I’ll just come out and say it. The opening proceedings of Pipe’s finals day are nothing short of a fiasco, marked by incompetence, poor execution and a total lack of preparedness for contingencies. And granted, even though there’s some bad luck in the mix, the head clown of this shonky media outfit should be dismissed for incompetence and barred from working in the surf space again.

I refer of course to Ding Alley’s early morning efforts to watch and document the comp.

Not wanting to miss the 5.00am superheat between Kelly and Jack, but also needing to get in the ocean, your correspondent finds himself using his iphone torch to pick his way over the coffee rock at 4:40 am to get down to the sand. After a quick stretch and a splash in the dark, I return to my gear to see the Woz alert light up my phone. Kelly and Superjack! Epic! 

Tap through and all I get is a replay of day two. Refresh the app a few times but it doesn’t co-operate. Fark! I’m missing history here! Not to worry, I’m a pro: get the Facebook feed up, and there’s Kelly and Jack. But the commentary is fricken Portuguese. Don’t have my glasses so everything’s a blur. Fark! 

Returning to the car post-haste to sort this shit out, I take a punt on darting back to the stairs around the rock slab – wearing nothing but a towel – but the tide’s too high and I cop a surge that rips the towel away and drenches all my gear, bar the phone held protectively aloft in the pre-dawn dark, Portuguese commentary babbling down at me like some kind of angry Deity. 

What a fine start to the day. What a pro.

OK, to the Woz and let’s get the nitpickery out of the way first. We’ve all picked over the bones of their hiccups and hardlucks and fuckups, and of course there’s issues of permits and considerations for the local surf community etc, but let’s put such things aside for the moment and look at it really simply. 

Pipe will always be THE contest that counts. It’s Wimbledon, It’s Augusta, it’s Lords, it’s the ‘G in September.

And in a month that’s had its share of all-time Pipe, to run the finals on a day that’s anything less than classic is a bummer. Though Huey comes to the party midway through proceedings – and the highlights package will look solid – it’s not really a day for the ages. 

The only piece of actual journalisming in Ding Alley’s coverage of Pipe last week occurred in the comments section of our ‘Black Surfboards Matter’ recap, where SN editor Stu hit up Mark Richards for a quote about riding a twinny in the comp, and as MR said, "We had really long waiting periods in those days and they very rarely ran rounds of Pipe Masters unless conditions were huge."

Now, not to say Huey doesn’t lob some bombs into the mix today, but if there was ANY way to make sure THE Pipe Comp was held at ClassicPipe™, geez that’d be a great box to tick.

Anyway, to observations on today’s surfing and the periphery, banged down in the feckless point form you’ve come to expect from Ding Alley.

It’s a bleak morning for the remaining Aussie contingent. Slater takes out Robbo in a scrappy one; RCal capitulates to Italo ‘Mugatu’ Ferreira with barely a whimper; Jack Freestone has his chance against Gabby, but Gabby does – again – as Gabby does. In the last seconds of the heat, Jack gets flicked by the Backdoor convergence on his redemption wave, which turns out not to matter anyway, as Gabs gets tubed going left, jams some turns, pops an air in the shorey, steps off, flicks his board under his arm and sashays on to the sand like it ain’t no thing.

And it’s poor form to write (more) disparaging things about this phenomenal two-time World Champ, but Ding Alley is nothing if not petty, so here goes.

Despite a lesser success rate today (climaxing in a no-make four and a bit minutes before the hooter in the final that probably woulda got him the title), Gabs’ approach to Pipe means that once he sets his line, his sheer strength, skill and attitude propel him through any foamball or shutdown obstacle in his way. You just know he’ll make it. 

And so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Gabs takes the same dogged approach to his post-heat interviews. You can throw ANY question you like at the lad and he’ll never be dislodged from his sturdy narrative.

Interviewer: “Is the concept of ‘you’ continuous, or does past ‘you’ continually fade into present and future ‘you’? In other words, what part of ‘you’ sticks around over time considering that the atoms that make up your body are constantly being replaced and your memories are always changing?”

Gabs: “Aaaaahhhh I’m really stoked to get through. I asked God to give me the best waves and thanks to him I did. Xxxxx is a great surfer and I hope we get waves in the next heat. It’s amazing and blessed.”

Interviewer: “What do you think would be humanity’s reaction to the discovery of extraterrestrial life?

Gabs: “Aaaaahhhh I’m really stoked to get through. I asked God to give me the best waves and thanks to him I did. Xxxxx is a great surfer and I hope we get waves in the next heat. It’s amazing and blessed.”

And really, why would Gabs care about the post-heat pressers, with the Woz’s FB-cast numbers in the ten-thousand-and-a-bits, when he’s got a kajillion Instagram followers.

While wasting your time with petty sniping, gotta say, no one wears a mask with more menace than Charlie Medina. But good on him for strapping it on. 

It’s probably ill-advised, but let’s talk about masks for a sec shall we?

There’s all sorts of grey areas and rabbit holes we can disappear down here, so, we’ll strip it down to basics. Given the understanding that masks are an important part of our collective efforts to keep this pesky virarse contained, and given that sports stars wield influence over us plebs, you’d think that masks would be a no-brainer, or perhaps even compulsory, in post heat pressers. And yet there’s Kelly and Gabby and a hoarse Tyler Wright, conspicuously maskless ‘up against the glass’. 

Now, regardless of whether a mask is actually technically necessary right then and there, or not, the implicit at-a-glance takeaway message to the world is, nah, you don’t really need ‘em. 

And that’s an unfortunate message however you look at it.

Props, therefore, to JJF (*except for post final) for dutifully rocking his mask and thus encouraging those who look up to him to do the right thing, and special props to Italo for making his camo mask setup look as cool as Senegalese pirate behind a mounted machine gun circling a cargo ship in the Gulf of Guinea. 

Random Kaipo observation #1: For sure old mate could get a gig on the SBS World News team, given his ability and fondness for pronouncing exotic names with all the right emphases, inflexions and flourishes.

Random Kaipo observation #2: Kaips must have been a shitty boyfriend back in the day. Each and every celebrity caller he’s had on the line through the whole contest – Shaun, Gerry, Kelia, TC – he’s emphatically PROMISED to call ‘em back later on in the comp to talk more… Hasn’t. Called. Once. 

Billy Kemper spends some time in the booth talking up the forthcoming docuseries ‘Billy’, which looks great. I’d suggest, however, he might want to recalibrate his understanding of the term ‘adversity’, when talking about how much adversity his protegé JJF has overcome. It’s all relative really, mate. Adversity is poverty, displacement, civil war, etc – not rehabbing a sports injury in paradise with nary a financial concern on your life’s horizon.

Nonetheless, were it not for social distancing measures, I’m pretty sure Turpel would slide on across the set and at least try to fellate Mr Kemper, so affected is he by sensual Chicken Skin overload at Billy’s tales.

Spewing Kanoa takes out Jaddy in the last heat of the round of 16. Jaddy puts on a hell of a show. Sure, he may be affected by a slight palsy between turns, but you gotta love him. 

I’m puzzled by Fan Cam, have to say. The yahooing and whooping and hollering doesn’t reflect the observation of my own viewing experience, though I must admit some of JJF’s tube to hack combos do cause me to grunt out loud with visceral pleasure.

Into the quarters: 

Florence versus Leo is a thing of beauty, with JJF and Backdoor in holy union. 

Slater versus Jordy in the following exchange is a heat for the books – if the title of that book is “Huey Has A Holiday”, as bugger-all transpires, and Smith gets the worst of the bad deal.

Italo v Flores is notable for an injured Mugatu grimacing in pain in the shorebreak, but like an elderly Blues musician, barely able to hobble on to the stage, propped up by his concerned entourage of younger musicians and crew, who miraculously springs to life as the healing power of music shoots through him, Italo overcomes. So bloody ruddy brave.

Gabs v Igarashi is another misfire QF, with Meds definitely off his best, but there’s such an inevitability to old mate turning things around – you just KNOW he’ll squeak through. Which he does. I’m still angry at Kanoa for taking Jadson out anyway.

Diverting our attention to the much anticipated gals’ Pipe relocation finals. Carissa turns in far and away the most complete and impressive performance, and pretty much singlehandedly vindicates the Gals-at-Pipe concept. Tati Weston-Webb is most committed, Sage not so much, and Sally has a dig: (and if anyone’s got anything negative to say about Ms Fitzgibbons they can bloody well say it to our face first etc). 

Tyler ends up taking the thing out through sheer bullocking brilliance and her trusty go-to bulletproof layback moneymaker, (which Macca – the artist half of Ding Alley – simply cannot get enough of*) and all due props to her. Good on all of ‘em.

*not true.

Switching back to the Men’s semis: JJF v KS is a balltearer, and lives up to promise. Stellar JJF positioning and fortitude leaves Kelly needing to reprise his otherworldly 10 from last year, and when that isn’t forthcoming, fades John with 20 seconds to go, giving him a lovely barrel well worth the redundant interference penalty.

Semi two, Meds versus Mugatu, is a less exalted affair, with Meds as Boa Constrictor wrapping the injured Mugatu in his coils and extinguishing the life out of him, Actually, Pipe does the constricting – Mugatu’s last- gasp effort falling short of completion as the sandbar section pinches and snuffs our second-favourite plucky Brazillian, 

Meds deserves his spot in the final. And it’s beyond impressive to think that he’s made it firing at about 70 percent of his capability. 

The final. It’s weird, ‘cos Ding Alley pretty much takes the piss out of the whole Woz shemozzle, but watching the final, there are times I can barely bring myself to look at the screen, so invested am I in JJF winning this scrappy but engrossing affair.

I honestly can’t tell you why I give a shit about pro surfing, or pro surfers. It’s not like I know ‘em, or are mates with any of ‘em, or we have anything in common other than occupying opposite ends of the surfing accomplishment scale, but it seems very important that JJF takes the win.

There’s the narrative, I suppose – the conspicuously missing title in the list of accomplishments; there’s the backyard story too, the beach of his Huckleberry Finn boyhood; and there’s obviously the intimacy with the spot that allows him to pull off more unfathomable rides than any of his contemporaries. 

Along with all of this, there’s just the way he surfs. The lines and arcs he draws are different, loaded somehow with a different dynamic and integrity. 

I’m embarrassing myself trying to articulate it, to be honest, but there’s something uniquely pure at work there.

Coincidentally or not, he seems like a good fella as well, which makes today’s victory a fine thing to witness. 

Have a good Chrissy and see yers at Sunset.

// DING ALLEY
Ding Alley is Illustrator David @maccatoons McArthur and Writer Gra Murdoch