In the absence of any surfing action at Snapper Rocks The Outsider muses on Kelly's campaign last year and the mindset it took to achieve an historic tenth world title.

"Hold these hearts courageously, As we walk into this dark place, Stand steadfast beside me and see, That love is the Province: Of the Brave." - TV on the Radio 'Province'

September 2nd, 2010. Tahiti.

"What is he, a fucking alien? Look at the guy."

I think it was some Billabong sales rep who said it. He was talking about Robert Kelly Slater of course, who was paddling back to the media boat at Teahupoo. He had just won a Round 4 heat against Adam Melling in dominant fashion and was merely hours away from facing his only true competitive nemesis, Andy Irons. It would be the last time they surfed against each other. A little over two months later Irons would be found dead by cleaning staff in a hotel room in Dallas, while Slater would be on the cusp of claiming his tenth world title.

It's raining. Tradewind squalls are scudding in from the east, obscuring the staggering mountain scenery which dominates the visual senses usually. It narrows the focus back to the man paddling to the boat. It's hard to get access to Slater. Sure, there's a jovial, mostly good natured schtick he employs to deal with the repetitive dolts and bro-brahs in the surf media scrums which safely conceals the remote emotional intensity and strategic brilliance which has defined his later title campaigns. He employed this relaxed mask to devastating effect in '08.

This year the intensity and desire is more naked, more exposed, right from the first wave of the year he rode at Snapper. There is danger from behind as judges become enamoured by the Reynolds/Smith juggernauts, and from in front as age becomes an increasing issue. Or does it? Kelly is the fully emancipated man, the man who has carnal knowledge of supermodels, made millions from Surfing (less than a generation ago: unthinkable!) and redefined every conceivable challenge on a surfboard. Slater makes old men feel young, makes them think that if Kelly Slater can do it, it can be done; not that they could do it, but it is still nice for other men to know, at nearly forty, that it can be done.

In the flesh, there is something otherworldly about Slater. His legs seem too skinny and sinewy to support the bull-like upper body, which is tautly muscled like a negro middleweight in prime condition. Sugar Ray Leonard or Marvellous Marvin Hagler come to mind. The eyes are the most distinguishing feature of the face. They are usually shielded under a branded cap but now, on this stormy tropical morning, calm and alert under dark eyebrows, they glow green with the most astonishing life-force. At other times, when he is displeased or annoyed they turn frosty and distant, or flash with anger. When this happens Slater becomes as remote as a Himalayan mountain-peak.

I made this trip out to the media boat especially to catch him. With the rain and squalls, most of the media guys had stayed in the shelter of the hut at the harbour, drinking coffee and waiting for the skies to clear. My own relationship with the event hierarchy had been somewhat stormy; at random times I was removed from the media boat for unnamed reasons. That morning I had pulled aside one of the local guys employed as a fixer. "Is there a problem we need to sort out?" I'd asked.

"Nah, nah" he said. "There's no problem".

Thus I got to the media boat and remained unhassled, despite a few stony glares. Slats did his post-heat interview with GT and I moved in. "Got time for a quick interview, Kelly?"

"Yeah, let's make it quick, hey." The eyes flash.

There'd been a tremendous intensity about Slater this event, an almost primal man-on-man imperative was on display in his encounter with local wild card Hearii Williams. The only historical weakness in the Slater canon has been against switched on wildcards. Sean Holmes had taken him down in an early round at J-Bay and Smith had won the event. A worst case scenario. Defeat by Hearii would've derailed the title campaign at a crucial juncture. Slater stalked Williams through the line-up like a leopard, splashing water to unbalance the emotional Tahitian and feigning and harassing him into waves. It was master strategy from a brilliant heat tactician. Jordy went down to Manoa Drollet in an early round. The dominoes were now lined up for Slater and he was poised to ruthlessly exploit the situation, as only he can.

"Last year was a difficult one for you. What effect did that have on your competitive instincts?" I asked as an opener.

"A year like last year can create some focus or frustration, however you want to use it", he said.

"What did last years' board experimentation teach you about what judges are prepared to accept?"

"I think people saw it more seriously than I did. Obviously with a tenth world title potentially on the line people were wondering what I was doing on these little boards. I've talked to a lot of guys who it's had an effect on. They kind of opened their mind a little bit and their eyes to some things. Whether it's quads, shorter boards, different rockers, different templates or whatever. I think we need that to keep fresh and progressing."

He went on: "I coulda ridden the best boards of my life last year and still lost a lot of heats. I was out of synch, my mind wasn't in the right place. Maybe I didn't like the pressure that was there because of that (the tenth title), or maybe I wasn't ready to deal with it at the time."

"I had fun experimenting. I was riding a lot of fun boards and it's definitely having an effect on what I'm riding now."

Suddenly a phalanx of cameras were coming in over my shoulder. There had been a realisation that Slater was open for dissection and a boatload of media guys were now asking questions from every direction.

My translation of the answers? He'd repackaged his short board experimentation into something judges and the general public could accept. The mental lassitude of last year, the losses to wildcards, the unfocused mind and all the petty little frustrations of losing close heats and placing new board designs in front of uncomprehending judges, had all been harnessed and used to retension the bow of his competitive drive. There would be no taking his eyes off the target. Not this year.

In his next heat Slater clawed into a ten-point ride against Ace Buchan that once again stretched conceptions of what was possible on a surfboard. One wave selection mistake allowed Andy Irons to claim victory in their semi-final but for now an Irons victory was advantageous to the Slater cause and he publicly celebrated it.

Two months earlier Slater had hobbled onto the sand at Johanna Beach. The title run had got off to a poor start on the Gold Coast. Against Jordy Smith his surfing looked tinny, weak and unemphatic in overhead, chunky point surf. There was open discussion amongst surfing journos and forum commenters that the King was Dead. That with the new era, heralded by Reynolds' epoch-shattering performance against Parko, and Jordy's second place to Taj, it might be time for Slater to retire with dignity intact.

Slater was hobbling due to a foot injury sustained at Bells Beach. How bad was it? Hard to say. He snuck past an inspired Dusty Payne in Round 3 at small Winkie peelers (Payne never recovered form after the loss) but the strong suspicion here at Johanna was the hobble was a rope-a-dope move.

A deep southern gloom settled into the land and seascape as the autumn day progressed. Later in the evening the cloud would roll back and the Southern Cross would shine brightly on another Slater victory and people would drive home savouring the special feeling of having witnessed something magic. But for now, the crowd was huddled under umbrellas and signage while a low, miserable rain set in. Minus the protective scaffolding of the event structure via which the general public and other riff raff such as myself can be kept at a safe distance the pros huddled together in small groups at the base of the sand dune.

There is Parko, squatting in the sand with the Billabong crew, being overlooked by the team manager, Sasha Stocker, who gently shepherds me away as I walk near. His state of mind, following the devastating title loss to Fanning after a catastrophic mid-season choke induced by injury, is assumed to be fragile until proven otherwise.

Fanning, the current World Champion, is by himself with the cans on, swaying. He is still trying to block out the racism imbroglio which has done so much to rattle the famous focus. He is exuding a powerful aura of exclusion.

Slater is further back towards the walkway with a small entourage that includes his girlfriend Kalani and manager Steven Bell. Perhaps manager is the wrong word to describe the relationship. Belly seems half father figure and half grumpy protective older uncle. He is laconic and dry-witted, perhaps the antithesis of Slater's own father who struggled with alcoholism. Perhaps the emotional replacement.

Kalani is petite and fine featured; almost pixie-like, with an agelessness about her that suggests Asian origins. She watches intently when Kelly surfs his heats. They are all watching a sandbar to the left of the main bank where a bunch of freesurfers spearheaded by Brazilian Gabriel Medina are launching outrageously high aerials, which threaten to upstage the main event.

Slater has just beaten Bede in a quarter-final. He is walking up the beach and I walk up to him obliquely, to cut-off his path. I could be an assassin. I reach him before his hat fluffer.

"Kelly, could I ask you a quick question?" I said, with camera rolling.

"You just did", he retorts. I've cut him off in the ring and he resents the intrusion. His entourage is moving in, ready to repel the invader. Belly is eyeballing me, summing up the potential threat to his man, every piece of psychological charge wasted on a journalist is charge lost to the match-up, to the final title race...

Jump straight to Part 2