"I love you Dad."
The initial days of this El Salvador comp are the first
in four years that I’ve failed to report on a day of
competition for the men’s WCT.
I’ve reported from the Scottish wilderness, when too much whisky
and boisterousness led to a cracked head on the stone wall of the
bothy. I slept on a rolled up jacket, saturated with blood that
froze overnight, and I still watched pro surfing and reported after
hiking out the next day.
I’ve reported from Amsterdam, from the French Alps, from the
high-dependency unit of a hospital, from my school desk, from the
back of my van, from romantic dalliances here, there and hither and
from many, many other places where I had no business or pleasure in
watching pro surfing.
But this week, at the beginning of this uninspiring competition,
I was on the Hebridean island of Tiree, population 653, and home to
Scotland’s first and only professional surfer, Ben Larg.
My accommodation had no wifi, and there was little to no phone
signal, but there was blissful sunshine for ten days straight. I
foiled in different genres. I bodysurfed. I played with my kids on
the beach. I surfed small, glassy waves alone. And I ignored the
opening rounds of mucky, brown El Salvador, where men and women
eked out mid-threes and called it surfing.
However, something gnawed at me.
Was it residual guilt for letting BG
down?
Was I missing pre-Cut drama?
Was I missing Edgard Groggia, a man I couldn’t identify if he
did four backside hacks towards me in a supermarket aisle?
No, it couldn’t be any of that.
And then it dawned on me.
El Salvador. Latin America.
Of course! Right then I knew exactly what it was.
I was missing everyone’s favourite cuddly spangloid!
I was missing peak Mitchell Salazaar.
And so, getting home yesterday, I caught up with the quarters,
then the Finals Day proper.
“We’re excited, aren’t we, Joe!” Salazaar bubbled, before
settling to a lobotomised grin.
Joe Turpel, clearly overwhelmed after days of minding this giant
Mexican toddler, ignored him.
Matt McGillivray, the eventual finalist, was in the water
against Yago Dora.
According to Salazaar et al, the event victory was fait accompli
for Dora. But McGillivray was tack-sharp on the running right
handers, disposing of Dora fairly.
There were the obligatory sky-diving and base-jumping references
to endure, naturally. And at one point (referencing Dora’s spilt
from his father-as-coach), Mitch asked Joe for his advice on
fatherhood.
“I’m not a father yet myself,” Salazaar said hopefully, “but you
are, Joe. At what point do you need to take a step back?”
Turpel, perhaps wondering what might warrant stepping away from
his infant daughter, graciously ignored Salazaar again.
Instead, Joe deferred to what he knew, that being commentary on
live surfing that really only reveals its ridiculousness when you
pause for a moment to break it down.
“Activating the flow state through that wrapping turn,” he
offered.
Next up was Ethan Ewing vs Crosby Colapinto. Older brother
Griffin, dumped out of the competition early once again and
shockingly 26th in season rankings, joined Salazaar and Turpel in
the studio. A meeting of minds if ever there was.
Ethan Ewing was typically hawk-like in his approach, stooping on
few waves, but picking the eyes out them. But his well-fed 8.17 to
open was followed by a long period of starvation in a slow heat. He
waited patiently, but prey did not appear.
In the studio, Salazaar was at odds with his clout-chasing.
“What I love about your brother…etc,” he gushed to Griffin. But
then Ewing got his score, and Salazaar had to switch tack. “I’m
sorry, I know he’s your brother, but…”
The crux of the heat came in the final minute. Colapinto was in
the lead with priority, and Ewing still needed a back-up greater
than three. A set wave appeared. Colapinto tried to go, but was
lost in the whitewater. Ewing, a little deeper, casually took off
and bottom turned around the tumbling Colapinto. It was an unlikely
scenario, and all Ewing had to do was make the wave in mediocre
fashion. But uncharacteristically, he blew his second turn.
Colapinto’s mild embarrassment was spared.
In the following quarter final, and then the semi, Jordy Smith
continued his march. As with McGillivray, the running rights were
right up Smith’s straat. Even in his twilight years, this should
surprise no-one.
He dispatched both Ferreira and Houshmand in much the same way,
nailing mid-eights early in the heat and leaving his opponents
chasing.
Ferreira resorted to desperation airs, the likes of which we
haven’t seen all season. But on a wave that rewarded flow over
explosiveness, he just couldn’t find a steep enough section. Italo
can flow when he wants to. On his best days he can string beautiful
backhand turns, but today he couldn’t find the rhythm. And
certainly not against prime Jordy.
“Machete, scalpel, scalpel, katana, samurai, switchblade,” said
Cote, in succinct analysis of Smith’s turns.
By this time, Salazaar, under direct instruction or unlikely
self-awareness, had left the booth and was loitering in the Red
Bull Athlete Zone. This was unfortunate for Rainos Hayes, coach of
Italo Ferreira.
“Love you longtime,” Mitch said to Hayes. “Love you longtime,”
he insisted, before some other garbled communication in uncertain
dialect.
Clearly he’s never seen Full Metal
Jacket.
But whether he was soliciting his wares or otherwise, back in
the booth Cote couldn’t ignore it. “He’s going all over the
world…pidgin…some Spanglish coming through…”
Matt McGillivray continued his run to the final, besting
Colapinto in an emaciated heat where just four waves were
ridden.
With just three minutes left and comboed, Colapinto found a
wave. It seemed a gem. He got barrelled three times. Mitch Salazaar
squealed and howled. The mid-seven scored seemed low. But it was
too little, too late regardless.
And so we had the first all South African final at this level in
no less than 41 years.
“This is the chance for a new generation,” said Salazaar, as the
oldest man on tour in Smith took to the water against the five-year
CT veteran McGillivray.
“An opportunity to make a bunch of
cash,” said the delightful Rosie Hodge, citing the dollar value of
the rand.
“He could be starcrushed,” said Jesse Mendes of McGillivray’s
attitude to Smith.
Jordy surfed an ugly, windblown opener for an inexplicable 7.33,
and that was more or less it, aside from some painful mock South
African accents and anecdotes from the commentary team.
Regardless of deteriorating waves, Smith was never going to lose
to his countryman upstart. He was clearly emotional after winning not only for
the first time in eight years, but for the first time on a board
shaped by his father. It was a dream, he said, and at this stage of
Smith’s career, it was a feel-good victory for all.
“There’s nothing that can’t happen if you don’t have heart,
Joe,” said Salazaar.
Turpel, understandably, might still be processing that one.
