Crazy wind blew across the North Shore last night. Madness. It was dramatic like the passage of a mid-latitude depression, even reminiscent of 91’s hurricane Iniki, but not really. I woke up a few times and listened to the insect screen rattling and the crazy wild cacophany of the mad angry insane tempestuous Pacific O.

Sometime before dawn I awakened, made coffee and walked the 200m east up the beach to Sunset. Shortly after, the contest got underway. Waves were good when they came but just a little too little to really turn you on. It was Sunset but American filter coffee Sunset rather than doppio expresso Sunset on a dirty side street in Bari except without David Platt. ‘David Platt? You didn’t get Platty for a Big Mac and a Filet O Fish…’

The thing that shocks a seasoned conny go-er about the Triple Crown is how low key it is. I mean, there is a polite scattering of spectators, but only marginally more than if it weren’t on. There’s like one tent for competitors, and a bar-b-q. Compare that with the Quik Pro France where there are 17 different types of wristband and different pasta shapes for lunch depending on whether you’re a VIP or a VVIP, and an army of I-was-born-for-this-shit 15 year old poo faced big nosed wrist band police Hossegor surf club legends in the making patrolling the perimeter with unbending resolve. Your name n’est pas down.

Today I met James, who is cool as. He does security here and has a very firm grip.  

This is da beach scene. In case you are unfamiliar there’s a bike path/pavement and then about 10m of sand and then the drink. That’s it. Considering it’s one of the most prestigious surfing events in the universe, and considering that today is still school holidays from Thanksgiving, it’s still a little surprising that the gathered crowd is more modest than that at your average Sunday league pub football match in the pouring rain. I guess the expectant hordes must all be watching the webcast/waiting by their computer for this post.


Without meaning to bang on about it too much, my moustache is opening all kinds of doors in Polynesia. People keep thinking I am somebody else. I strolled into the gas station at Kammies to get a Babe Ruth (it’s a chocolate bar named after an overweight American rounders player from the 1950’s or something…) and Kai Barger, World Pro Junior champ saw me and went, “Hey brah! Wassup cuz?” We did a huge, resonant clasp and I went “Alright?” and he looked more than a little bit baffled. When I am riding the bike about other people think they recognize me and say Hi and do all kinds of head nods and stuff. I hope the guy who I look like doesn’t find out and come and kick my head in for being a fugazi. 

The other angle. If you took out friends/family and hangers-on it would basically be me, James and the judges.

Here are da video highlights.


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