“He lost a scary amount of blood. I was covered in it.”

The kid who got belted by either a bull or tiger or maybe even a Great White, god knows there’s enough of ‘em around, at Cabarita on the NSW North Coast on a gloomy ol Sunday afternoon is in worst shape than first thought says one of the kid’s rescuers.

Real quick recap.

A sixteen-year-old was having a little splash at Caba, site of 2020’s Tweed Heads Pro and also a few real close calls with big sharks, also the same joint Chippa Wilson grew up in and where hot rodent guy Jackie Robinson keeps a fine airbnb rental, when he was hit by the shark.

Jaws-like scenes followed with the shark following the kid and his rescuers to the sand. The shark, estimated to be eight feet long or so, almost beached itself as it prepared to take another hunk out of the kid.

 

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A Brazilian clubbie, Thiago Collel who joined in the rescue once the gang hit the beach described the scene to our pals at the Dirty DM, telling ‘em the rescuers were covered in blood.

“When I got to the shore, he had been dragged in by a group of people including an off-duty paramedic who happened to be walking on the beach at the time…

“His bicep was destroyed – you could see all the muscle, flesh and bone. He lost a scary amount of blood. I was covered in it…

“I just kept talking to him and he told me how he fought off the shark by kicking and punching it away.”

Always reassuring watching these things, knowing you ain’t always alone if a shark takes a swing in a crowded lineup.

Real good pal of mine was surfing on the Mid North Coast a few months back, just him and another pal on a three-foot right, when a big Great White made its intentions clear.

His buddy went over to my pal and put his arms around him, the idea being to make ’emselves look like one big animal instead of two vulnerable creatures, and they paddled in together.

The Great White swam through ’em and away.

A genius move, I think.

Are Brazilian men born with a predilection for weeping? Do they have larger tear ducts? Is God to blame?

Somewhere between the haemorrhaging madness of trying to write a book, barely summoning the breath to tend to the ghost-embers of a relationship, and earnestly failing to cobble together a living wage, I had a moment of clarity watching the Rio Pro.

It came to me like a divine rain from the heavens, through the falling tears of Miguel Pupo, inconsolable after his round of 16 victory over Filipe Toledo.

They weren’t simply the welling tears of ordinary joy, relief or sadness. Nor the brief, sucked back sniffle of escaped emotion. But real, chest heaving, down on your knees, spittle, muck and spew tears.

It appeared to be something deeper than the sum of its parts. Something horrifying in its humanity.

But what, I wondered?

Surely not just a Round of 16 victory over Filipe Toledo? The King of Rio, Joe “Kingmaker” Turpel, still insisted. Despite the fact he had just been unceremoniously dethroned by a prototypical journeyman.

Are Brazilian men born with a predilection for weeping? Do they have larger tear ducts? Is God to blame?

What was at stake for Miggy here? Not a world title, not a livelihood, not a top five spot. Not much that I see. And yet something in him split open.

So why the tears, Miguel?

Are Brazilian men born with a predilection for weeping? Do they have larger tear ducts?

Is it all the steroids and growth hormones washed from Brazilian bloodstreams to waterways?

Is god to blame?

Maybe there’s just something missing in me.

And then came the clarity: I have nothing to love. Not like that.

No purpose in life I truly believe in. I love my children, obviously. But that’s a kind of ordinary, bootstrapped love.

I’m not sure it’s comparable with Miggy Pupo’s love of a quarter final berth in the soft slump of Saquarema.

Yet there he was, radiant in his surfering and his suffering, anointed by god (probably) to chip away at a pro surf career, to miss the births of his children and shed real tears at a meaningless victory in the sad, soul-sucking warbles of the Rio Pro.

Aside from writing vaguely satisfying sentences like that, what am I missing from life?

What is this thing that others have and I do not?

Do you have it? I’d love to know.

Please sir, won’t you tell me how to feel!

Yet irregardless of emotion, performance or even pestilence, Mitchell Salazar and the rest of the clown commentary brigade blessed the broadcast with adjective upon adjective upon wild and untrue assertion upon othercompletemince.

Salazar is like a man trying to summon conviction from thin air. He said “potentially” six times in ten seconds.

Such is his fantastical obscurity, if he’d run into the booth shouting “there’s a troll in the dungeon!” Cote and Guerreo and Turpel would raise barely a brow.

He reckoned the wave Colapinto caught in the final for a single turn and 8.23 points was “the biggest wave we’ve seen in Saquarema” during the whole history of the event. He was so sure he said it twice.

Far be it from me to be pedantic enough to trawl through the nine year back-catalogue of the Rio Pro (which moved to Saquerama in 2017) in order to prove Mitchell Salazar wrong, but I’m happy to channel house-style (assertions without research) to say the barely head-and-a-half wall ridden by Colapinto was not the biggest wave we’ve ever seen in this competition.

In addition, and further contradiction to Salazar, I’ll say that Miguel Pupo does not have one of the most underrated careers in professional surfing, as Mitch claimed.

Rather, I might suggest he’s rated quite precisely: a solid, occasionally stylish pro with one event victory to his name in fifteen years.

“Hall of famer, for sure,” replied Cote, being sucked into the mire.

Pupo’s tears were the single notable event of the entire contest, which somehow felt like it lasted for a month. At least they were a reminder of the fact that this matters to someone, somewhere.

If you want the proverbial boot stamping on the surf fan’s face, then consider this: a heat total greater than fifteen was achieved only four times in the entirety of the event. Twice by Houshmand (semi and final) and once apiece by Ewing and Dora in the elimination round.

To add insult to Brazilian fans, the final was contested by the two whitest, all-American boys on Tour, Griffin Colapinto and Cole Houshmand, and played out to the discordant, hushed harmony of why-is-god-so-cruel on the Saquarema sand.

To be fair to Colapinto (freestyle rapping aside) he’s white in the same way a Bichon Frise is white. He knows not what he is, only that he is.

Cole Houshmand: 6’2”, 225 pounds, hair like Dennis Rodman. Just in case you’d forgotten, or misheard it the umpteenth time Joe Turpel reminded us.

Bit of a character, you say, Joe? Number 91, you say? Just like…Dennis Rodman?

Tell us again how big he is!

Tell us again why he dyes his hair and what a wild, fun-loving, Tate-suckling guy he is!

Turpel offered some partisan solace in claiming that Griffin Colapinto was “Saquerema’s adopted son”. Though evidence was so thin as to be non-existent in this regard.

And then, the final. A 9.40 for Cole Houshmand that was massively overscored, even by the often confounding metrics of WSL judging.

Houshmand had one turn that justified his existence, but probably not mine in watching.

Colapinto did one closeout smash that scored a low-eight to make it not entirely a walkover for Houshmand.

“It might be the best final we’ve seen all year long outside of Pipe, Joe,” slavered Mitch.

But it really wasn’t.

It’s just boot-meets-face, comp-after-comp.

For what?

Points? (Largely irrelevant for a world title.)

Money? (Paltry.)

Audience? (Disinterested, absent, imaginary.)

Salazar’s praise? (Enough said.)

Watching this parade of half-lit personalities and absent narratives, I found myself staring inwardly again (my specialty) and outwardly at the man I’ve been writing about – this mountain athlete of uncompromising drive. His life distilled to connection with landscape, egoless excellence, and an absence of compromise.

And love. Real love.

Miguel Pupo’s tears sort of love.

I’d like just a little of that to believe in.

“I will slaughter you and your entire family. I’ll come to your house in the middle of the night and slit your throats. You must sleep lightly; I know where you live.”

Maybe y’missed this story, maybe you didn’t, it was only lightly reported after all given its touchy touchy topic.

If you came in late, here’s what happened.

Last year, Jeffreys Bay, iconic righthander and the site of Filipe Toledo’s greatest competitive moment where the little wizard “surfed as good as any human can”, was lit up after a black surfer claimed he was told to fuck off and called what is euphemistically referred to as the K-word, a wildly offensive racial slur that has deep roots in South Africa’s apartheid history.

Rasool Hendricks, forty-nine, said him and his pal were about to hit Supertubes back in March when, they alleged, local guest house operator and J-Bay shredder Remi Petersen told ‘em to beat it and allegedly used the ol K-word.

“I struggled to understand why he wanted to keep me out of the waves,” Hendricks told the local press. “We are acquainted, he knows I surf in Jeffreys Bay all the time, and I was very surprised when he and some other surfers approached us and told us to leave. The matter escalated and an argument ensued. At one state, they tried to grab out surfboards. Then Remi (allegedly) called me a k**** and told me to fuck off and go back to the location. The whole thing was quite upsetting.”

Hendricks said he wrote a letter and thought about sending it to the Human Rights Commission. It then went up on a chat group where “other surfers of colour” were asked for their opinion.

Then, a lil twist.

“I thought the whole thing was behind us, but then I got a phone call that I needed to appear in court in Humansdorp,” says Hendricks. “When I arrived Remi was there with an attorney and an advocate and I heard he was applying for a protection order against me. He claims I threatened to slit the throats of white children and told him, ‘The night of the long knives is coming.’”

The whole thing went to court in February, Remi Petersen and Rasool Hendricks both seeking protection orders against each other under the Protection from Harassment Act.

Petersen accused Hendricks of harassment, alleging Hendricks intervened in an argument over surfing etiquette, hurling xenophobic insults and threatening to kill him and his family. Witnesses, including Matthew de Cruz and Trevor Hansen, corroborated Petersen’s claims, describing Hendricks’ threats as severe and unprovoked.

Matthew de Cruz testified, “He threatened to basically kill, cut the throats of Mr Peterson’s children. And then he said, when he is done with that he is going to kill him, he must walk lightly, he is going to cut his throat as well.”

Hendricks counter-claimed, alleging racial abuse by Petersen, but provided inconsistent accounts and no credible supporting evidence.

The magistrate, on February 21, 2025, granted Petersen’s application finding Hendricks’ threats oppressive and harmful, constituting harassment. A protection order was issued, prohibiting Hendricks from harassing Petersen or his family until 2030.

Hendricks’ counter-application was dismissed due to lack of evidence of racial abuse or intentional harassment by Petersen.

The court found Hendricks’ testimony unreliable, citing contradictions and uncorroborated claims. The ruling emphasized Hendricks’ unprovoked threats crossed into unacceptable conduct, while Petersen’s actions did not meet the harassment threshold.

Read the judgement here.