And what of Ian Gouveia? He was simply rolling. He’d been rolling since yesterday, notching perfect rides in front of partisan crowds. And today, he just kept on going. And in choosing between two Brazilians, an Italian and a Hawaiian, there was no real choice. Mamiya was here, and this is where he was always […]
And what of Ian Gouveia?
He was simply rolling. He’d been rolling since yesterday,
notching perfect rides in front of partisan crowds. And today, he
just kept on going.
And in choosing between two Brazilians, an Italian and a
Hawaiian, there was no real choice.
Mamiya was here, and this is where he was always meant to be.
Everyone knew it.
The fan’s perspective of the WSL can be druggy.
First comes the promise. The simmering elation of what might be.
Then comes the reality. Brief euphorias you can’t quite sustain,
questioning of choice and purpose. And then the inevitable
comedown.
“The beach is packed,” said Strider pre-final. “Everyone is
surrounding him, but giving him enough space to let him feel the
moment. He’s just like a little kid out here, but now he’s grown
into this beautiful man. And he’s going out there, to take it
down.”
What Shark Coated rough beast, its hour come round at last,
slouches back on Tour and makes the semi final at Pipe?
Gouveia’s second coming is an unlikely story, and may well be as
fleeting as the shadows of indignant desert birds, but he deserved
his place here.
Admittedly, this moment was somewhat soured by the unpleasant
interlude of a Tyler Wright victory, but nothing’s perfect.
When the final came around, he was still up there.
Luckily, lest we all got carried away in the grandeur of
Mamiya’s elevated state of consciousness, Joe Turpel swooped
in.
Although he never used the term, he was describing a moment in
flow, when everything slows. When you might see your past, present
and future with a sudden ecstasy of clarity and connection.
Strider was his flamboyant, poetic best. He felt it. We all
did.
A dual screen then showed us a pre-recorded interview with
Mamiya. He was telling a story he hadn’t shared publicly before,
about a freesurf at Pipe, just before he won there. It was his last
wave of the session, and he was deep in a perfect barrel.
Of the others, Italo was bridesmaid once more. He did little
wrong, and has few flaws. His time will come again, always.
Momentum was built and carried on the shoulders of Barron
Mamiya, right next to the flag of Hawaii. Euphoria came and
lingered awhile.
The WSL is nothing if not dystopian paradox.
Mamiya’s victory was written in the salty stars of Hawaiian
skies.
And if not convinced by his words alone, note the way he stroked
his arm as he began the story. The electricity of memory bringing
goosebumps from past to present.
But when the score came in at 9.10, Fioravanti’s vicious water
slaps were justified.
“He loves being a showman,” said Turpel like a vibe-robbing
gull. “Wears a couple of chains. Listens to hip-hop a lot.”
Call it a flow state, call in being in the zone, call it
cocaine. Call it whatever you like. Mamiya was never going to
lose.
“That’s the advantage Barron has,” sparkled Ross Williams. “He
doesn’t care if he’s a little too late or a little too deep.”
At 17.97 apiece, it was only the second final in WSL history
with a tied score (according to Joe).
“Friendly North Shore,” Kaipo added.
In his semi-final against Ferreira, he instantly found a deep
Backdoor right, then threaded a left in quick succession. According
to his patently cool post-heat analysis, the left surprised even
him.
“It’s laughable,” said Jesse Mendes, without laughter. “What can
you do about it? How can you stop him?”
All is the same, just a little greyer and more hollow than
before.
He had been robbed by forces beyond our ken, but conveyed
through the fingers of unseen judges.
It was the kind of performance in sport that’s simply
undeniable. Lebron in Game 7. Woods at the Masters. Maradona,
Mexico ‘86.
A 9.33 followed by a 9.57 left Ferreira gasping for more
caffeine.
Bring me the smoke and I’ll build you a fire.
See you in Abu Dhabi.
Barron was the deity of the moment. Sand and air and water were
one. The weight of past and future converged. As happens sometimes,
a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a
moment.
That’s how it felt at the start. It just wasn’t quite yesterday.
The waves were considerably smaller and less threatening. It was
“the kind of size that anyone at home could picture themselves in,”
said Ross Williams.
Fioravanti, to his eternal credit, put his laces through two
Backdoor waves in quick succession. The first, an 8.87, was superb.
The second was much better. Those in the booth were quick to deem
it the best wave of the heat. With Barron’s 9.8 on the board, there
was no-where to go but ten.
This was Mamiya in peak flow. He’d slept on a cloud and awoken
to crystal skies.
Fioravanti was to strike next. A long Backdoor barrel was a ten
if he’d made it. And for a moment it looked like he would.
And so we move. From leis and aching green palm fronds to
sapless sandy heat and guttural desert smoke.
That’s how the day began, but certainly not how it ended.
For Leo Fioravanti, Pipeline always presents an opportunity.
Twice runner-up here, this wave seems to elicit his best.
He paddled furiously past Fioravanti for the first Pipe wave,
dropping an 8.17 for the first of his keepers, then finding a
Backdoor barrel for a low five, almost without drawing breath.
Of further deities: Kelly, post heat, was topless, trim,
gracious, gorgeous.
But Mamiya’s next Backdoor wave was the mind killer. He weaved
from deep, bending the cogs of time and exiting cleanly with a
watchmaker’s precision.
What vast image troubles my sight? What shape with lion body and
head of a man, gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun?
Replays of both waves showed Fioravanti covered for seconds
longer. An eternity in barrel time.
From surfing’s Mecca the tour moves to surfing’s
apocalyptic nightmare. Slave pools and oily obscenity. The WSL is
nothing if not dystopian paradox.
In a subjectively judged sport, seeing an athlete in this state
can induce vicarious pleasure. There is a group flow that exists.
We root for the man on form. Fans and judges alike.
For once, Mendes’ tone had appropriately turned rhetorical
questions into statements.
Undeterred by the vibe killer on the sand, Barron torched the
line-up as soon as he hit the water.
From surfing’s Mecca, the seven-mile-miracle to surfing’s
apocalyptic nightmare. Slave pools and oily obscenity.
9.80.
“I remember looking out. Then this feeling came on me in the
barrel…this is going to sound really weird,” he interjects
self-consciously. “And I was just standing there, looking at the
view. And I remember it spit. And right when it spit, I remember
this feeling of wow, I’m going to win this year. It was the
craziest feeling. It was so defined. It almost felt like someone
was there, or there was something going on. And I just felt it,
like, instantly.”
Notably, the Brazilian judge who awarded a 10.00 for Barron’s
9.80, gave Fioravanti a mere 8.80 for his wave. I’d love to hear
that side-by-side justification. But of course we never will.
“I like getting barrelled,” he stated when pressed by Strider
about his future. “You can offer me a barrel anytime.”
(And you, Kelly.)
As per the rules, Mamiya’s highest single score was definitive.
The universe bent to his will once again.
