Though it is notable how even on the worst days, the best surfers prevail.

Toughest event from a fan’s perspective in living memory? From your narrowed and tired Antipodean eyes, almost certainly.

Not to mention the blinkered views of the North American man, woman, they or them.

But tell it to the Euros on the sand, waving Italian flags in support of Leo Fioravanti. Tell it to Marco Mignot’s old man. Tell it to the ever-present, always voracious Brazilian fan, who enjoyed an all-country match-up in the final between Italo Ferreira and Yago Dora, at an event Brazil has historically dominated.

The truth is, waves or no, Portugal always brings the fans. It’s second only to Brazil in this regard, and that counts for something.

But yes, the waves were objectively garbage.

All day the head-on view into the glare made it look like surfing as imagined in a Cormac McCarthy novel. Wind-ripped tones of beige under leaden skies.

To make it worse, the storm that had blown over Peniche in the days prior had damaged some of the infrastructure, meaning that most of the heats shown on Finals Day were punctuated by momentary blackouts.

Worse still: the surfing on screen had no graphics, so no surfer names nor scores. The only way to follow the overlapping heats was to depend on Kaipo and Mitch et al. Not a position you want to be left in under any circumstances.

Just on the infrastructure: unless I’m misremembering this, the whole point of locating this competition in Peniche fifteen years ago was not just Supertubos, but the fact the peninsula was more or less agnostic to weather and offered so many set-ups.

Why do they now refuse to move? Why are they staunchly pitched in Supertubos sand when the waves are likely good elsewhere yet blown to shit in front of them?

My guess is that it’s simply a cost-cutting exercise. But it’s a false economy. Getting the competition completed in better waves and a shorter timeframe should always be the priority.

So I certainly won’t try and dress this as something it wasn’t. But between the glare, there were some moments.

The best two surfers of the competition met in the final. (See statistics to follow!) That in itself can be considered success.

Both Dora and Ferreira turned nothing waves into somethings. Few other surfers in the draw have this ability. This will change in years to come, when young surfers who’ve honed their craft on the air sections of wavepools will make similar closeouts look like something else.

Though it is notable how even on the worst days, the best surfers prevail. The semis, and to a lesser extent the quarters, were comprised of guys you’d want to watch on the best days.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by World Surf League (@wsl)

Italo Ferreira made gold glint in morning sun, spinning high and fast in spite of the tempestuous Atlantic closeouts. Yago Dora found impossible waves against Ethan Ewing in their semi final. The dynamism of Dora laying waste to Ewing’s unrealised beauty.

“He’s taking calculated risks, but not over-risking things either,” said Mitch Salazar of Dora, making little sense but not making much sense either.

It was notable that by the final, even Kaipo had tired of his co-anchor.

“The fans on the beach are very well-educated,” claimed Salazar after Yago Dora had landed a clean full rotation in the final. “They recognise when someone’s done something awesome.”

“Anytime you see someone flying in the air, Mitchell, anyone’s going to be impressed,” Guerrero chided.

But I suppose I should cut them some slack. This was a hard gig. The saccharine enthusiasm of children’s TV presenters can only stretch so far.

And since the WSL has such a kink for stats these days, allow me to end on a flourish with some statistical analysis of Finals Day.

From the quarter finals on:

110 waves were scored.

52 of these waves (or 47% if you prefer) were scored at one point or less.

Just 21 of these waves (19%) scored five points or more.

Italo Ferreira (6) and Yago Dora (9) accounted for 71% of these mid-to-high scoring waves.

Are you not entertained?

“All the while, it trailed me, mouth open, lips quivering with an eerie, predatory intent.”

A flotilla of dead sea lions washing up on southern Californian beaches, from Ventura to the OC, made crazy by a toxic algae bloom before dying, is the back ground to a Ventura surfer’s harrowing account of being bitten on the ass and stalked by a “feral, demonic” sea lion.

Surfer RJ LaMendola, a photographer and fine art printer when he ain’t shredding, described his ordeal, ain’t no other way to describe it, as “the most harrowing and traumatic experience of my twenty years of surfing, an encounter that left me shaken to my core.”

It started as an ordinary session, just me and my board, about 150 yards from the shore, riding the waves in solitude. The ocean was calm, the rhythm of the swells familiar—until, out of nowhere, a sea lion erupted from the water, hurtling toward me at full speed. Its mouth gaped wide, teeth flashing, and its eyes locked onto me with an unsettling ferocity. My heart lurched as I instinctively yanked my board to the side, paddling frantically to evade it as it barreled forward, intent on crashing into me.

I barely dodged that first charge, my breath catching as I spun around, desperate to head for shore. But I had no idea where it had gone. The vastness of the ocean swallowed its presence, leaving me scanning the surface in growing unease. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of motion—it was back, charging again, teeth bared like some deranged predator. This time, it slammed into my board with unbelievable force, diving beneath me in a swift, fluid arc that sent a shiver down my spine. I whipped around again, adrenaline surging, my mind racing as I realized this was no playful encounter. This was something else entirely—something wrong.

Panic set in as I paddled toward shore with everything I had, the beach still a distant speck on the horizon. My arms burned, my chest heaved, but the distance felt insurmountable. Then I saw it again—another furious charge, this time more enraged than before. Its movements were erratic, wild, almost unhinged. I turned my board to face it, hoping to shield myself, splashing water and shouting in a desperate bid to scare it off. But it didn’t flinch. It kept coming, unstoppable, its jaws snapping closer. At the last possible second, as its teeth loomed inches from my face, I swung my arm to fend it off—a clumsy attempt at a punch. It twisted its neck with eerie agility, dodging my strike, and then lunged. Its jaws clamped down hard on my left butt cheek, piercing through my 5/4mm wetsuit like it was nothing. The pain was sharp and immediate, but the terror was worse—it shook its head violently, tugging me off my board by my flesh, dragging me into the water.

I don’t know how to describe the fear that gripped me in that moment. So far from shore, so helpless, staring into the face of this creature that looked like nothing I’d ever seen—its expression was feral, almost demonic, devoid of the curiosity or playfulness I’d always associated with sea lions. With a surge of desperation, I wrenched myself free, clawing my way back onto my board. Blood seeped into my wetsuit as I dug my arms into the water, paddling harder than I ever had in my life. But it wasn’t over. The sea lion stalked me, swimming alongside, charging again and again—three, maybe four more times. Each time, I twisted my body, keeping the board between us, shielding my arms and face from its relentless jaws. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst, every stroke toward shore fueled by raw survival instinct. All the while, it trailed me, mouth open, lips quivering with an eerie, predatory intent, as if it wanted nothing more than to drag me under and finish me off. It didn’t stop until my feet finally scraped the sand.

I stumbled onto the beach, legs trembling, and turned back to see it still there—swimming back and forth along the shoreline, pacing like it was daring me to return. The sight was chilling, a haunting image burned into my mind. My wetsuit was shredded where it had bitten me, a jagged tear exposing the puncture wound in my buttock. Blood trickled down my leg, staining the sand, and the reality of what had just happened sank in. I didn’t hesitate—I drove straight to the ER, clutching the steering wheel with shaky hands, still reeling from the ordeal.

Later, I contacted the Channel Islands Marine Wildlife Institute to report what had happened, hoping for some explanation. What they told me was both sobering and alarming: they’re currently dealing with a wave of incidents across Santa Barbara and Ventura County involving sea lions and other marine animals affected by Domoic Acid Toxicosis. It’s a neurological condition caused by toxic algae blooms, and it’s driving these creatures into aggressive, uncharacteristic behavior. The sea lion that attacked me wasn’t just acting out—it was sick, its mind warped by this poison coursing through its system. Knowing that doesn’t erase the terror, but it adds a layer of sadness to the fear.

I’m lucky, all things considered. The bite was deep, the pain lingering, but it hit my buttock—not an artery, not my face, not something worse. Still, I can’t shake the memory of its quivering lips, the relentless pursuit, the feeling of being hunted in a place I’ve always loved. If you’re out there on the water, especially around Santa Barbara or Ventura, please be cautious. This isn’t normal sea lion behavior—it’s something darker, something dangerous. I’m grateful to be alive, up to tetenus, and back on solid ground, but I won’t be paddling out again anytime soon unfortunately.