John’s draw to competition is stronger than is widely acknowledged. He still thinks he can do even more.

And so the season is done, John Florence is champion on the men’s side, Caitlin Simmers for the women. Two ubiquitously popular surfers for whom there will be little dissent, even from embittered Australians and apoplectic Brazilians.

Apologies for the lateness of this missive. On Saturday I raced to the top of Ben Nevis and back in temperatures flirting with thirty degrees centigrade. Even at the summit of the highest mountain in the British isles there was no breeze of respite, the air stifling and deathly still. Several runners dropped out, many collapsed, some were hospitalised. One guy had a seizure just after crossing the line.

It felt like a real achievement to get to the end. Halfway down my legs gave up. But I stumbled on, relying almost entirely on gravity and aided by strangers handing out water and encouragement. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And the obligatory night of drinking that followed left every cell and molecule clinging onto basic functionality.

I’d thought of Lower Trestles as I ran. Of the clean, groomed, shoulder-high perfection. Perfection in the eyes of the average punter, of course.

It felt ironic that I was working physically harder in an amateur hill race than the best surfers in the world were at what was supposedly the pinnacle of their sport, the crowning glory of the World Surf League and their season. What they were doing was child’s play for men and women of their skill. An effete little watery dance. Like watching Leo Messi do keepy-ups with a beach ball.

But let’s not belabour criticism of the venue. It’s all been said and done, and we’re moving on to a more appropriate (yet not perfect) venue in Fiji next year.

Besides, location notwithstanding, the format kind of works. (Personally I’d tweak it with a best-of-three for 3rd vs 2nd as well.)

The day began with Ewing vs Ferreira, but the marker laid down by the judges for their opening exchange was to shift inexplicably throughout the day.

Ethan’s opener was typically smooth and powerful. Three turns were perfectly timed, with the final hit having the degree of pizazz that makes middle-aged men lose their shit.

Italo, by contrast, whacked the lip no less than eight times. He was metronomic, piston-like, tendons so strung out with caffeine that you could hear them ping.

8.33 for Ewing vs 7.67 for Ferreira seemed to say it all.

But Italo was relentless. He thrashed the judges into submission with a pace of surfing that seemed exciting, even if you didn’t admire the style. He doubled Ewing’s wave count, ten to five.

And yet, it seemed Ewing’s patience and adherence to values might pay off when he took off on his fifth wave needing just an average score. But Italo was on the one behind, and his full backhand rotation was enough to snatch the heat.

Next up was Robinson. He sprinted by Italo on the way to the waterline, trying to match his energy, but it was an impossible task.

In the water, Ferreira continued his foaming-mouthed attack. Robinson was kerb stomped. It was not a contest.

You might not like Italo’s approach, but it was the best that could be done with the waves on offer.

Robinson was so rattled that he even made contact with Ferreira during a paddle battle. Then he resorted to air attempts, trying to mimic his opponent. But that was like standing toe-to-toe with prime Mike Tyson and trying to match him for power.

“He tried to play the game,” said Italo after. “But I played the game a little better.”

Then came Griff.

Chris Cote introduced them as he had the other matches, still in Bruce Buffer style as per previous finals. But this year the runway had been replaced with more demure wooden steps.

Italo leapt from them like a squirrel, landed in a crouch, then took off towards the waterline like he’d been scalded.

Griffin hopped down, gave Caroline Marks a congratulatory kiss on the cheek as she passed on the sand, then jogged towards the water line, smiling broadly and high-fiving the fans.

This will be the end for Ferreira, I thought. You cannot penetrate the spotless mind.

Nothing had changed in Italo’s surfing. Not today, and not since he last won in 2019. He was twitchy, chaotic, explosive. But something had changed in the judging. Something had swayed back towards Ferreira’s approach, some judging groupthink, invisible as a kelp forest in a tide.

Colapinto was underscored on a key wave, everyone agreed. And then the ocean went flat for a long time.

“He has four choices, but he can only make one decision,” said someone in the booth.

It sounded nice, but I had no idea what it meant.

There was one more exchange, and then it was done. Italo was through to face John Florence for the world title.

Back on shore he bounded around the locker room, slapping the plywood walls with joy, wired as fuck. All that fitness, all those reps, all those popping veins and ripping fibres came down to this.

There was no style. There was no zen. There was no flow.

There was only fuckyouup, jaw clenching intensity. A rat in a cage, bloody-eyed, sniffing the air. And it was hungry. And it wanted to bore holes through the soft membrane of your eyeballs.

But there was also John Florence.

On stage, there could have been no greater contrast between the men. John looked as if he might have been standing in a queue, waiting to post a letter. Italo was talking to himself, trying to bite his own ear, as if he might have been queuing for methadone.

Florence needed just two waves in match one. Italo had not run out of energy as everyone seemed to think he would, but the edge of his blade was dulled.

The judges had wanted excitement to raise the stakes of the day. By bringing Italo, the number five seed, all the way through to this stage, that had been accomplished. But he was never supposed to take the title from the man who everyone wanted to win it.

In match two Florence’s first wave was a prophecy fulfilled. His final layback turn was creationism itself. Italo could not do it, could never do it.

Richie Lovett’’s analysis and yellow circles drawn over slow motion footage was a fruitless attempt to explain art. There is no explanation. There is only witness.

And just as John Florence has so often been underscored throughout his career because judges know his potential, so today the prophecy was realised. 9.70.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by World Surf League (@wsl)

There were other waves, but none really mattered. The right man won, but the setting was still beneath him. It was like watching an F1 driver lap a go-kart track.

Florence joins a list of other universally popular three-time champs in Tom Curren, Andy Irons, Mick Fanning, and, crucially, Gabriel Medina.

Does this leave him happy with what he’s done in professional surfing? Is he satiated by three titles?

In the immediate aftermath with Strider in the water, John was teary. It clearly meant a lot to him. He thanked his family and friends, most of whom had travelled to California to support him. Strider, to his credit, mentioned next year’s finals in Fiji. What did John think of that prospect?

“Sounds epic,” said John, noncommittally.

On the stage later he said that a new approach to competition had been key to his success. “I’m just gonna surf like I surf with my friends and brothers at home. That’s my happy place.”

Which begs the question: why bother to compete at all?

But then he mentioned Gabriel Medina, and how it felt good to equal his tally of titles.

And so we’re no clearer on John’s future.

If he walks away no-one would blame him, nor accuse him of underachievement. But I sense that John’s draw to competition is perhaps stronger than is widely acknowledged. I sense he still thinks there’s something left on the table, that he can do even more.

We might, just might, be setting up for the rivalry we’ve always wanted. Florence as champion, healthy, feeling good about competing.

Medina with his back against the wall and a point to prove.

And that, friends and foes, will be worth watching.