Jordy Smith weeps after winning gruelling El Salvador grand slam on Daddy’s surfboard

"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.

 

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“There’s nothing that can’t happen if you don’t have heart, Joe,” said Salazaar.

Turpel, understandably, might still be processing that one.