Grim Bells Beach forecast curses star-studded surf circus

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.