Italo Ferreira surges into world title favouritism in Portugal as surf tour continues to reel from Tate-gate

There’s only one certified G right now, and his name is Italo Ferreira.

​Day One at the Meo Rip Curl Pro dawned grey and sombre. 

Even on the best of days, Portugal is the most maligned event on Tour, owing to the narrow-mindedness of vocal Australian and North American fans to whom sardine pate on toast is considered anathema.

But you are wrong, as well as culturally retarded.

For proof, look only to the previous few days, where the world’s best, with bellies full of bacalao, have been getting spat out of tubes bending over Supertubos’ sand like they were curled with the precision of Cristiano Ronaldo’s right boot, and as wide as his grin.

The greyness of the day was owed mostly to this juxtaposition. Supertubos has pumped in the run up to this event. Everyone has had their fill. And so it was logical that we’d be greeted with mediocre waves and a stormy, uncertain forecast for the days ahead.

The standard WSL slap in the face from the much-lauded Mother Nature. For the WSL, it remains largely an unrequited love affair.

To be fair, the waves were clean and fun in the morning. Barron Mamiya got a good one, perhaps the best of the day, as foreshadowed by Jesse Mendes, a man whose vocal tones personify doom.

“I don’t expect to see many clean barrels today,” Mendes prophesied ominously.

Thanks, Jesse, I thought. Let’s settle in comfortably for the rest of the day, shall we?

Mamiya advanced comfortably, his 14.50 total the second highest of the day, and greater than the cumulative points of his opponents Edgard Groggia and Cole Houshmand.

But what a faux-pas out of the water for Houshmand! Aligning yourself with someone as vile as Andrew Tate, even if only via the superficiality of a social media post, is a misstep of the highest order. 

Of course, he wouldn’t be the first young man to fall for the cult of personality or perceived power. He was born and raised in a country predicated on it.

Countrymen and friends Griffin and Crosby Colapinto were victorious in heats two and three, though one would hope on a different bent to Houshmand. Certainly Griffin’s claim that he’d been “connecting with the dunes and the daffodils” in his pre-heat spiritual limbering is a world away from taking selfies with a rapist and calling him a G.

There’s only one certified G right now, and his name is Italo Ferreira.

Imperious in yellow, he stitched together the highest heat total of today, and really, no-one else’s surfing came close.

He left it late in his heat against Jackson Bunch and Frederico Morais. With seven minutes on the clock he was in last position. But he was a cat pawing at garden birds, surfing seven waves before his innate murderous instinct took hold and he gripped one in his teeth and broke its neck.

He rotated through clear air in the Portuguese sky on back-to-back lefts. He probably should’ve had a brace of nines. As it was, a high eight and a mid seven were more than enough.

“I know how to play this game,” he said post-heat, stroking his whiskers and referencing Jackson Bunch scoring a seven for an air, and his recognition in that moment of what the judges were looking for.

 

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Italo continues to be in a rare rhythm. If titles were still decided on cumulative points over the course of a season, you’d be silly not to back him, even at this early stage.

One man who wouldn’t know rhythm if it inserted a finger in his arsehole is Mitchell Salazaar. Back in the booth after a too-short hiatus, he brought his established brand of cheesy spanglish witterings.

Speaking to DJ Ahmed Spins (pal of Ramzi Boukhaim and typically shite WSL studio guest) Salazaar enquired if he’d ever been to Mexico.

Or rather, Mehhhiiiiicco.

Mr Spins replied that he had not.

“You should come,” said Mitch. “We’d love to have you.”

We?

WE?

At time of writing, it remains unclear who authorised Salazaar to speak on behalf of 130 million Mexican citizens (of which he is not one).

In fairness, the quality of studio guests was cranked up a notch as the swell deteriorated and the wind blew onshore to end the day. Gabriel Medina graced the booth, offering a welcome cocktail of graciousness and cool indifference to Salazaar and Kaipo Guererro.

Kaipo, undeterred, spoke of faith and god’s plan in reference to the injury keeping Medina from the water. Such was Guerrero’s prayer, I wondered what terrible ailment or misfortune plagued Medina! But still just a sore teat. No timetable for return as yet.

Medina was present for the final heat of the day, watching friend Miguel Pupo take victory over Leo Fioravanti and Deivid Silva. The anecdote about him and Pupo surfing mock heats against one another (filmed and studied in the aftermath to verify scoring, no less) was yet more evidence as to why Brazilians tend to do this pro surfing thing better than anyone.

As the round drew to a close it was decided conditions were no longer suitable. The wind was too strong, the tide too high. And so the men’s competition was paused in the interests of equality whilst the women were sent out to surf.

 

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