Rip Curl Pro 2012 The Outsider: In Cold Blood

In: Rip Curl Pro 2012 by Steve Shearer 90 Comments Sat 7th Apr '12

Tags: kelly slater , rip curl pro bells , buddha , The Outsider , Mick Fanning

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"I said hello, Eugene.
Does any of this ring a bell, Eugene?"
- Hey Eugene, Pink Martini.

Sure it looks pretty shitehouse on the webcast, you Bells Beach naysayers. It seems burgery and high tide Rincon runs mostly aimlessly along the flat reef. The Bowl shifts contours unpredictably along a boil-riddled lineup into an uncompromising shorebreak that makes hyped aerial surfers look inept. Under an unfavourable pattern weak gurgle can set in for weeks. You wouldn't travel to surf it, not unless you call Kansas, Berlin or Stockholm your hometown.

Nonetheless - nonethe-friggin-less - there is no series of atmospheric and oceanic elements which reveal the full spectrum of a professional surfer's physical and mental skill set. Or hideously expose their inadequacies. It draws emotion out from seasoned competitors. And now the myth that Bells can't be surfed in a progressive manner has been consigned to the dustbin of archaic online discourse by a Final that exceeded all expectation. To those who say Bells should go I spit in your general direction, I would not deign to piss on you if you were on fire. If you were in front of me right now I'd crucify each and every last one of you miserable bastards and fart in your general direction. Salut.

They woke at first light to the sound of magpies chortling and carolling on the breath of a too-warm April morning, flushed with a soft pink sunrise. Parkinson checked on his sleeping family and breakfasted on boiled eggs and avocado on toast. For the briefest of moments the past 15 years of surfing the Easter surfing competition at Bells Beach rushed past his minds eye in a kaleidoscope of images and emotions. He felt a lump in his throat and for a second caught his breath in a sharp involuntary spasm which made his heart pound. "Whoa, calm down," he told himself, and in two long deep exhales he regathered himself.

He decided to skip the morning cup of coffee to settle the nerves. The two images that remained in his mind were Jordy Smith beating him on the Gold Coast and Kelly Slater defeating him in 8 foot surf at Bells in 2006. That defeat had rankled and grown hard and calloused somewhere deep within and left a bitter sediment. He had dismissed it easily enough then thinking he had plenty of time - he always had plenty of time hadn't he? But time had flown by, Christ, he shook his head at the goofy kid he always seemed to be characterised as back then. He had a wife and two kids now and time was accelerating away from him, floating back in the rearview mirror in a series of thirty minutes packages defined by success or failure.

His Semi-Final opponent and fellow childhood Coolangatta surf star, Michael Fanning, prepared a bowl of quinoa and fruit, before downing a cup of coffee. He felt as light as a feather, relaxed and buoyed by the comforting thought of two world titles. A calm sense of destiny flowed through him like a soft, white light. On the first sip of coffee a pleasant thought-picture came to him like a long lost friend. In the picture he was avenging the loss to Slater in 2010, when, in gloomy Johanna surf Slater had beaten him with a single Hail Mary alley-oop. He savoured the luxurious feeling of satisfaction of enjoying a victory over his rival. He surfed early at the Bowl then came in in time to see John John's searing first carve to open the day. It caused no consternation in him.

The surf was disappointing, the weight of failed expectation sagging on the undersized and gurgly morning lineup. Fanning then went through a complex workout to prepare for the day. There would be no stone unturned in the preparation. A vastly reduced media presence watched Florence fail to get the score despite looking marginally the better surfer against Jeremy Flores. Such is life.

I wanted to root for Brett Simpson against Kai Otton. I'd been so impressed by Simpo at Teahupoo last year that I wanted to get behind him, so to speak, here at Bells. But I just couldn't find any emotional reaction to Simpo's competent surfing in the Bowl. It could only elicit the vaguest of mildly pleasant sensations, like a two beer buzz on a summers afternoon. He was summarily dismissed by the last journeyman standing at Bells, Mr Kai Otton.

A cross-wind was placing mini-bowls against the grain on the Bells Bowl and Jordy made it clear he was going to employ the full blooded layback snap hard and high in the hook of these contrary bowls. CJ couldn't get close to the South African.

Owen Wright's tendency to over-rotate the first turn and get hung up was on display again against Flores. He made mistakes and didn't have the mental flexibility to re-adjust the game plan. A reccurring problem. His appraisal that he "wasn't good enough" to progress was brutally honest but fair enough. He must find a way to translate learning outside of a heat into action during it. Nevertheless the upcoming South Pacific leg still presents lined up ducks for a sharp shooting goofy-foot.

Josh Kerr presented double jeopardy for Kelly Slater in their Quarter Final match-up. Kerr had announced that an aerial approach was not only possible but probable with a couple of massive airs against De Souza that turned the heat. A loss to Kerr presented an inconceivable outcome now to a man who lives by an inversion of accepted values and truths. Namely, as the pressure increases towards the pointy end of a contest Slater becomes by degrees more relaxed, more cold blooded and calculating. He remains most vulnerable early, when the pain and ratings loss of early exit exerts the most pressure. Nothing makes him more relaxed and in the moment than early exits from rivals.

Slater took Kerr out with hard carving then disposed of Flores with a controversial interference move which he engineered as coolly as a suicide bomber. That's a metaphor by the way, Kelly camp. Later he rationalised the move by saying he gave Flores a wave under priority to win the Pipe Master two years ago. In a world of endless payback the motivation for revenge is never ending, even if it wears a friendly face.

Joel took out Jordy despite the pain of watching him take a wave under priority in the dying minute. A visibly emotional Joel was distressed by the conditions at Rincon and made his feelings clear - he wanted to wait for better surf. He couldn't regather composure against Fanning in the semi despite several chances and went down. I walked up the steps slowly with the Parkinson retinue. His wife, his father and children. They were downbeat but not defeated. In the grand scheme it places Joel in the front running peloton. It was disrespectful of Slater to cast aspersions on the scores handed out to Joel this event, as he did, and damn grade-A gamesmanship to call forth the spectre of 2006, when Kelly beat an exhausted Joel in perfect pumping Bells.

But our cold blooded killer had made an error of judgement, sportsfans. Because he was to face an impeccable Fanning, who had reached a peace beyond passion, as we determined in yesterday's dispatch, and would not under any circumstances have his pure mind besmirched by the psychological assault of Mr Slater esq. In the interim between Semi-Finals an Amazonian Gilmore had lain down a 10-point ride on account of a double-handed layback power gouge which restored her reputation as the finest female surfer on the planet. Hyperbole intended.

Now come with me to the beach at Bells as the Final begins...

The crowd is nervous, knowledgeable, inspired by the show of support for MP. Dewy-eyed girls wearing wistful smiles are hoping against hope for a Slater victory in the vain chance they might get close to him. Rugged gentlemen are now cheering and grunting and clapping to Fanning's superbly constructed opening ride. Then again, they are emotionally responding to his second, after which Slater is comboed. Kelly falls, and falls, then falls again. The crowd is gasping. Surely The Champ would not self destruct so visibly in front of them? The wistful girls are checking their phones and looking away.

Then Kelly takes a medium-sized wave from Rincon and pumps, glides through a chattering high line and launches. The crowd roars as he spins high up against a grey cloud filled sky and drops forever into the flats to land almost perfectly. He offers a small claim. Then within minutes he destroys another wave to take the lead.

Fanning answered back on a full set wave with a series of full body-torque carves which were both technically perfect and emotionally naked. The spray from his carving top turns hung in the Victorian sky like tear drops from heaven.

With the lead regained Fanning anchored himself in the Bells Bowl, as motionless as the Buddha himself, with supreme confidence in the stillness of his pure mind. Kelly tried and tried. Hell, I thought he had the score on more than one occasion. He carved and threw down and alley-ooped and still came up short. It was time for any rational sceptic to concede that a great moment in sport had transpired.

Kelly came up the stairs with a face as dark as thunder and smashed his board against the steps in a cold fury. Minutes later cold calculation concluded his number one ratings and he joined Fanning on stage for the victory celebrations smiling like a Cheshire cat.

The assembled hacks filed their stories and within the hour, as Fanning was standing on the cliff with the Bell the coast was smote by a tempest of Biblical proportions. Fanning was unnerved and walked calmly to shelter.

That's the way I saw it anyhow. Tell me if you saw it differently...

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