Just basic simple questions any self-respecting journalist should be asking of a three time world champ who self destructed without any logical reasons being given to the sporting public.

That meant being on foot walking to the End of the Road, on a Saturday afternoon. Past the magasin a bunch of drunk Tahitians were wandering down by the side of the road. On foot and bicycle. They called me over. Without hesitation I crossed the road and accepted the offer of a tallie of Hinano. Them good ole boys were staggering drunk, sweating profusely from blood shot eyes. All of them missing teeth, heavily tattooed.

A younger man, extravagantly muscled and with tattooed knuckes said, "Hey, you, you, friend, I box." The man shaped up and threw imaginary punches, then erupted into drunk laughter.

"For money, or job?" I asked.

"No, fun. For fun........we fight."

"You, you smoke?" A crazy haired man, broad shouldered as an ox and leaning on me as he walked was putting his fingers up next to his lips.

"You come here!" and he tried to steer me into a vacant lot, heavily forested with sheoak and vines.

"Ah, nah, un petit peu," I said. Fear was creeping up on me. A crazy drunk can turn in a second. I tried to plan an escape. Run. Throw the camera gear. But for now be happy. Give no rough edges for the drunken personality to abrade against. Nothing to catch on and suddenly turn nasty.

The boxer held a fresh beer out and pointed behind him to a hulk of a man, "He, my uncle." He made a sign with his hand to indicate craziness, then pretended to smash the beer bottle and made a stabbing motion. "He", he stabbed again, "he do this."

"Hahahhaha, but not for you, friend."

I said with all the sincerity I had at my disposal, "Thank you so much for having me in your country, in your town. I really appreciate it. You understand?"

The boxer shouted back to the mob and translated into Tahitian. It caused a minor ruckus. The uncle came forward, brandishing a beer bottle. He started thumping his fist against his heart and saying "Yes, yes, yes."

He embraced me. The whole mob formed a giant staggering knot of men around me and in that formation, like a rolling maul in Rugby, we moved down the road. The gendarmerie went past, untroubled by this traffic disturbance.

Ain't life funny. I mean funny peculiar: offering the illusion of free will when all our decisions lie anchored in the granite bedrock of fate; in a rolling maul of drunken Tahitian street-fighters heading inexorably towards the end of the road.

We reached the End the Road. In all the blanket coverage of Teahupoo, the dramatic slo-mo's and thundering crescendos, have we ever stepped back and described this strange little scene?

Non?

Let us correct the oversight then of those who rush towards the money shot and fail to establish the mood.

It is a large cul-de-sac with many ramshackle and temporary open air restaurants, set-up I assume to take advantage of the passing trade. There is a pool hall and other penny arcade attractions. Like all fairs it has a slightly menacing air beneath the bonhomie. But your correspondent could be excused for having his perceptions slightly skewed on account of the fact that the good ole boys were trying to shepherd him into a vacant lot next to a restaurant to continue the drinking and perhaps indulge in a little spot of street fighting.

"I go see my friend Andy, I come back."

The uncle said, "Yes, yes, yes!"

The maul broke up. I slipped away feeling as exhilarated as if I had just exited the Millenium wave at the reef which lay just offshore. Saved by Andy Irons, how...perfect.

I hopped a ride back to the marina with a Viennese man working on a surf show. Yes, Europe has arrived!

This morning is flat. Your correspondent expects to cover a surfing contest tomorrow.

That would be a relief.