"It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or demons, heaven or hell." - Gautama Buddha.

Failure is a constant existential threat for Pro Surfers. Confidence is a delicate, multi-coloured bird that can desert for sweeter flowers or be crushed by the dull grasp of clumsy hands. Once lost the suitor can wander in a dim wilderness desperately seeking the favours of this delicate beast.

Winkipop was a temptation I couldn't resist this morning, with swing-wide sets that offered sparkling speedway sections with banked corners down into the valley. Without the impediment of mandatory high performance surfing the wave offers a luge-like line riding the top third for maximum speed on a butter-textured offshore.

I bolted up the Winki steps as the five minute siren sounded for the start of the Slater vs. Muscroft match-up. Sports fans noted the double whammy of high tide Bells Bowl and a local wildcard with everything to play for in front of gushing local support as a voodoo mix for the Great Bald One. In other words, Mushy had more than a punchers chance of taking down The Champ.

We all saw the drama dial cranked to 11 as Mushy snapped his board first wave then carved hard angled turns to answer back to the champs sometimes awkward looking recoveries from bizarre aerial, tail-slide manoeuvres. Then the champ snapped his board in a suddenly surging ocean with sets stacked to the horizon.

Mushy put the champ on the ropes and with Slater falling on a crucial last-minute ride it seemed the voodoo script was the one being read. Mushy had beached his last ride and with twenty seconds Slater was sprinting back out to the line-up, with stacked sets moving in slow motion against a clock ticking down too fast. 8...7...6, the bald 40-year old man is scratching into the first wave of the set...5...4, he's on his feet and laying on the inside rail, putting the board straight up into a critical snap/carve that made the old lady beside me gasp. She was one of the many Muscroft supporters present.

"No," she squeaked in a plaintive cry. "No, please no," in a hoarse whisper, as Slater streaked towards the shorey with the score not yet reached.

She visibly slumped as The King launched a full rote air in the shorey and landed in what he described as a "jambalaya mess". He landed soft and smooth, like a loving mother placing her first-born baby in a downy bed and stepped off on the sand with the suave coolness of a bow-tied waiter delivering a poolside pina colada.

I bolted for the bottom of the steps as Slater came huffing and puffing, flushed with exertion and drama, to his mentor Steven Bell standing sentinel-like on the sand. An immense crowd gathered and for what seemed like an age all were gathered together into an intensely personal bubble, cradled by the drama of the moment.

"Whaddya reckon Belly?" Slater looked concerned.

Belly shrugged.

For what seemed like the briefest of moments there appeared a chink in Slater's emotional armoury. For an instant I thought he might hug Belly, but he regathered his psychic forces and said with over-exaggerated confidence, "I don't care either way. Whatever."

As if buoyed by his own display of machismo, he became more certain. "I think I'll get it. I need an 8.5. Should get that. It was a hail Mary but I landed clean."

And Belly, like a good corner man was nodding and saying, "Yup, yup, I reckon you got it."

For one long shimmering moment it seemed Kelly's naked, quivering soul hovered above the crowd in the warm April sunshine, awaiting validation and judgement from above. Can he survive without this validation? Despite the almost too cocky public nonchalance?

Then the score was announced, the crowd went wild and the long surreal moment snapped back to normal reality as Slater claimed victory and quickly composed himself.

He said he didn't care. He's sandbagging, sportsfans. In a quieter moment later he revealed to me that losing that heat could've meant retirement. But not now. Even if he shines Rio there's no way he'll miss Fiji and that's half the freaken year. He's amongst the front-runners and moving beautifully. Almost perfectly placed. No sane person would quit from that position.

Nothing is more certain in life than Taj Burrow coming out of the gates on the Gold Coast like a greyhound hit with a cattle-prod, and nothing is more certain than media hacks breathlessly calling it Taj's year. Does he read his own press?

Don't do it Taj, the critics will tear you to pieces and the sycophants won't be there when the chips are down and you need to dig deep and pull something out of the fire. Taj pulled a bog rail out of the fire and punched his board with a fists of fury not once, not twice but three full times. Mid-wave claims and dummy spits are the new black down here in sunny Victoria, sports fans. We should all be grateful.

One person who has found himself in search of the confidence bird is Michael Fanning. Last year he looked weary and distressed at times. In his public utterances he utilises an almost Buddhist acceptance of the fickle dictates of reality. In this sense there is no success or failure, there is only learning; only information being offered by the phenomenal world. He took the tricky, bulbous Bells Beach Bowl phenomenon and ruthlessly, artfully, dissected it.

I asked him after his strong win against Raoni Monteiro how hard it was to stay confident and in the moment when your surfing didn't seem to be getting the results anymore, "Yeah, it does get difficult to stay 'up' you know, especially when you go to places where the waves aren't amazing. But that's the whole psyche of it. You can be the greatest athlete of all time but if your head's not in the right place then your not gunna do well. That's sorta where I was last year. I just got frustrated by a few things, injuries, a few little things that didn't go my way. But that's just the way life is."

"What bought about this new philosophical Mick Fanning?"

"I'm gettin' old brother [laughs]"

"So you're just learning. Is anyone pulling you aside and telling you how it is?"

"Nah, nah. You just see different things as you go through life. When I first got on tour at the same age as Kolohe or John John or Gabe, I didn't give a shit. I just wanted to go out and rip people's lungs out. Now, I just wanna go out and do it for me and have a great time doing it. I've got the best job in the world and you just don't wanna go around with a sour face."

"Can you still achieve victory with that more relaxed mindset?"

"Definitely. I think so. The biggest trick is just turning it on and off. Everyone surfs better when they're having fun. Well, not everyone I spose."

Parko had fun. I bet he had a ton of fun beating his modern nemesis and style-clone Jordy Smith. I watched Joel's last wave next to his Dad Brian on the famous steps. Brian just nodded with a very satisfied look on his face. Joel could've been a bricklayer like him, instead of an artist in overhead surf. That must mean something to him on a deep level.

The sun is getting low here and the swell is pulsing while the women paddle out. Malia Manuel and Carissa Moore just tagged the Bowl with Hawaiian style.

I'm off to bag a double at the Pop, it looks freaking incredible with a late arvo glass-off on it. It sounds like fun because it is fun.

They could finish this thing tomorrow - Good Friday. A rosy crucifixion at pumping Bells Bowl. A day for the ages.

PS: I probably didn't give Nic Muscroft enough props for his heat against The Bald One. Mushy took aim at the swinging nutsack of Bells Bowls and smashed it repeatedly with some of the most brutally committed railwork of the conny. He came within a bees dick of taking out The Champ and possibly forcing him into retirement. Well in Mushy, you did your state proud.

PPS: Many thanks to the Victorian surfer who kindly offered to pick me up, loan me an 8 foot gun and take me down south to surf some real waves. You're a gentleman and a scholar Sir, and I'd love to take you up on the offer one day. Hope you jagged a few bombs. Long may you run.