Steve Shearer April 08, 2009

The day began in darkness walking the cliffs of the Surfcoast as a solitary pilgrim, and ended man-on-man with Chris Davidson at a small Jan Juc bar, consoling the irate victim of a close heat loss to Luke Stedman.

Davo was raging against the decision, others did too, it was emblematic of the schism developing in the Pro World as aging warriors fight a rearguard battle against the looming sword of relegation to the losers tour.

But the dawn was sublime, the air was as intoxicating as champagne and brightly coloured parrots flashed their jewelled rumps as they flew low over the sparkling heath. In this rain freshened amphitheatre I could see Winkipop in the far off distance and a glassy ocean which was creased with small, even undulations. What was this strange feeling that was overcoming me, a sudden surge of joy? Was it.....love?...for Victoria. Surely not.

But there it was, as subjective and real as anything in this dementedly tortuous week.

Adriano beat Brett Simpson, I saw that from the top of the cliffs. Security barred me from a lower point of view. No matter, the verbal came down that media were allowed down. On the way down I caught Brett Simpson's manager in earnest query of the result with one of the ASP's longest serving judges. "More rotation" the judge said (referring to Adriano) "more commitment to the turn". The manager raised an eyebrow and said in a classic Californian drawl, "Oh reeaally".

He dragged the 'really' out to show that he, in fact, thought that it was complete bollocks and ballyhoo but dammed if he was gunna get his boyo tagged as one of these meltdown-prone pros who storm their way through press conferences etc etc. More on this day of explosive meltdowns later as we move through this memorable day of competition.

The surf was clean and running, 'cuppy' as Pancho called it. And by God he's right, it was cuppy. Pat Gudang was in the water against Freddie P. Freddie is in the process of carving out a new career for himself as one of the commentariat by virtue of his new found outspokenness. I got tight with Patty's support crew. They have skinny jeans and slicked back hair in the style of 1960's surf stars. They all look like Robert August and Mike Hynson in Endless Summer when they first get out of the cab in Senegal, which is to say, slicker then all get out.

When Pat catches a wave they spontaneously erupt with all kinds of little vocal tics and mannerisms. He catches a wave and one says "Go Bud." Almost simultaneously the others say "Pop it" "Pop it Bud!" The heat was tight and with five to go or something Pat catches a wave that could win the heat and the support team start saying "Bud", "Pop it" and things like that, like some kind of crazy typewriter that was smuggled out of Bruce Brown's office circa 1961. Pat came roaring into the closeout and semi-pulled a grabrail reverse. Amidst the general excitement of Endless Summer typewriters tapping out their little messages I yelled out "Yeah Baby!" That kind of silenced the Gudang support crew. It was, well, a wrong note.

There was a long pregnant pause while the judges score was announced. Andy Irons was doing jumping jacks in that time and loosening up his shoulders like a prizefighter. "Reckon the judges paid it?" I said to the Gudang support crew. They looked around. They're kind of insular these Californians. One of 'em, the guy with the Mike Hynson schtick shrugged. They announced the score. Pat had lost. The video guy let his jaw drop open, like he'd just seen an apparition and said in a low sorrowful voice "What the farrrrrk"

Andy beat Kai Otton in an unconvincing display while I talked to an unnamed New Deal journo about the aesthetics of gutter journalism. While this earnest discussion continued Taj Burrow entered the lineup. It was one of those lazy, listless days where events just blend into each other in between shots of coffee. Watching Taj's first wave was like an electrode to the balls: it was, um, shockingly effective at galvanising the attention of the people. And that includes the judges for they are people too. This is a man in total control of a surfboard at high speed, including the ability to make ultra-fine adjustments to turn angle and placement as the wave rockets down the Winki reef. I had such a visceral reaction to Taj's last wave I had to get close and sort of, inhale the vibe coming off him.

While he was signing autographs I asked him about the board "yep, same one as the Gold Coast" he confirmed. The dims were revealing: 5'8" by 181/2 by 21/4.

Five-fucking-eight! Almost by stealth the top Pros have been incorporating the Slater ultra-short board concepts but without offending the judges ultra sensitive aesthetic sensibilities.

The Messiah hadn't looked convincing all contest but on his first wave he pulled a straight up no grab air, the first of about a dozen for the day and the photogs and video guys began to get jiggy. Roy Powers did about a gazillion floaters and got a mid-range score. Dane got a safety wave and got under-scored then did a massive one turn wave but Roy had already 'gone to town', as they say, on the wave before. The hooter sounded and Dane paddled in. Beaten. The photogs and video guys are depressed. One says, "Lets start a riot". The others are visibly sagging.

Jordy does something that others have not. An old Slater strategy. He goes right out and catches a wave and just surfs it. Later in Round Four he catches a small wave like the one he catches against the Big O and gets the highest score of the day. Boy, did that get the old video and photo guys hopping. But Owen...you just haven't looked the same since that injury in Portugal. It's nothing visible, you understand. It's just that aura you had, it's gone. Against Taj on the Goldy, and Jordy Bru here, you haven't applied a single amount of pressure in either heat. Not a jot. You've got to catch waves and surf. Too much waiting. You've got to put something on the table straightaway for the judges; something for them to smell and taste before they forget. They have such dreadfully short memories these judges. And warm offerings served immediately almost always taste better to jaded palates.

On the steps veteran surf journo Nick Carroll is lurking. I asked him what he made of Owen's performance. "The result was as predictable as a game of chess" is what he said.

Huh? Thats the thing with these Old Guard journos: they're always trying to throw you off the scent with these treacherously cryptic comments. Anyway, security marched me on from the stairs while Carroll stayed there grinning like a big bald cheshire cat. Thats a compliment, by the way.

Parko has a black Sea Shepherd beanie on and a black t-shirt on. He looks like Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront. He's marginally less impressive than his Cooly Colleague, Mr Fanning, whose opening turn grab free air finally marks a change in the World Champ's surfing and proves that the Champ is sensitive to the developing impression that his surfing is becoming irrelevant.

Every surfer today makes a statement that will determine whether they stay in the main stadium or end up in the outer with the rest of the also-rans and wannabes. Whether they like it or not. Fergus, don't ever be a Pro Surfer. It's a horrible, cruel business.

We won't deal here with the Slater Foot as the press has covered that in a slobbering frenzy, sensing perhaps, a Parko-style tragedy in the offing. What is more pertinent is the heat itself with Dusty Payne. Slater went straight to work racking up a seven point ride for a sharp wave that included an aerial manouevre (Statement To The Judges: I'm ready to play in the main stadium). Slater then paddled for another wave, a wave that if he'd caught he would've had Dusty combo-ed and Game Over. But Slater missed it and a set arrived. Dusty's opening manouevre, well we've all seen it by now.......his opening fricking manouevre was a massive fully flared air reverse to nose blunt landing. 9.17.

OK, everyone's all good with that. Slater got another similar wave and surfed it fast and sharp on his little Merrick round-tail. With Dusty needing a five point something he catches a smaller wave and for his opening manouevre....BANG!....another air reverse, clean as a fricking whistle. He completed the ride. Did he get the score for this perfect exhibition of Progressive Surfing? Not even close. A four point something...

Slater was gracious in the post heat interviews but offered the observation that 'one great ride doesn't necessarily make a great heat.' Yes, but he got two rides Kelly. Same as you. Anyway the internet dogs will keep barking but the circus has moved on.

I don't know how many airs were successfully completed, Luke Stedman pulled one for fucks sake. I'm sure some creaky kneed old hack with a cirrhotic liver has the stats in their blog but it was...significant.

Statement of the day belonged to Jordy Bru. A smaller wave (the long-serving judge had told me wave size don't count no more in this Brave New World) and the opening turn a full rail gouging top turn with massive rotation, more massive top turns, a clean double grab air, more turns then a Superman air...in a competition!

If you look at pure surfing performance then today was a watershed.

We come back to Davo alone in the Bar. Raging against the close decision with Steds. I counseled caution. I told him he was on track, he had a career, to get into the new stadium, the one for the chosen ones. Cause if you're on the outer, you might as well be in Outer Fucking Space. And in Space, no-one can hear you scream.