The heat wave, which had been in all week, was in full effect. Like a swell, it seemed the crowd and the conditions climaxed at precisely the same moment. E-bikes lined the road parallel to the train tracks. Hordes of school-skipping, sunburnt groms ran down the beach with red, “Griff for Champ” signs and yellow Florence hats. But when would the WSL Finals run? And would the typically panned event satisfy the surf-educated masses? Meaning would heavy hitters that could handle big, heavy waves, like John John Florence, be screwed out of a title because of….yeah…Lower Trestles.
There had been doubt about when the finals would run, with some wondering if it could run at all. The holding period saw a dismal forecast. Local surfers had been out of the water for what felt like weeks, with small, blown-out waves on offer daily. So, when Surfline forecast Friday for 2.5 feet at 15 seconds, in the midst of a wave drought, the call was on.
This year’s finals saw a unique lineup in the way of varied surf experience for the Men’s and Women’s Final Five. There were competitors like JJF, with two titles to his name from almost a decade ago (and a lifetime as far as the format went with the changing of leadership at the League), to competitors like 18-year-old Caity Simmers, an absolute phenom who’s style really most resembles surfers like Florence and Dane Reynolds.
Simmers was already scheduled for the final, best-of-three in a shot for the title. Now, it was up to the women to see who would be paddling out against her. Molly Picklum and Tatiana Weston-Webb started things off bright and early. The wind was still. The heat was not yet blazing. Weston-Webb advanced up against Molly Picklum, then again against Brissa Hennessy, but her third match of the day, against Florida-transplant Caroline Marks, was her demise.
The defending champ Marks beat her out with a heat total of 14.20. While this was not the fantastic score Marks was capable of, it was only a taste of what we would see from the 2023 world champ on this scorching hot day.
For the men, John John Florence was scheduled to compete against whoever scratched their way to the top. Ewing and Italo Ferreira (who was on an absolute heater all day) battled it out. Ferreira threw his signature airs as the tide rose against the cobblestones, and continued on to beat Jack Robinson (with an awkward paddle battle), and finally, in the third match, scratched out against hometown hero Griffin Colapinto.
This was, perhaps, the most intense round of the day, despite it not being the final best-of-three showdown. Half the crowd was decked out in red memorabilia: Griff for Champ posters, shirts, and signs flooded the beach. The announcers joked that their own kids were probably playing hooky. “I’ll get the attendance email soon, if I haven’t already,” one mom said, off-handedly. As if reading the minds of all parents in attendance, the announcers joked, “My grom would figure out a way to prevent that email from going out!”
Could you really blame the kids? Griffin Colapinto is San Clemente’s golden boy. He appeared calm and collected in the athlete area: headphones on, breathing slowly, grounding himself. Italo Ferreira, on the other hand, was moving frantically. The announcers joked that he could never sit still.
As the tide was nearing its peak, the waves began slowing down. But Lowers is Colapinto’s backyard. The exchanges between the two surfers were intense. On their last exchange, Ferreira pulled a giant floater and surfed the wave almost to the beach. Griffin followed on the second wave of the set. He chucked buckets of spray. The crowd went wild. Women went hoarse from screaming, “Go Griff!”
The buzzer sounded. The crowd huddled on the beach, waving flags and recording the moment through a sea of cell phones. The moment was thick with anticipation. Finally, the scores came in. Ferreira won.
The Brazilian crowd, to the left of the cobblestone point, erupted in cheers. “Italo, Italo!” The groms began booing them. Parents chided children. It didn’t matter. It was now Italo versus John.
The waves, by the men’s final best-of-three, were firing. John (as you’ve probably seen on Instagram by now) emerged victorious: only two rounds were needed. It was not a sure thing at first, but by the second round, a man in the crowd remarked, “It seems like he’s been gearing up for this all year,” referring to Florence’s control in the waves.
As it turned out, he was right. Ferreira kept failing on airs. His strategy all day of taking more waves than any other surfer began to fail him. Falling on waves. Florence, on the other hand, appeared calm: powering through turns and making the most of each wave until they petered out close to shore.
There was a bias on the beach, without question. When John John Florence won (an American, without a doubt), the beach erupted. Dreams of San Clemente local Colapinto taking the title were dashed (he just isn’t as refined as JJF, let’s be real). And for the local surfers, Florence might as well have been local. The man could have grown up in San Clemente. A new father, and a performer on and off the tour, Florence rightfully took the title for the third time in a decade. With a 3,000-point lead entering the Finals, the surfing gods spoke loud and clear.
On the women’s side, the first of three potential heats between Caroline Marks and Caity Simmers began. Marks won the first heat, catching a banger of a wave in the last 10 seconds. Simmers the next heat, firing on all cylinders.
But the tiebreaker. The crowd murmured about Simmers’ style, about how the title could go to a Californian for the first time in over three decades (Tom Curren in 1990 was the last). When she emerged victorious, the entire beach went wild. She was the young, soft-spoken inspiration the crowd deserved. She’s well on her way to building a legacy. This, surely, will be the first of many titles to come (fingers crossed).
The crowd carried her up the beach, she fell onto the beach at the end, off her supporter’s shoulders. Without missing a beat, she began interviews. Smiles. Laughs. Caity Simmers didn’t seem phased by what just happened: the fall or the world title.
Joe Turpel interviewed her on stage. She never raised her voice. She is an excellent sport: Caity says she didn’t know how Caroline never falls off waves. “She does the sickest turns ever,” Simmers said in appreciation.
“I’m just excited to hang out with my friends and do the stuff I want to do,” Simmers told me after. “This has been great, the most amazing day ever.” It is somewhat dead-pan compared to the response of Gilmore or other champions before her. The crowd laughed with her, she’s not just the youngest, but the calmest winner of all time.
The Florence family mingled in front of the stage. Simmers, laughed, struggled to lift the trophy. John John and his wife put their baby in the large, silver bowl of the trophy. What a freakin moment for them!
“Is Trestles for the fucking girls?” I asked Caity. She laughs. “Yeah, Trestles is for the girls.” Then, she takes a breath, becomes serious. “It’s also for everyone. I don’t get to surf here that much. I mostly surf my home break, in Oceanside. It’s pretty crowded here. But I got to surf it for an hour and a half with no one out. That was pretty great.”
I asked her how it felt to be the first Californian in 34 years to earn the undisputed world surfing championship. Simmers smiles. “It makes me feel really good. It’s where I grew up. It’s good to hold it down for the Californians.”
