Morning and the mise en scene remains idyllic. Small white terns are fluttering up in the deeply cloven valleys. White butterflies against the tropical luxuriance. In the shallow water next to the marina a Pacific longtom glides smoothly through the limpid water, hunting.

Despite the influence of French decadence Tahiti remains an isolated economic backwater. When the contest is called off a torpor descends on the village and the activities of mankind become reduced to a surreal simplicity.

The mayor is at the end of the marina road, in a small, neat white building in a colonial style, gardened with bouganvillea and hibiscus. I have always had a fondness for Tahitian mayors, at least as a concept. I will speak with him and find out what makes this place tick.

Let us stop and reflect: it is time we did so. The pre-prepared script has been cast away into the tradewinds. The one where brown-skinned matadors, watched over by the ghost of Malik, stood cooly erect, entombed in ice blue South Pacific caverns whilst dispatching the weak and the undeserving to oblivion.

Now it is a test of Pro Surfer resolve, a concept not noted for it's steeliness. Your correspondent went on the sniff for men of extravagant and adventurous courage yesterday afternoon. I found something different, but more on that later.

I am at the marina. I went before to talk to a fisherman. Fishing is done, small scale, by mostly solo fishermen in small but seaworthy v-hulled boats with inboards. The man was on his boat, stashing a large bamboo gaff. The man was brown and built like a tiki statue, missing teeth from god knows what battles on the high seas. What a joy to be amongst men of the sea, far away from the sickly and attenuated youth of the west.

"Good fish?" I asked him.

"s'ok...some mahi mahi, maybe sometime hau'ra , the marlin....now, not so many."

I pointed out to sea, to the judging tower and break of Teahupoo, "When is biggest surf here, what month?"

Without hesitation he replied, "May".

That is gospel truth.

I found Mick Campbell and Drew Courtney yesterday afternoon, at a little pensione and restaurant fifteen minutes walk away from Papa's house. I spoke to them in the backyard, by the lagoon. Their mood was reflective and philosophical more than defiant. I was hoping Campbo might have been breathing fire and brimstone, looking to resurrect his career on the back of some overpaid American surf star. But it was not to be.

You can see his responses here.

Pro Surfing is notoriously dismissive of hard fighting journeymen but your correspondent maintains a small glimmer of hope for a Rocky style finish for Mick.

I went looking for Luke Egan, to see if there were any signs of pressure building with careers on the line and the forecast continuing to frustrate.

The three miles from Campbo's rundown pensione to the End of the Road passed easily underfoot. The good old boys were drinking beer on the side of the road near the magasin. A small footbridge runs over a gurgling river that has formed the break of Teahupoo. I crossed it. I asked around and found Luke's house easily. I was looking for Dingo as well. Surely, with Bugs in his corner, this master of the backside tube-ride wasn't ready to submit to fate without a fight.

Truth be told I was wondering if there was a Pro Surfer, apart from Slater, worthy of the title. A bald, brown man greeted me enthusiastically at a small shop that was serving beer and playing music. It was Gordo the Great. Gordo's a sage. A crazy sage but a sage nontheless. A cold Hinano was in my hand in seconds. I was introduced to several fine Tahitian gents who proceeded to play uke, spoons and keys. I had found my man of courage and resolve. A cameraman....what? If Gordo had the skills to be a Pro he would have fifteen world titles by now.

Luke looked haggard in the glow of a setting sun. The pressure was obvious. Was he, in his private moments, railing against a higher power? Perhaps not. No-one blames the contest director if things go wrong. This is, after all, the adventure on the high seas that is Pro Surfing. The vicissitudes of the ocean come with the deal.

Non monsieur? The trade demands it.

The sun set over a glassy ocean, a small wave spat into the channel at Chopes.

We wait.