It’s only been a minute, but somehow in my absence the WSL has transitioned beyond recognition.
Has the tide really turned?
It’s only been a minute, but somehow in my absence the WSL has transitioned beyond recognition. Where once she was a flaccid auld whore, sooking up the dregs of desperation; now she appears as a supermodel gliding into a Berlin club, whilst we look on, open-mouthed, saliva dripping.
I apologise for the Burleigh Pro passing me by, as well as the opening to Margaret River. I have watched some. I even took some notes. But it was just too hard in the current climate of my life.
There’s been no rain in three weeks or more in Scotland. To spend my days watching pro surfing whilst the sun splits the sky outside seemed mental. Home renovations have played a part, the stress of trying to write a book has been significant, and, for the first time in my life, I’ve been trying therapy. Couples’ counselling, to be precise. I’m not sure I’d recommend it. Unless you enjoy airing simmering resentments and long-forgotten grievances in front of a complete stranger, in an awkward, three chair room with cloying walls that seem to fold and warp before your eyes.
Plus, therapy is so fucking…American.
On top of all that, this weekend I’m off to the island of Jura, where George Orwell wrote “Nineteen Eighty-Four”. Then died. The reason for my visit is a stupidly difficult race over the Paps of Jura: 28km, 2370m of ascent, over mostly pathless ground and lacerating chunks of quartzite scree. The weather is supposed to break this Saturday, so I’ll be facing this in torrents of rain and visibility of just a few metres. There’s a high chance of getting lost and/or ending up on dangerous ground.
But at least stone and rain and mountains are real things. Pain, misery and joy at the behest of elemental forces has got to be better than therapy, right?
So it was today, as we were treated to a short but glorious few heats at The Box. The OG slab, according to Ronnie Blakey. A wave competitors and fans alike have brayed for in its six-year absence from competition, and rightly so. A fickle, squared beast of a wave the armchair viewer can scarcely imagine. It’s a test for even the best surfers in the world, and one that lays bare technical barrel riding skills.
It’s also what we want: jaw-clenching, testicle-retracting moments that make us realise why these people are professionals and we’re just shoegazing pricks in therapy.
Griffin Colapinto’s journal will surely be ablaze with adjectives and self-love this evening. His first attempt was a threaded beauty, somewhat lowballed for seven points, as the judges flubbed the scale. Yet on his second he fell from the sky, pindropping into perilously shallow water. It was a sequence that justified the decision to run at The Box. Anything might happen.
And it did. Colapinto’s second scoring wave was the most spectacular of the day, and one of the most confounding makes we’ve ever seen on Tour. It’s impossible to discern what happened at the end of the tube, even on slo-mo replays. Griffin himself couldn’t tell you. It was some combination of instinct and alchemy.
Kaipo called him the water bender. For once it seemed appropriate. The nine points awarded weren’t enough. Kelly Slater agreed, chipping in via text message to Ronnie Blakey. In a later heat it was certainly a ten. Undoubtedly the entire judging panel would retrospectively agree.
No contest vs wildcard Mikey McDonagh, who was at least there on merit after dispatching Yago Dora yesterday.
Heat two was a little slower, but there was no shortage of commitment from Leo Fioravanti and Miggy Pupo. Indeed, the broadcast revealed that Pupo has a month-old child he hasn’t yet seen, such is his commitment to the Australian leg and his career. He’s been vindicated by a top ten position in the live rankings. Fingers crossed he doesn’t need to go to couples counselling somewhere down the line.
Scores took an age to post in this heat, which surely didn’t help the men in the water. Perhaps judges were still decompressing from Jack Robinson’s wave in the morning before competition began, which was bigger and throatier than anything that rolled through thereafter.
Fioravanti is having his best season in memory. He built on a stupendous performance yesterday at Main Break, and the mid-range scores awarded today were not indicative of the waves surfed. Leo is a superb tube wrangler, and proved this once again.
The broadcast of these past couple of days has hummed along. The waves have helped, of course, and so have the Blakey brothers. Kaipo being banished to the line-up has been great, too. His brand of corny inanity is somehow more palatable when he’s floating in the line-up and we hear from him less. It’s almost endearing.
And a note of excellence has to go to Jesse Starling. A complete unknown to me, she has been resoundingly superb in commentary.
Heat three between O’Leary and Igarashi was forgettable, with O’Leary taking the win. But things sparked to life again under the feet of Barron Mamiya in heat four.
This sort of wave was always going to favour the young Hawaiian. His opponent, Jake Marshall, AKA the Temu John Florence, was always going to have the fabric of his facsimile stretched by The Box.
Mamiya exerted his will over the squared pits. Fresh off a near-drowning at Main Break yesterday, when he’d found himself in a cave underwater and had to rip off his leash in order to make it back to the surface, he approached The Box with similar, unflappable coolness.
If it hasn’t been noted already, let it be noted now: Barron Mamiya is a legitimate world title threat, both this year and beyond. Especially in the new complexion of the Tour.
Mamiya’s verve was carried into the next heat by Chianca and Willcox. The two men paddled so furiously at the beginning of their match-up I scanned the screen for signs of a dorsal fin.
Local boy Wilcox, having ousted the current world number one in Ferreira yesterday, again made west Aus pride swell with another confident win over the high seed.
Jackson Bunch vs Crosby Colapinto was a non-event in terms of makes, but not commitment to the cause. With victory, Crosby assured his place on Tour for the remainder of the season.
“Slab surfing belongs on Tour”, asserted a typically effervescent Vaughn Blakey, giving voice to the groupthink of the day. And he may be right. But slabs can be fickle, sensitive beasts, which might wilt or vanish in the minutiae of wind and tide. In this, there are several logistical problems with running lengthy competitions on them, not to mention some unfairness in competitors having an equal playing field.
So it was today. After a short break, and little in the way of explanation bar some vague references to wind, competition resumed back at Main Break. This scuppered my betting entirely. The one remaining leg was a Cleland victory over deVault, a result that seemed predictable at The Box. At Main Break, not so much. As it was, deVault continued the stylish approach that saw him oust event favourite Jack Robinson.
deVault began this competition in a lowly 32nd position, and although he’s made the quarters, it might take two more wins to assure his place on the remainder of the Tour. It seems unlikely, but it would be a good story.
As is the season long narrative of Jordy Smith, who surely must feel stars aligning this year. At The Box he’d have been competent enough to beat rookie Mignot, but at Main Break he is imperious. A 9.50 for three searing, critical turns on a huge wall was testament to that.
With Ferreira out, Smith will assume the number one position with another heat win here. Other than this, the top five going into Trestles looks set, even though this competition is far from done. Mamiya might move up from five. If he doesn’t, Leo can crack it with a place in the final. And what a strange little collective it is: Ferreira, Smith, Dora, Igarashi and Mamiya.
But the points are tight, and five events this season have elicited five different winners, two of whom (Toledo and Robinson) aren’t even in the top five as it stands.
Looks like more swell on the way to finish this one off. If I don’t get lost in the hills or sink into the chair of a therapist’s room, I’ll try to be here.
