Made the call to be the boss. Look at me You know what you see? See a bad mutha. Told you so! Ughhh!

James Brown. The Boss (for Bobby)

The day dawned with a tender gibbous moon shining it's benevolent light over a sky the colour of palest rose petal. I didn't think that at first, no. That brilliant observation came to me after I stopped at a cafe to purchase a cafe grande and saw a fridge full of Mexican beer. Necking an icy cold Pacifico at sunrise with Jimmy Brown having a full Chicago freak-out on the radio bought on the most wonderfully poetic feelings.

Please never drink and drive kiddies, but a Mexican beer buzz as a heart starter on a chilly Vicco morning sure works for The Outsider. Tomorrow I will bring an extra one for Bobby as a soother to start the day. Maybe a sixer.

I found my man Dick when I got to the event. Dick is an ex-cray fisherman from Apollo Bay who is in charge of cleaning the toilets. Dick wears well-worn overalls and carries a walking stick. His head looks older than the Bells cliffs and twice as weathered. In a different universe - the one where I was in charge of the webcast - Dick would be my first pick to do the beach interview. But we must accept this strange inversion of values; that a natural born gentlemen genius like Dick is cleaning the shitters with a smile on his dial while others are flying into murderous rages over the Divine Comedy that is Pro Surfing. We'll come back to the Martinez Paradox shortly sports fans.

Mike Ho was unveiling a quad in the carpark, overlooking a most delectably stacked Winkipop line-up. Mike Ho doesn't know me from Adam but such is the power of the quadrophenia buzz that within minutes me and Mike were frothing so hard that spittle was streaming down our reddened faces. We embraced, bonded for life over the love of quad fins. "See you out there, brah", he said to me. Hell yeah! I stole a set wave off Slater on dark at the Pop last night. How much easier having a wave magnet like Ho blocking for me.

But there was a small item of business to attend to. It's called women's surfing. Right now it's in a strange schizophrenic place. Halfway between groundbreaking female sport and fodder for fusty old mens' masturbation fanstasies. There's a handful of women surfers, including Tyler Wright, Steph Gilmore, Coco Ho, Carissa Moore and Sally Fitzgibbon, who would smash most men in a heat. But they aren't getting the coverage or respect they deserve because the male gaze is focussed on the musically allegro derriere of Alana Blanchard and others. Sex sells, sure, but in the end respect pays better, and for longer.

I asked Jodie Cooper and Pauline Menczer what they thought of this curious dichotomy in womens surfing. Both were openly supportive of the Blanchard approach, describing it as positive for womens surfing. But, I countered, surely it was limiting to the women as athletes and detrimental in the long run? Not so, both said, as long as women who didn't fit the sex bomb image still got sponsored then what was the problem? There was no threat to the integrity of the product in their view.

There ya go. Guess I can link Germaine Greer in now after all.

We move onto the highlights of the day, and a controversy that struck deep at the heart and soul of Victorian surfing. I speak, of course, about the Jordy Smith rock'n'roll swindle over Adam Robertson. Jordy just hasn't looked convincing this year, and against Robbo, the clear feeling was he was outsurfed, and that Robbo's last wave, a triple barrel, was under-scored.

"You was robbed mate," was how surfing fan after surfing fan put it. On the rocks I asked long-time shaper Gunter Rohn what he thought. He was emphatic, "Oh, Adam won it".

There was something more than disappointment in the Victorian mindset after the loss. Grown men were close to tears. That's how badly they pine for a champion to get behind. It's been a long time between drinks since Wayne Lynch.

Bobby and Taj faced off in perfect six foot Winki. The kind of surf that the Pro Tour should be chasing, not running from. The kind of surf where Bobby is the best backsider in the world. An improvement and evolution of the Occhilupo line, with Santa Barbaran flow and body english. After Bobby's first wave I was ready to go to war for him if he lost. He had it all over Taj in terms of power, line and turn leverage. It was visceral surfing and it should serve as template for both judges and the ASP as to where the sport should be heading.

Structurally, Bobby's win over Taj, handing him a last place will prove to be one of the decisive battles of 2011. Slater can already smell the fresh meat of easy victory now. We established yesterday that Kelly sees no clear and present challengers this year. That is not arrogance but merely a clear headed appraisal of reality. I applaud his lack of false humility. That would be an insult to the intelligence of sports fans everywhere.

Vonnegut described critics as being like a person in full armour attacking a hot fudge sundae. With his spiritual permission we reverse the metaphor to describe current dominance of the Slater epoch...his challengers are like hot fudge sundaes attacking a fully armoured opponent.

Now we know Kelly has been sitting back today, relaxing, and enjoying the second tier tearing at each other for survival. Like the king of the pride, the beast has been slaughtered and he can wander in and tear at the carcass until he eats his fill. But this is the season for miracles, according to those who know about these things, and it may have been Dick who told me that, on a ciggie break from cleaning a dunny bowl. He said watch for Parko on a day at the Bowl.

It might take a fire breathing Mexican miracle to take out the champ.

Speaking of Mexican miracles I could use a cold one right now.

PS: Running the womens in low tide bowl and the moving the mens to Winki was the best call in the history of modern competitive surfing. Dooma Hardman, take a bow.

(Photos by Steve Arklay) All Day 3 Photos here. The Outsider: Show Me Your War Face Soldier The Outsider: Remembrance of Things Past The Outsider: Prologue