Billabong Pro Teahupoo The Outsider: Epilogue

In: Billabong Pro Teahupoo by Steve Shearer 47 Comments Thu 28th Jul '11

Tags: billabong pro jeffreys bay , kelly slater , julian wilson , jordy smith

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This post was written as The Outsider's last entry from Jeffrey's Bay, yet it also makes an excellent introduction to Teahupoo. Read on...

Feel that, sports fans?

The ground shifted very perceptibly under our feet following Jordy's back to back win in J-Bay. They say a week is a long time in politics and with the mighty USA teetering on the abyss of default that is true enough, but what of Pro Surfing? Is there another sport undergoing so much radical upheaval and transformation as our own beloved enterprise?

Amidst the weirdness and discontent of this year, have we seen the first stirrings of the rebirth of the Dream Tour? We've all heard it by now, Fiji is back on. Three and half months ago Brodie couldn't find a sponsor now Volcom has stepped up. Was their hand forced somewhat by the recent Cloudbreak swell and the publicity it generated? Perhaps by the volume of the fan backlash against the continuing announcements of more 'festivals' at city beachbreaks away from prime seasons?

Maybe one day we will find out but for now we note the game has shifted once again.

Meanwhile...as South Africa was reaching its anti-climactic climax, somewhere in California it was 2.30am Pacific Standard Time. A tanned bald man, gazed out a large window at the blinking lights of fishing boats and oil rigs. The lights are blurred by a soft blanket of sea fog and the night air is fragrant with eucalyptus and orange blossom. He was pacing back and forth, like a panther in a cage when a slight ripple of envy and aggravation ran through him causing him to sit down and rap his fingers on the desk in impotent annoyance.

They had called him disrespectful and thrown sharp little nameless barbs in his direction from the webcast. He hadn't bothered to show up.

Well, what of it? Hadn't he, the greatest Professional Surfer to have ever walked the Earth, been directly responsible for their pay increases? Where would the Sport be right now without him? Sandwiched somewhere between hog calling and monster truck re-runs on late night cable. He tried to breathe the aggravating thoughts away, rolling his shoulders around and throwing his head and neck from side to side like a boxer but the force of his wounded pride was strong in this bewitching hour.

And it was Wilson who called him disrespectful? The traitor. Hadn't he mentored him through the young years with Quik? Flown his flag when it mattered? And now he had to endure this cheap shot from the young punk?

A burning sensation moved from the back of his neck to his scalp. He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed it vigorously. Well, he'd see how Wilson fared at Teahupoo when the axe was coming down. There would be no mercy shown now. Absolutely none.

He started to pace again, as the final siren sounded on his computer and Jordy was chaired up the beach.

"Shit" he muttered softly to himself.

Time itself seemed to be rising up from the foggy depths of the nonchalant night; encircling him with it's tentacles, suffocating him, dragging he, the perennial Peter Pan of surfing, the one who danced and bent the ocean to his will, back to the leaden earth. His mind became inflamed with visions of victory, with glorious moments of joy and power and triumph, with his father and mother and brothers scrabbling around for daily bread. He had risen. Hadn't he risen so far? And now he felt the sensation of falling, of being dragged downwards.

He groaned with the pain and the indignity of it all.

A thin female voice called out from the bedroom, "Hey Babe, you OK?"

He mustered his composure, "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine."

He needed time to allow these thoughts and feelings to germinate within him so he could understand what malign forces were gripping him on this soft Californian night.

OK, he'd kinda blown the Fijian mission. He had to accept that now. Healey and Christenson had taken the glory...he just wasn't quite in tune with it on the big days. He'd lollygagged around on the biggest day and didn't get out there until it was too late. Bad miss. Bad, bad miss.

Was he losing touch with the finely honed instinct which had carried him so far? The thought seemed unthinkable. His throat was dry and he went and got a glass of purified water. On the way back he paused in front of a mirror and looked at the image. The dim glow of the computer screen with images of Jordy bathed in glory lit up half his face, the other half was deeply in shadow. He took a deep breath.

Questions seemed to rise out of the depth of his soul and he was powerless to suppress them: Are you still up for this? Have you got this in you? Will this endless scrabbling after points and glory constitute the sum total of your life?

He gazed deeply at the reflection staring back at him in the dim light and shuddered.

Then, without warning his eyes smiled and he caught himself winking. A smile spread across his face.

I'm not going out like this, he thought. I've got these clowns right where I want them, basting in the juices of their own false confidence. This means nothing to me. It's a game. Just a game. Fer chrissakes don't take it too seriously. Let's go to Tahiti. Let's see what they got.

He let out a little chuckle both in relief and in self-mockery at how vulnerable his ego still was to attack.

The burning was gone and his body felt supple, he could see a campaign in front of him and that made his nerves tingle in anticipation. His heart was full of love and his soul full of mana.

The phone was beeping. He picked it up. An email message from Australia. Some fricking journalist.

He opened the message. "Kelly, can we talk?"

He trashed the message and walked over to the window, throwing it open in anticipation of the coming dawn.

Postscript: See you in Tahiti, sportsfans. Thanks again for reading and leaving comments.

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