Steve Shearer February 27, 2009

In some circles in my home of Lennox Head, and I confess I move amongst them, the idea of Pro Surfing has about as much appeal as a dose of the clap.

In a breathtaking act of hypocrisy, as I write this report, an article goes to print where I detail a passionate rebuttal of Pro Surfing at my home Pointbreak. And now here I am standing in the media centre, drinking the beer and eating the vittles provided by the goodwill of the sponsor. A toady sucking on the corporate tit.

Deep divisions exist between the average recreational surfer and the Pro Scene and I cannot, in all honesty, reconcile them in my own heart. The Stubbies infected my unformed brain with a deep yearning and love of competitive surfing - a love I accept can have destructive consequences.

That kind of painful self doubt and examination does not belong here in Snapper Rocks, there is no-one thinking these thoughts, of that I am absolutely sure. Here the mood is overwhelmingly positive, the minions behind the machine go about their duty with an almost inexorable sense of glee.

It's Day One and the story is about the Girls. Surfing that is. But first there's an item of business to attend to. I've only just met Steve Robertson, the media manager for the ASP, but I sidle up to him and ask him about the sacking of Perry Hatchett just a month prior to the start of the tour. He explains to me that the job required generational change, that there was nothing sinister to it.

Well he would say that wouldn't he? That is obviously a well rehearsed party line. "But surely Steve.....the timing? A month away from the start of the event?" I shrug. "I mean, why sack the guy after he just updated the judging criteria?"

Steve is a large genial man but he fixed me with a strong blue-eyed stare, " I don't know if Perry neccessarily had that much to do with the new judging criteria....all things must come to an end"

"Ain't that the truth" I said and let the matter drop. I forgot to ask if Perry attended the ASP gala ball last night. My guess: Not.

The surf's a funky wobbly 3-4 feet, occassionally lining up and barrelling from behind the rock, but more often the best waves would double up closer in. A fact that seemed to elude most competitors.

Bruce Irons got shacked behind the rock in his Round 2 trials heat but couldn't seem to read the lineup in the semi and he took one step closer to sliding into obscurity. Pro surfing as a rule doesn't like yesterdays man - there ain't many comeback tales in this sport, at least none without major sponsors staying involved. The hunt for the next big thing is relentless, which makes Slater's longevity all the more astounding.

Surfing contests are sometimes lonely places. The fundamental connection between human beings seems subsumed by a level of consumerism bordering on the obscene. There are no ugly people here...so it was with real relief that I spied veteran surfing journalist Nick Carroll. Nick was striding shirtless around the hill behind the contest like some sawn-off Colonel Kilgore. There's been a lot of brave internet talk about the demise of the old guard of surf journalists, taken over by a brazen new bunch of Mongols on a mission to offend lead by Chaz Smith from Stab. After seeing Nick I am happy to report the news of his demise has been much exaggerated. He was looking dangerously fit and I'm sure he could punch portholes through these new breed of fashion conscious ponces.

There'll be more to report on this front, but for now just let it be known that while the old school Nick had a pen and paper in hand, I couldn't help noticing that my pen was thicker than Nick's pen.....yes, yes it's how you wield the thing. There has to be a small amount of malice in anyone who wields the pen. The trade demands it.

Tyler Wright is shining like a great big star. Today she is unstoppable and I confess to having an almost crushing admiration for her. Her turns are manly and technically perfect and her grace is feminine and delightful. In golden afternoon light she glides down sun-spangled peelers sending spray fountains festooned with rainbows up into the sky-scrapered background. And yet tomorrow when Reynolds and Parko and Fanning and the rest of the Male Gods perform this amazing athlete and her performance will be forgotten. That is a cruel reality. But for now she is queen. I wish my daughter were here to watch her.....this is a New Era.

I have to admit after watching Tyler the mens trials final was an anti-climax, despite local Blake Ainsworth claiming it in the dying seconds.

After the stifling positivism of the media room talking to Wayne Deane was like breathing fresh mountain air. "Fuck this" he announced with an air of finality. "I've had enough of these fucking contests......I've seen to many of the fucken things" His son Noa who had just competed in the King of the Groms was standing nearby with a camera crew.

"Come on Wayne", I countered, "you'll be back to watch Dane Reynolds woncha?" "No. I'm not standing on the beach and watching these c*nts surf unless they pay me."

God knows why but that seemed like wisdom of the ancients for these cynical ears. Still, I'll be first on the point to watch Dane tomorrow so what the hell do I know. It's easy to be hardboiled at the end of the day, when a cold beer or five seems required to sooth the tension of eight hours straight of mainstream music and loudspeakers. Surf contests are gruelling.

Punters, there is one more piece of news to report. It falls under the heading of signs, portents and prophetic visions. Firstly, I ran into Brian Parkinson the father of Joel and a sad-eyed man of great dignity. I've been the first to question the psychological strength of Joel under pressure and a doubter of Joel's ability to climb the mountain again after the hurt of last year. Somehow seeing Brian, I realised: Joel is gunna be alright.

I loaded the car up and before I hit the highway to Lennox I passed the new Kirra Surf shop. There was a large poster there of Joel. A squall had passed and an a iridescent rainbow illuminated the poster of Joel. The heavens smiling?

The drive back took an hour but I seemed to pass backwards in time. Tomorrow the big dogs come out to play.

Adam Weathered's photos from the Quiksilver Pro Trials.

Adam Weathered's photos from the Roxy Pro Trials.