Jeffreys Bay had its moments on day one. Jeremy Flores, ever the entertainer. Photo: ASP/Kirstin
On the way down to the beach I’m awash with negatives. Maybe it’s the early morning funk, maybe it’s the fact that every surf forecast has been predicting gloom and doom. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not actually that busy at the event, and if the waves are going to be lame I’m setting myself up to be as bored as all fuck. Maybe it’s because J-Bay around contest time gives me the shits. It’s busy and there are so many people around putting adverts under my windscreen wipers and throwing rubbish around it makes me queasy. Broken glass and a pile of car guards all give me the thunbs up.
The contest is on. I slip up to the VIP area, despite the fact that I abhor such places, preferring to work quietly in a corner, and am confronted by the usual wannabees, groupies, ex-world champs, hangers on and professional surfers with silly hats on their heads. The event is sponsored by coffee legends VidaeCaffe, and I go up and order my usual double espresso – breakfast of champions. It goes down like pudding, and I set up my iPad office in a quiet corner with a few mates.
Finally I get a good look at the waves. Small and smooth and fast and tricky and rocky and shitty, as Supers gets when it’s small. The guys in the water are trying their hardest to link turns, and most of them are managing one or two turns before the wave outruns them or runs dry on the shelf. It’s grim stuff, but the vibe in and around the contest area is fairly buoyant, with big smiles and high fives from old friends who haven’t seen each other for 11 months. Mick Fanning takes to the water.
He’s up against Heitor Alves. Bobby Martinez is a no-show, and the talk in the VIP area eventually turns around to Slater and the fact that he’s not going to pitch. While Fanning shows good form, the boys in the VIP, including industry people, media and surfers, have a good old bitch about Slater. It seems that most are disappointed at the fact that he’s not going to make it, while others are convinced he’s on a plane heading for Port Elizabeth. Kelly is Kelly. The myth. The legend. The eternal cat-and-mouse spin doctor and bullshitter.
Jordy, Sean Holmes and Melling take to the water, and the whole thing switches. The waves start pumping, and all three are on fire. Jordy pulls off a ridiculous air that has the crowd cheering, and smashes the wave so many times we lose count. Holmes finds a rare barrel and the wave visibly morphes around him to give him more space and allow him a clear exit. As someone mentions, “He’s got Supers in his DNA.” More sets come through, and more people are moving around in the VIP area, up in the sky.
Melling is killing it, but Jordy and Holmes are surfing better than him. It’s a full on exchange of blistering turns, big airs, massive gouges, huge directional turns and the biggest section floaters known to man. The espresso has now kicked in and I am convinced I am witnessing something momentous, something a lot bigger than a first round heat at J-Bay in three foot waves. This needs to be documented. I need to tell the world how the sport of surfing has evolved and made massive leaps, how Fanning’s surfing at its best will never beat Jordy’s, how Sean Holmes could have been a world champion, and most importantly, who cares about Slater if Jordy and Holmes give us this sort of entertainment? It’s all about entertainment. Professional surfers are all entertainers. Some of them wear funny hats as part of their entertainment package. Some idiots love this funny hat shit. Not I.
I head on down to the JBU. They have set up a tent on the beach. They refuse me access. It takes a full ten minutes of cajoling and a hundred buck note passes hands before they drop the barrier leg-rope and let me in. I rush in and grab a beer. Black Label. It tastes like like a mixture of gold and silver. Jordy walks past after his heat, and the boys give him a good and hearty cheer. I’m the only one who raises a beer to him. It’s not 11 o’clock yet, but I feel strangely calm. Sean Holmes walks past us, going the other way. “Well surfed bru,” was the chorus from the tent.
“Have to up my game,” says Holmes. “What am I supposed to do against that sort of surfing? Air three-sixties? Maybe a couple of air three-sixties?”
We laugh along with him. It’s only round one, the waves are lame, but there is a good vibe going down.
Seriously, who needs Slater? We’ve got Jordy. We’ve got Holmes. We’ve got beer. There’s no place for negatives. Even in my bitter mind. I erase them. They go to that same place where bad thoughts and the memory of porn goes. Well hidden.
I grab another Black Label beer. The sun beats down. The earth gets hot. The wind forgets to blow.
