When, over the past two seasons have we approached
a comp with a legitimately good forecast that pumped from beginning
to end?
A fairly grim looking Bells Beach was on offer to
continue this star-studded but apparently cursed surf
circus. Grey drizzle, crumbling, wind-chopped half-waves.
Contestable, as the parlance goes.
“Classic after school, after work surf,” Vaughn Blakey called
it. Australians do love a workmanlike attitude to surfing.
But when, over the past two, maybe three, seasons have we
approached a comp with a legitimately good forecast that pumped
from beginning to end?
Abu Dhabi?
And just for the record, I am not one of the many Bells Beach
detractors. The weight of history alone should be enough to sustain
this event. Beyond that, when Bells is good it highlights a
traditional style of surfing that most fans still value, and about
as close as they come to relating to the world’s elite.
It’s the only spot on Tour where scoring waves might be ridden
prone for a few seconds. Expect whitewater takeoffs, big, foamy
faces, slow half-turns down the line and big, meaty, converging
sections.
And stairs, of course. We’ll hear about the stairs once or
twice. But it’s all part of the Bells Beach fresco, and I, for one,
take some pleasure in it.
Plus, there’s a kink for goofies at Bells that I enjoy, for
kinks are what make life interesting. “Occy Bells Solo” is a
pornhub category.
However, without sounding sacreligious, it is this writer’s
opinion that the accolade for best goofyfoot surfing seen at Bells
Beach belongs to Gabriel Medina. (See 2019 as a solid example.)
But it was regular-footer Morgan Ciblic who threw the kinkiest
turn I saw this morning, spunking all his Challenger Series
frustration into the end section of his first wave. It was a
beautiful layback, violent yet finessed, like a fine orgasm.
That turn and more saw the Aussie wildcard delight the partisan
commentary team and take victory in his heat, even if it was at the
expense of Golden Child, Ethan Ewing.
Jordy Smith parlayed his El Savadorian high into cold, windy
Bells, slashing, stabbing and thrusting his way to victory. George
Pittar offered a little pushback, but defeat of Edgard Groggia was
tantamount to necrophilia.
Italo Ferreira, who undoubtedly makes love with the vigour of a
Jack Russell thrusting its nose at a holed rabbit, just out of
reach, dropped an 8.50 on his opening wave.
Ferreira, though often frantic, has the tenacity to get the job
done here. If anyone can mow through the field like Bonnie Blue on
a heater, it’s him. Defeat of the finest swordsman on Tour in Ramzi
Boukhaim is a good start.
Though Boukhaim was unfortunate in
taking a stray bullet in the wrong hole when a wave clipped him
from behind walking in across the reef and folded his knee. He was
carried up the beach, flaccid and filled with
shame.
Jackie Robinson, always the big spoon, exercised typical control
over lesser conditions and opponents. Defeat of Ryan Callinan and
Marco Mignot was half-cocked, and just another bend in the road to
Fiji, where he will release his full load unto the world, and we
will lie back, hearts and tongues lolling.
Filipe Toledo was spanked once again by Mexican bean machine Al
Cleland. The question of dominance in this pairing is not a
question at all.
Griffin Colapinto still can’t seem to reach full tumescence.
Once again, he was forced to lie open-mouthed and empty-headed
whilst Kanoa Igarashi bukkaked to victory.
Colapinto is no longer sharing personal affirmations from his
diary, but if he can prise apart the pages, I think he should.
The round ended with intense scissoring between Cole Houshmand
and Liam O’Brien. Neither man could be separated at the end, 10.33
points apiece.
In commentary news, Ronnie Blakey and Ritchie Lovett offered a
sobriety unsuitable for mocking or derision. Ritchie has a clanger
or two in his locker, so there is some hope.
Luckily Joe was back with his brand of inanity, and Felicity
Palmateer was there to say WOW.
Kaipo reported from the line-up, mumbling vaguely numbly, and
looking appropriately balloon-ish in a hood. A strong look for him,
if you ask me.
You’ll need to exercise your tantric muscles for more, as I have
to rush off to Edinburgh right now, to a press-screening of a surf
film at Lost Shore, Edinburgh’s wavepool. The film is “Beyond the
Island”, and it’s about big wave specialist Ben Larg.
I shall return with reflections, which will be filtered and
delivered to you through the fog of a strong hangover.
