Axeman Dave Grohl's near-surfing experience goes viral after naughty baby scandal

John's fascination with competition is greater than generally assumed. He still believes he can achieve more.

And so the season is over, John Florence is the men's champion, Caitlin Simmers the women's champion. Two ubiquitously popular surfers who even bitter Australians and angry Brazilians would find hard to disagree with.

Sorry for the delay in writing this. On Saturday I ran to the top of Ben Nevis and back again in temperatures of around 30 degrees Celsius. Even at the top of the highest mountain in the British Isles there was no breath of relief, the air was stuffy and deadly quiet. Several runners gave up, many collapsed, some were taken to hospital. One runner suffered a seizure shortly after crossing the finish line.

It was a real sense of achievement to make it to the end. Halfway through, my legs gave out. But I stumbled on, relying almost entirely on gravity and supported by strangers who gave me water and encouragement. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. And the obligatory night of drinking that followed kept every cell and molecule clinging to its basic function.

As I walked, I thought of Lower Trestles. The clean, well-groomed, shoulder-high perfection. Perfection, of course, in the eyes of the average customer.

It seemed ironic that I was working harder physically in an amateur mountain race than the best surfers in the world were doing in what was supposed to be the pinnacle of their sport, the crowning glory of the World Surf League and its season. What they were doing was child's play for men and women of their ability. A effeminate little water dance. Like watching Leo Messi hold up a beach ball.

But let's put the criticism of the venue aside, it's all said and done and we will move on to a more suitable (if not perfect) venue in Fiji next year.

Other than that, the format somehow works regardless of the venue. (Personally, I'd also tweak it with a best-of-three game for third against second.)

The day began with Ewing versus Ferreira, but the mark set by the judges for her opening punch would inexplicably shift over the course of the day.

Ethan's opening punch was smooth and powerful as always. Three turns were perfectly timed and the final punch had a oomph that would make middle-aged men go crazy.

Italo, on the other hand, hit his lip no less than eight times. He was metronomic, piston-like, his tendons so taut with caffeine that you could hear them pinging.

8.33 for Ewing versus 7.67 for Ferreira seemed to say it all.

But Italo was relentless. He brought the judges to their knees with a surfing pace that seemed exciting even if you didn't admire the style. He doubled Ewing's wave count, ten to five.

Yet it seemed as though Ewing's patience and sense of values ​​were paying off when he only needed an average score on his fifth wave. But Italo was on the wave behind him and his full backhand rotation was enough to snatch the win.

Next up was Robinson. He sprinted past Italo on the way to the waterline, trying to match his energy, but it was an impossible task.

In the water, Ferreira continued his attack, foaming at the mouth. Robinson was knocked down. It was no contest.

You may not like Italo's approach, but it was the best that could be done with the waves that were available.

Robinson was so confused that he even collided with Ferreira during a paddle match, then tried to imitate his opponent in the air. But this was like facing Mike Tyson at his best and trying to match him in terms of strength.

“He tried to play the game,” Italo said afterwards. “But I played the game a little better.”

Then came Griff.

Chris Cote announced it like the other games, still in the Bruce Buffer style of the previous finals. This year, however, the catwalk was replaced with simpler wooden steps.

Italo jumped off them like a squirrel, landed in a crouch, and then raced like a scalded man toward the waterline.

Griffin hopped down, gave Caroline Marks a congratulatory kiss on the cheek as she walked across the sand, then jogged to the waterline with a big smile on her lips and gave fans a high five.

This will be the end for Ferreira, I thought. There is no way to penetrate the immaculate mind.

Nothing had changed in Italo's surfing. Not today and not since his last win in 2019. He was nervous, chaotic, explosive. But something had changed in the scoring. Something had moved back towards Ferreira's approach, a kind of groupthink in the scoring, invisible like a kelp forest in the flood.

Colapinto was underlined on a key wave, everyone agreed on that. And then the sea remained calm for a long time.

“He has four options, but he can only make one decision,” said someone in the locker room.

It sounded nice, but I had no idea what it meant.

There was another exchange of blows and then it was over. Italo went on to face John Florence for the world title.

Back on land, he was jumping around the locker room, punching the plywood walls with joy, totally pumped up. All that fitness, all those reps, all those bulging veins and ripping muscles were leading up to this.

There was no style. There was no Zen. There was no flow.

There was just “get ready,” intense jaw clenching. A rat in a cage, with bloody eyes, sniffing the air. And it was hungry. And it wanted to drill holes through the soft membrane of your eyeballs.

But there was also John Florence.

On stage, there couldn't have been a greater contrast between the men. John looked like he was standing in line to post a letter. Italo was talking to himself and trying to bite his ear like he was standing in line for methadone.

Florence only needed two waves in the first game. Italo had not run out of power as everyone seemed to fear, but the edge of his blade was blunt.

The judges wanted suspense to raise the stakes of the day, and by taking Italo, the number five seed, to this stage they had achieved that. But he should never take the title away from the man everyone wanted to win it.

In the second game, Florence's first wave was a prophecy fulfilled. His final layback turn was creationism itself. Italo couldn't do it, never could do it.

Richie Lovett's analysis and the yellow circles he drew over slow motion footage were a futile attempt to explain art. There is no explanation. There are only witnesses.

And just as John Florence has received top marks so many times throughout his career because the judges know his potential, today the prophecy came true. 9.70.

There were more waves, but none of them really mattered. The right man won, but the situation was still beneath him. It was like watching an F1 driver do laps on a go-kart track.

Florence joins a list of other much-loved three-time champions including Tom Curren, Andy Irons, Mick Fanning and, most importantly, Gabriel Medina.

Is he satisfied with his performance in professional surfing? Are three titles enough for him?

Immediately after the competition, when Strider was in the water, John had tears in his eyes. It obviously meant a lot to him. He thanked his family and friends, most of whom had traveled to California to support him. Strider, to his credit, mentioned the finals next year in Fiji. What did John think of that prospect?

“Sounds epic,” John said noncommittally.

Later on stage, he said that a new approach to competition was the key to his success. “I'm just going to surf like I surf at home with my friends and brothers. That's my comfort zone.”

This raises the question: Why should you even bother taking part in competitions?

But then he mentioned Gabriel Medina and how good it felt to reach his title record.

And so John’s future has not become any clearer to us.

If he quits, no one would blame him or accuse him of underachievement. But I feel that John's fascination with competition is perhaps stronger than is generally assumed. I feel that he still believes that there is something more at stake, that he can achieve more.

Maybe we are preparing for the rivalry we have always wanted. Florence is the champion, healthy and feeling good to compete.

Medina has her back against the wall and has something to prove.

And that, friends and foes, will be worth watching.