the round of 16. With nine waves and no gravy, it was not for want of trying. He’ll go to Trestles as number one regardless.
Italo Ferreira on the other hand will need to hope he isn’t usurped from his current fourth position after losing to Barron Mamiya in a bonanza heat that saw twenty-seven waves attempted, but few of any real quality.
It was like trying to walk along a two-by-four, said Kaipo. “Easy when it’s on the ground, but try doing it twenty feet in the air.”
This curious reference to balancing on imperially measured construction timber somehow suspended in the air seemed to really chime with Felicity Palmateer.
“Awwwwww,” she said orgasmically. “Great analogy. Great analogy.”
Ethan Ewing and Yago Dora did not stumble in their heats, ousting Ryan Callinan and Ramzi Boukhiam, respectively. Ewing and Dora go into the quarters in positions five and six overall. Italo is currently mainlining Red Bull and digging holes like a dog in the Fijian sand.
And of course the day wouldn’t have felt complete unless we heard from Kelly Slater, who just happened to be sitting at the bar beside Stace Galbraith when the latter was asked to comment on the no-leash debacle of Erin Brooks from the previous day.
(Galbraith, caddying, swapped out her board mid-heat for a leashless back-up. Very contrite in aftermath.)
Galbraith was asked about the men’s match-ups remaining, but he palmed the question and the headset to Slater, asking if he had any thoughts.
“I don’t know if I have any thoughts,” Slater feinted coquettishly.
But of course he did. And he delivered an off-the-cuff five-minute audio essay that would’ve taken anyone else hours to prepare and rehearse.
And we were back orbiting planet Kelly, unable to escape the gravitational pull.
Joe thanked him, of course. Said he was a great ambassador for surfing, and that we’d celebrate his career forever.
The prospect of forever has never felt so long.
And then the wind came up, and Jonathon Warren no doubt stood on the deck of a boat, eyes squinted quizzically towards the horizon, hair billowing as he gently shook his head in a gesture that might have meant anything at all.
