"We gonna chase that Crazy Baldhead outta town"

Bonjour mes amis. After the Pro Surf marathon of yesterday your correspondent decided to take the advice of his Tahitian boat drivers. As we motored slowly back into the marina last night the hulking tattooed giant of a man and his two sons told me ,"Here in Tahiti, no rush, no stress".

Yes. That is the correct way.

So this morning I lingered at the marina, purchasing a small espresso with croissant from the matronly French lady, her long hair tied back in a long plait. A kiss on either cheek. "Comment ca va?

"Ah, ca va bien."

In the media centre the ASP hierarchy are gathered, council of war style, crunching the numbers. The surfers, imaginary soldiers on the battlefield, are being assigned to doom or salvation. GT has the sailors cap on, Carroll is in the channel dedicating his competitive nous to Davo: one Northern Beaches animal to another. Lineage. Transmission. The world is turning right.

Drew Courtney is the first to fall. One ride deep on the foamball, no exit. The dream is over. Who will write the epitaph for this humble foot soldier, who toiled without fanfare on the 'QS grind for an eternity, only to find fashion had moved on without him when he finally made the tour?

Your correspondent is reminded of the sentiment offered to Bulkington, the long-serving, and long-suffering, sailor in Moby Dick. To wit: "Know ye now Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of Heaven and Earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous slavish shore. But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God - so better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety!"

Fare thee well Drew Courtney.

Mick Campbell is next to join the list of the fallen. Beaten in the last second by a wave from Melling. Gasps accompanied the score when it was read out. The Ginger Ninja is distraught, driving away from a pleading GT with a curt shake of the head. It's human to feel the pain of defeat. All too human. Especially when that defeat will be the final one.

The surf appears to be becoming smaller, weaker. The candle is flickering at the end of the wick on the career of Kieren Perrow, about to be snuffed out in the somnolent South Seas. He too paddles past at the end of a disappointing heat loss to Travis Logie. His life force looks dim, drained bloodless in a tropical torpor.

A word about Wilko. Weird Wilko who cuts a slightly shambolic figure in amongst the pro surfing elite. Your correspondent, who had swam over to the caddies to watch the Dean Morrison / Tom Whittaker heat finds himself in a slightly surreal position. He had come to cheer on Dingo whose career he had helped launch in an earlier life as a magazine journalist.

Dean played a high stakes game and got the longest travelling tube ride of the morning, on the foam ball the whole way. He had dispatched without mercy the career of Tom Whittaker. Dean's charming wife Alana confirmed that Dean was edgy and that she herself felt on the verge of throwing up. If only the fans knew...

Wilko had no caddy, and Stedman refused. I offered my services, which were accepted with a small qualification, "Can you paddle?" Wilko asked.

"Uh yeah, think so".

Your correspondent had no idea whether he was the caddy on a winning horse, so to speak, or whether it would be words of consolation at twelve paces. Wilko lit it up, throwing tail and boosting before Kekoa answered back with a throaty barrel. His caddy, Freddy P was engaging his charge in a constant stream of dialogue and instruction. "Paddle this way brah...no, not this one...second one brah...be ready. Go brah, go baby!" and so on and so forth.

I started to feel a little inadequate in my caddying duties. Luckily Wilko paddled into a deep bomb west bowl and got shacked, came out and launched an air. I let out a full throated hoot and yelled at Wilko who was kicking and frothing like a Brazilian, "Fucking light it up Wilko!"

Freddy P looked at me like I'd just pissed in his mothers steam-iron. Maybe I had transgressed the secret code of the caddy? Ah well, I ain't gunna change up my caddy style to fit in.

Wilko was ecstatic as the siren blew, shaking with adrenalin and gushing, "That was the most important win of my career". Of course Wilko, but don't forget the role of the caddy when you divvy up the winner's cheque and dole out the Hinanos. If it weren't for me etc etc.

Your correspondent may reconsider his hasty comments about the white mans lack of stomach for competition based on the overwhelming evidence presented by Wilko today. I believe that conclusion was reached after the distorting influence of a touch of mal de mer.

More happened.

The wind stayed light and brown boobies glided across the Tahitian swells. That'd be the feathered kind. A quick word of props needs to go out to GT. The man who is oft derided for his sartorial flamboyance is a gentleman of the highest distinction. When he sees a thirsty man he offers water; hunger, he offers food. His constant quips and wisecracks off air maintain a constant comedic tempo. The Outsider salutes you GT.

The day is closing and there is blood in the water everywhere. Manoa battled with composure to defeat the African lion. Jordy and Manoa fought a paddle battle; the African lion was victorious but the Tahitian was more cunning and cunning will defeat strength every time.

The crowd was stirred and emotional for the next heat. Outsider favourite, Heiarii Williams, and R.K. Slater. Slater turned the pyschological blow torch to 11, immediately paddling around Williams, up and down, circling him trying to unsettle him. He caught waves in an effort to build a score. But Heiarii ran on the crowds energy and racked up tuberides to have Slater on the rack with minutes to go.

Slater's year is now assuming an aura of prophecy. He paddled deep on the reef and picked one of the small south waves and rode the foam ball.

He got the score.

Slater luxuriated in the victory while Heiarii commented that the congratulations he received from Slater were the first word Slater had spoken to him. It is as true of Pro Surfers as it of cultures and species: the strong survive and thrive at the expense of the weak.

I do not include Heiarii Williams in that summation. He was beaten not by the strong but by the fulfillment of prophecy.

In the marina the Tahitians were drinking beer. The mood was sombre. I went over to shake Heiarii's hand. He was gracious. He took my hand in his and flashed a wry grin. "Eh, thanks".

The pleasure and the privilege is mine monseiur.

This thing could wrap tomorrow. Only Manoa and Tahitian mana can stop Slater.

(photo of The Outsider caddying for Wilko by Vince Street)