Call me delirious, tell me it’s my current sick
state of mind, but if surfing has an Olympic future, it must be in
a wavepool.
It came suddenly. If there was warning I did
not perceive of it.
One minute I was sitting on my couch, merrily swinging away in
Beachgrit’s live comment section, watching Kauli Vaast scrap with
Alonso Correa in Teahupo’o conditions that did not look
contestable; the next I was doubled in pain in my bathroom,
expelling all liquids from my body like an exorcism.
These bouts of sickness came in waves, waves far more regular
and defined than those in Teahupo’o. I shuttled between bed and
bathroom, each place nightmarish in a way that will be etched in my
consciousness for some time.
The bathroom, too bright, spot lit, a world of delirium ruled by
a porcelain god. The bedroom, presided over by a blueish whine that
would not abate. The sound of Barton Lynch and Shannon Hughes was
unbearable. Neither seemed to take a breath all day, delivering
monologue after monologue of high-pitched, high-energy wailing and
wittering that seemed in torturous contradiction to the surfing we
saw on screen. Or didn’t see.
But I persevered. Out of duty, out of penance. And in truth I
don’t think I had the strength to find the remote and end the
suffering.
The peak happened sometime around 5am, when I regained
consciousness in the corner of the bathroom, watching beads of
sweat form all over my body like thick globules of fear. My partner
found me then, having been startled awake by the crashing sound.
The dog, in heightened anxiety, ran from room to room before
clawing frantically at the front door. I was helped back to bed,
dried off with a towel, and lay down once again, as still as
possible, and continued to perform my penance watching the Olympic
surfing finals.
And so I lie here now, still bedridden but beyond the worst,
typing on my phone.
What to make of the Olympic experience?
Kauli Vaast, local hero forevermore, took the gold medal surely
one of the shortest journeys home in Olympic history. Jack Robinson
took silver to Australia, Gabriel Medina bronze to Brazil.
On the face of it, this doesn’t seem like an unreasonable set of
results. We know these men, in some order, are among the best
Teahupo’o surfers. But the results do not tell the tale of this
competition.
They won’t tell you that there was just one day of spectacular,
worthy competition. And this day was one of the best days we can
remember at Teahupo’o, even though it ultimately meant little.
They won’t tell you that some of the other days (including the
finals) were so marginal and inconsistent that under any other
banner than the Olympics, competition would not have been held.
And they won’t tell you that across two key heats, the semi
between Robinson and Medina, and the gold medal match itself,
supposedly the crowning heat of the whole competition, between
Robinson and Vaast, a total of seven waves were attempted.
Seven waves.
Seven waves, across two heats featuring the best Teahupo’o
surfers in the world.
Seven waves, between four men, over seventy minutes of
competition.
Gabriel Medina, in his loss to Robinson, only attempted one
wave. Anyone familiar with Medina’s talent and approach to
competition understands how much of an anomaly this is.
Similarly, Jack Robinson could only find one wave whilst surfing
for a gold medal.
Scandalous? Laughable? Shameful?
In this context, they shouldn’t have handed out medals at
all.
Prior to this debacle I’d watched the women’s speed climbing
qualification.
If you haven’t seen it, two athletes race up an artificial wall
erected on a stage, tapping a pad at the top to stop the clock.
Barring slips of foot or hand, the top women do this in around
seven seconds. The Polish climber, Aleksandra Miroslaw, broke the
world record twice in consecutive heats yesterday, which now stands
at 6.06 seconds.
The athletes look superhuman and otherworldly as they levitate
up the wall. It’s highly entertaining.
There are other forms of Olympic sport climbing, all enjoyable
to the layman, all seemingly fair and unequivocal in who wins or
loses.
Does it reflect the culture of climbing as millions of people
know and practice it? Probably not.
Are there thousands of craggy old climbers, dangling sulkily on
belays, wondering why their passion has been distilled to this
gaudy, artificial showcase? Highly likely.
But none of that changes the fact that sport climbing, which
debuted as an Olympic sport in Tokyo 2020, at the same games as
surfing, fills the role that was hoped. It’s entertaining, the
rules are clear, and it’s fair.
The same cannot be said for surfing.
(But at least we got a good picture of a kickout!)
Like it or not, surfing has no future in this format.
Competitions should span a single day, two at most.
Things need to change, and the Olympics was the perfect symbol.
We went from one of the most glorious days of competition ever
seen, surely the highlight of the games, to several days of
uninteresting, incontestable surf, that even WSL weary aficionados
like us can’t find interest in.
Can you imagine the viewers that tuned in on the strength of
that one great day, interest piqued by gaping blue caverns,
death-defying drops, and Hollywood kickouts, only to watch surfers
sitting mute for half an hour?
Athletes castrated by long lulls, punctuated by knee high
dribblers.
And all to the soundtrack of Shannon Hughes, telling us about
“starfish dwelling on the reef”. Or Barton Lynch, breathlessly
spruiking a flat horizon as if it was the single greatest thing
he’s ever seen.
Perhaps it’s appropriate to the surf experience at large: one of
the most iconic moments; yet the most disappointing showcase on the
whole.
In the postcoital bliss of his round three report, Steve Shearer
(nee, Longtom) asserted that surfing had shot itself in the foot at
Teahupo’o with regards to Olympic competition. The point being, it
could not get better, and future venues would never match up.
But this is the perspective of a surfer, and it doesn’t really
matter if Olympic surfing appeals to surfers. What matters is that
it appeals as a sport. What matters is appeal to the general
audience.
The 2028 Olympics will be hosted by Los Angeles, 2032 will be in
Brisbane.
So whilst I agree with premise that Huntington Beach or
wavepools can never live up to the beautiful chaos of Teahupo’o, I
might also suggest that it is only us who see it like that. The
casual surf fan, or the Olympic surf fan, can never appreciate
Teahupo’o. Nor should they need to.
Whilst we might appreciate the technical skill required to ride
a barrel, just as the climber appreciates the aesthetic line up the
whole mountain, what the general audience wants to see are surfers
flipping and spinning on a consistent stage, or climbers racing up
an artificial wall.
They don’t care about the intricacies of waves or weather. They
simply want to see sport that’s consistent, fair, and
relatable.
Call me delirious, tell me it’s my current sick state of mind,
but if surfing has an Olympic future, it must be in a wavepool.
We’ve seen this, of course. We know that from a surfer’s
perspective it’s the dullest experience possible. But we don’t
really matter.
Would I be entertained by it? Would I watch it in sickness and
in health? I doubt it.
But then, I’ll just watch sport climbing instead.
