Teahupoo has a darker side. And not just the wave. It defies efforts to retro-fit some decadent, tragic-romantic South Seas fantasy upon it. Gauguin , after all, died a syphilitic wastrel. A dissipated alcoholic brigand.

In the dark there are men drinking. A vibe is palpable. Walking out of the marina late last night a man appears from out of the darkness. He is shirtless, with a mop of electrically charged hair. He has a small transistor radio in one hand, a bottle of Hinano in the other. He is gabbling at me in, what...Tahitian? No, French. I make out parley vous Francais and reply quickly, "No, parley vous Englaise"

I walk quickly away, but the gate to the marina is closed. He is following, still gabbling. Drunk. I go to jump the fence but he is in front of me. He suddenly says in a loud voice "Oh My God!" with a heavy accent. Then he pushes the gate open. The gatekeeper? What rule have I transgressed? And ushers me out with the transistor holding hand.

As I'm walking away, rattled, he is shouting, "Oh My God!"

"Oh my God!"

It's heavy.

Earlier, your correspondent had paddled to the same reef pass as yesterday. The swell is by now almost entirely tradewind swell, missing Chopes, but angling into the fun and funky left quite nicely. It's unattended save a couple of Tahitian gents, but before we get into the line-up the roar of a jetski is heard and there is the by now familiar lion-like head of Jordy Smith.

The voracious predator gets to work on the savannah, hunting down and dominating the weaker. Revelling in his Darwinian supremacy. His ski partner Trav-dog Logie, is towing him back to the line-up in a relentless blitzkrieg style of wave-riding. Several times I'm on the verge of saying something like, "Hey Bru, hows about leaving a few for us, hey?" But it would take a Churchillian effort to deny this fascisistic domination of the surf session.

By way of contrast a small rundown dinghy disgorges Mick Campbell and Drew Courtney. They paddle into the line-up, polite, almost demure. Soon, they will be one of us. Surfers living in their hometowns, cut adrift from the strange, insular world of Pro Surfing.

Jordy sticks a fully boned backside Indy, smooth as butter. Mick and Drew disappear from the line-up shortly afterwards, and a forlorn air descends on the line-up.

Another lay day is called. There is the faint whiff of mutiny in the air. The muttering voices suggest the surfers will refuse to surf marginal conditions and that Billabong are 'receptive' to the idea of extending the waiting period.

There are strange days ahead sports fans. With oblivion staring them in the face the slaves may yet revolt. It would not be the first Tahitian mutiny after all. Your correspondent will do his best to identify the ringleaders of this coup d'etat and see they are held to account.

Watch this space.