A Final Five without Gabriel Medina is exponentially less interesting and Griffin Colapinto knew that.
An unexpectedly good day of competitive surfing in Fiji, before a strong breeze came up from the coast and spoiled everything, as the wind is wont to do.
And can we take a moment to question Surfline and the much vaunted quack Jonathon Warren, the man on the ground, supposedly an expert in weather forecasting in this region, with twenty years of experience. A man who Joe Turpel, in his inimitable, awkward style of praising studio guests, claimed was “born for this”.
Because Surfline, with all its data, models, cameras, expertise, and shaggy-haired men dedicated to the science of weather forecasting, did not predict this day. Nor did it predict many other days we have experienced this season.
Whether there are waves or not, everyone is high on the fun of Fiji and it really makes me wonder if this is the right place for a finals day next season.
Maybe it’s just my gloomy, rain-soaked perspective from the Highlands, but I’m not sure I enjoy watching blissful surfers living their best lives. I’d rather watch them attack each other with teeth and bitten nails, fight sharks and cold water, and direct pure hatred at their fellow countrymen.
Who wants to watch a group of surfers on vacation without caring if they win or lose? Not me.
And if someone could explain to me the new judge’s tower that the WSL overlords drilled into the fragile coral reef, I would be grateful. The WSL gave it to the Fijian community, right?
What do they do with a purpose-built tower to judge surf competitions when there are no surf competitions to judge? Fish from it? Rent it out on AirBNB?
The whole thing has a touch of imperialism.
But now to the competition (since very few of you appreciated the Slater lit of yesteryear).
Jake Marshall, the surfer with the biggest improvement this year, if we were to give such an award, gave it to Medina in the round of 16.
To get into the final five, you have to reach at least the semifinals. Medina’s back was against the wall and his fur was standing on end. In response, he found what was by far the best wave of the day and put his foot in an incredibly deep barrel. He pumped through it at schizophrenic speed and came out with the ten-finger claim he patented at the Olympics.
But just like back then, he was denied the top mark today. The verdict was 9.87, and two judges gave him the ten he deserved.
It was enough for the win. After the run, he looked like Robocop in his silver wraparounds and was once again far too calm. “I’m giving up trying to get a ten,” he said lazily.
For once, those present loudly supported the demand. There were ten points across the board and no objections.
But where is the Medina who would have responded with something like, “You have twenty seconds to obey,” before riddling everyone within range with bullets?
I miss that guy. And that guy would have made the Final Five this year, which this new, watered-down Gabriel Medina, despite his overwhelming talent, will not do.
He lost to Griffin Colapinto in the quarterfinals, the last heat of the day that was muddy and windswept before it was all called off.
The decisive shot was a wave that Colapinto hit in front of Medina and took advantage of the priority, executing a series of critical backhands for a mid-eight, as good as a ten under the conditions.
Gabriel Medina threw himself into the air in the crosswind, but everything seemed a little hopeless and the death knell began to ring.
In retrospect, Colapinto said he was torn. He wanted to wish Gabriel Medina a good performance, he claimed. I believed him. A Final Five without Gabriel Medina is exponentially less interesting and Griffin knew that.
If the unpleasant exchange between Colapinto and Robinson is anything to go by, a clash between the two could be interesting.
The camera panned to the boat where they met after their victories in the round of 16. Colapinto had beaten Seth Moniz and Robinson had narrowly beaten an in-form Connor O’Leary in a highly entertaining fight.
The exchange was both congratulatory and combative, a silent struggle between two men who claim to be masters of inner freedom, however limited it may be.
Maybe it was just the excitement of a post-run adrenaline rush or the odd neurological divergence of the men in question, but for me it was a reminder of the “I love you” moment between Andy and Kelly. It’s worth watching. From what I remember, the YouTube stream was about an hour and ten minutes long.
“Ah, the splendor of Cloudbreak,” said Joe. For no particular reason.
John Florence was disappointed, but not disappointed, when he lost to Imaikalani deVault in the round of 16. After nine waves without a win, it was not for lack of effort. He will definitely head to Trestles as the number one seed.
Italo Ferreira, on the other hand, will have to hope not to be pushed out of his current fourth place after losing to Barron Mamiya in a bonanza heat in which 27 waves were attempted but few were of real quality.
It was like trying to walk on a plank, Kaipo said. “It’s easy when you’re lying on the ground, but try doing it 20 feet up.”
This strange reference to balancing on imperially measured timbers somehow suspended in mid-air seemed to really appeal to Felicity Palmateer.
“Ohhhhh,” she said orgasmically. “Great analogy. Great analogy.”
Ethan Ewing and Yago Dora didn’t stumble in their heats, edging out Ryan Callinan and Ramzi Boukhiam respectively. Ewing and Dora reach the quarterfinals in fifth and sixth place overall. Italo is currently drinking Red Bull and digging holes like a dog in the sand of Fiji.
And of course, the day wouldn’t have been complete without hearing from Kelly Slater, who happened to be sitting next to Stace Galbraith at the bar when he was asked to comment on the previous day’s Erin Brooks off-leash debacle.
(Galbraith, who was working as a caddy, swapped her board for a leash-less replacement board mid-race. In retrospect, she was very remorseful.)
Galbraith was asked about the remaining men’s pairings, but he handed the question and the headset to Slater and asked if he had any thoughts on the matter.
“I don’t know if I’m worried,” Slater feigned flirtatiousness.
But of course he did. And he spontaneously gave a five-minute audio essay that would have taken anyone else hours of preparation and rehearsal.
And we were orbiting the planet Kelly again, unable to escape gravity.
Joe thanked him, of course. He said he was a great ambassador for surfing and we would celebrate his career forever.
The prospect of eternity has never felt so long.
And then the wind picked up, and Jonathon Warren was undoubtedly standing on the deck of a boat, squinting questioningly at the horizon, his hair blowing, and he shook his head slightly in a gesture that could have meant anything.
