"I celebrate my love for you with a pint of beer and a new tattoo. And in case you haven't noticed yet, I'm more impressionable when my cement is wet"

The little oiseau, the delicate slate grey noddy terns are flying in from the lagoon, heroically carrying large loads of flotsam in their beaks to build nests high in the beetling crags. So too, the ASP judging panel are heroically fending off friendly fire from the media goons hired to cover the event.

The mood is sombre and warlike in fortress ASP this morning. Richie Porta, the phlegmatic head judge has steam coming out of his ears. He is baying for blood. To bring you, the general public, up to speed on this latest imbroglio, let me set the backstory. JJ, the media manager for this event has been moonlighting writing for STAB and, in a bizarre example of friendly fire, took aim at the judging panel over the scoring of the final Melling wave that sealed the fate of Mick Campbell.

I had to admire the chutzpah of JJ but seriously wonder at his judgment. Nick Carroll, a lifetime Pro Surfing afficionado, also had a swing at the judges over the Slater/Heairii Williams decision. Baffling enough in itself, but the media manager of the event? Has the world gone stark, raving mad sports fans, or is Pro Surfing finally starting to realise that the road to mainstream acceptance lies down the treacherous path of sensationalist coverage ala Rugby League, where every scandal is a bridge too far until the next one? I blame STAB and the decadence of Europe.

The offending paragraph was discreetly removed in the wee hours of the morning and JJ apparently stayed well hidden behind locked doors through the morning as a succession of livid judges and industry honchos took turns flaying the ex-journo back into a state of supine contrition.

In the media centre your correspondent ran into a humbled and softly spoken Dean Morrison. "Whacha gunna do now Deano?" I asked him.

He pondered it for a while like it had just dawned on him that he had been kicked off the tour. "Dunno, haven't been home for a while. Prolly go home and train, do some yoga and get ready for Hawaii. I've got mixed emotions now."

His voice trailed off...the room was full of frothing surf photographers, a unique species in their own right, checking charts, changing flights, looking at Facebook trying to get laid in the next port of call. "Hey Deano", one of 'em said. "Look at this."

He pulled him over to a laptop computer with the most perfect left you could imagine peeling perfectly across razor sharp shallow reef. "It'll be going off next week...whaddya reckon?"

Deano was visibly swayed. He may be off tour but he's still living in a different world to the rest of us. A world where dropping everything to go surf in perfect waves is a daily reality.

With all the froth and Facebook softporn in the media room, the angry judges and threats of recrimination it seemed as if this contest had already been consigned to the dustbin of history. Your correspondent decided to go surfing at Teahupoo to get a handle on the remaining vibe of this event, which may yet fizzle and be remembered more for it's consequences and reverberations rather than it's anticlimactic reality.

It's a tough crowd to get a wave. Andy, Occy, Melling, Owen and a bunch of media kooks, moi included. Andy is dominant. His surfing up close and personal in hollow waves has an amazing amount of powerful presence.

The mood changes when Manoa paddles out. He is friendly, talks to everyone but yet is utterly relentless. He moves through the line-up with absolute assurance, catching everything that moves. I mean everything. In person he bears a striking resemblance to Oscar De la Hoya: the same mix of charm and deadly skills. Here, he is deep on the reef taking a wave so far behind the peak you think he can't possibly make it...he pumps a small speed turn as he grabs rails and slots in perfectly. There, he is on a draining west bowl, a wave that demands every skill conceivable to make the drop, standing almost straight up hands free in the tube. Truly he is a master of this reef.

Your correspondent picks up the scraps of the scraps, when suddenly Manoa, Andy, and most of the other pros have gone. Only Owen and Freddy P are left, perhaps neither willing to give the other the psychological edge by submitting first.

A set wave comes my way, bowling hard in from the west. When you take off the wall is already wrapping in on the reef and draining the water almost dry. It's a heavy drop straight into the tube. The water sucks so hard into the wall it feels like the coral bottom is becoming part of the tube which is enfolding you. You are encased in the most perfect cylinder over almost dry reef, the afternoon sun is glowing through the back of the wave and the mountains are framed by the barrel. It is the most beautiful thing you can imagine. You emerge bathed in mist from the spit. There is a surf contest about to be decided but you couldn't care less because you just got barrelled at Teahupoo.

Now as I write, the southern cross is bright in the sky, guiding my thoughts homeward, back to the love of kith and kin, to what is celebrated here in the islands: fetii. It is the sacred bonds of family that give a man's life purpose and meaning, that elevate our existence beyond the egotistical striving of the individual. The sound of breaking waves on the reef is loud. A good sign. A fitting end may yet eventuate but my heart is already full of joy.