This place is special. But a great place for the Final 5? We’ll see. Photo: WSL
All hail Caity Simmers. Not only for her era-defining surfing skills, but for her refreshing habit of bluntly speaking her mind on a broad variety of surf world-related topics. In this particular instance, during a recent interview having the temerity to offer an alternative perspective on the World Surf League’s decision to hold its controversial “Final 5” one-day world title showdown on Fiji’s fabulously plush Tavarua Island, in the (hopefully) awesome left barrels of Cloudbreak. A decision much celebrated by both most men and women WCT competitors, as well as the vast majority of the WSL’s online fans, most of whom, judging by the vitriolic tang of the comment section, have peevishly derided the organization’s previous choice of sites: Lower Trestles, in San Clemente, California.
Simmers, the 2024 world champ and currently ranked number three in the WCT women’s division, but alone among her contemporaries on this issue, suggested that despite the opportunity to hold a barrel-riding event at Cloudbreak, the monochromatic nature [my interpretation of her description] of the waves on Tavarua hardly offer the same all-around competitive opportunities as does Lowers, which, aside from being one of the world’s best high-performance venues, provides surfers the option of going either right or left.
Bold call, Caity, but one which I happen to agree with. Unlike Caity, however, who focuses her critique on the surf, my assertion that on surfing’s Paradise Island the oft-beleaguered WSL might not achieve the epic, final Final 5 showdown it’s hoping for has nothing to do with the waves. It’s all about the vibes.
And trust me, I know what I’m talking about.
In the spring of 2000, while as editor-in-chief at SURFER magazine, I was tasked with conceiving a ‘specialty’ competitive surfing event for the Ocean Pacific company, the surfwear giant previously famous for its Op Pro world tour juggernauts held in Huntington Beach. Working with pioneering action-sports event producer, filmmaker (and lifelong surfer) Paul Taublieb, we came up with what we believed would be an entirely unprecedented, and altogether exciting idea: holding a professional surf contest in the fabulous waves of Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands. And not just any surf contest, but an exclusive, invitation-only specialty event featuring only 10 of the world’s best surfers — six men, and four women, with a total prize purse of over $100,000. (What, you thought that “Natural Selection” thing in the Marshall Islands was something new?)
Being a non-rated event meant we could give our imaginations free rein. Enlist a handful of the most experienced international judges, including one former world champion (actually, a two-time world champ, Damien Hardman), hire a fleet of Sumatran charter boats, sign on the region’s best surf guides and go completely mobile to the best spots throughout the island chain; on board not just a bevy of top surf journalists, but both men and women representatives from the mainstream media, along with a handful of the world’s best surf photographers and a top-notch film crew, the whole lot enticed by the prospect of great competition on an exotic island getaway.
The format, too, was left up to us, and to ensure a requisite level of competitiveness on what would otherwise be nothing more than an elaborate, all-expenses paid Mentawai “expression session,” I borrowed from the competitive cycling world, and an indoor track event called “Australian Pursuit.” Rather than simply race for the finish line, the numbered cyclists take off at the crack of the starter’s pistol, and whoever’s in last place at the end of each lap has to drop out. Brutal, but damned dramatic, as eventually the two strongest riders will battle it out on the decisive last lap. Easily adaptable to a surfing competition such as ours, as at the end of each round the surfer with the least points would be benched until eventually only one would be left standing. Oh, yeah, and to even further up the ante, so far as prize money was concerned, it was winner take all. Like I said, brutal. Envisioning world-class, high-stakes competition contrasting sharply with its idyllic setting, Paul and I felt we’d fulfilled our commission, having come up with a truly original surf contest that just couldn’t lose.
Or so we thought.
Given the green light by Op, invitations went out to our top 10 surfers: on the men’s side Andy and Bruce Irons, Sunny Garcia, Mark Occhilupo, Shane Beschen and Timmy Curran, Layne Beachley, Serena Brooke, Rochelle Ballard and Megan Abubo on the women’s. Response was immediate and enthusiastic, so with the whole crazy circus set in motion, everyone eventually found themselves in the West Sumatran port town of Padang Padang, mustering in Bumi Minang Hotel’s banquet hall where, after being welcomed by various government officials, the invitees had the contest format very clearly explained.
“But what do those surfers who get eliminated do for the remainder of the trip?” someone asked.
“Freesurf all the perfect waves they can catch adjacent to the contest venue for photos and footage,” came the answer. “Not such a bad way to kill a couple weeks.”
Formalities taken care of, when at midnight the entire flotilla set out across the 93-mile channel separating the main island, Sumatra, from the Mentawai archipelago, expectations were running high. Then, almost immediately after dropping anchor off the islet of Katiet, home of Lance’s Rights and Lefts, they just as quickly sank right to the bottom.
What fools we were. We should’ve known that these pampered pros — the men, that is — were all veterans of numerous fully-sponsored, free-surf Mentawai boat trips, and would inevitably revert to the familiar pattern of those dreamy party charters. A pattern of experience that had absolutely nothing to do with formal competition, let alone our particularly cutthroat version. In this paradisiacal setting, with no blaring PA commentators, no fans crowding the sand or flags or banners flying from scaffolding, it was all a soulful reverie, camaraderie the order of the day, not competition. Just an elite crew of uber-privileged surfers sharing epic, empty waves, starlit evenings and morning sun salutations, with plenty of cold Bintangs and fresh sashimi.
It was this ingrained aesthetic that led to the mutiny. Approaching us in a body that first evening, the men informed us, in no uncertain terms, that the very idea of competition, of winners and losers, went against the whole Mentawai vibe. And that in any case, no one wanted to see any of their fellow deck-mates sent to the beach. It just wasn’t cool. So, if they were going to participate, then at the very least we’d have to change our format, so that no surfer was eliminated. They’d all still surf for the judges, even adopt another bike racing bit, with the leader of each round wearing a yellow jersey. Then he or she with the most points at the end of the appointed rounds could, if they chose to, call themselves the winner. Take it or leave it.
I will say at this point in the story that our women competitors gave us absolutely no trouble at all, and throughout the entire caper behaved in a much more professional manner. But with the male surfers, what could we do? They literally had us over a barrel…at least those peeling at Macaroni’s and Lance’s Rights. With steam coming out of event producer Paul Taublieb’s ears, we conceded to their demands. Or so we thought. Because unbeknownst to us, Shane Beschen, (the head mutineer, we were later told) had surreptitiously held a meeting below deck with his fellow conspirators, all of whom agreed to split the prize purse evenly, regardless who won.
So, having lost all control, the Op Mentawai Island Challenge proceeded. Oh, the waves were there, the surfing hot, and the event was eventually completed, with Mark Occhilupo and Rochelle Ballard declared the winners. Only then did they announce that they were sharing the prize money with their shipmates — a real love-fest. Nice for our “competitors,” but it also meant that as a bold, innovative new contest format, the inaugural Op Mentawai Island Challenge was a sham.
Simmers, looking comfortable in proper Cloudbreak last year, which we might not get this time around. Photo: Matt Dunber//World Surf League
Which is why we were determined to do better, same time, same place, the next year. Meaning, first off, when gathered again in the good ‘ol Bumi Minang’s banquet room with Shane Dorian, Bruce and Andy Irons, CJ Hobgood, Mark Occhilupo, and Tim Curran, along with Beachley, Ballard, Brooke and Keala Kennelly, after yet again explaining the format we had everyone sign a document insisting that should they win, they were required to keep the winner’s purse at least until they returned to their home countries. Once out of our hair, they could dispose of the hundred-grand (and change) in the manner of their choosing. But this was a contest, we firmly stated, not a pleasure cruise.
What were we thinking? Once back out in the archipelago of dreams, it was déjà vu all over again. Only worse, this time. Ensconced in their respective charter vessels, motoring around and often anchoring far from the event’s committee boat, the men’s competitors, at least, took on an adversarial tone, as if we, both the contest organizers and main sponsor, were intruding on their otherwise routine Mentawai boat trip. Again, the idea of competing in these idyllic surroundings seeming somehow not right. Not in the spirit of things. This, despite the fact that, after going to some effort to coax them up out of their berths one morning for a day of competition, we set both men and women loose in pumping, perfect 10-to-12-foot Kandui lefts, the very first time the break was surfed at this size (previously known as “Nokandui”), with no less an expert than Shane Dorian later calling it, “The greatest round of competitive surfing ever held.”
Not having anything to do with our contest, of course, but simply because these were some of the best waves any of our invitees had ever surfed. Following this peak experience, anything else would be anti-climactic, they felt, and after only a few torpid lay days, and with time and permits (we actually had government permits to clear any lineup we wanted) running out, the men approached us with the outrageous suggestion that we forget continuing the contest and, again, just split the prize money equally.
And here’s the good part: this idea was presented to us while anchored and looking at perfect, overhead Macaroni lefts. We told them no, we’re not splitting the money, we’re going to finish the event.
“Well, at least let’s have a four-man final,” they said. “And move to Lance’s Rights. We’re tired of going left.”
Lance’s is located 30 miles north of Macaronis; even if we could get there before dark, our surf guide informed us that the wind would be wrong. “Okay, yes, to a four-man final,” we told them, just as eager now to get this thing over with. “And no to Lance’s. The contest ends here.”
So, they all paddled out…and in a show of solidarity all began surfing switch-foot. A big FU. Even so, CJ Hobgood probably would’ve won that heat, had not two-thirds the way through, with judges and organizers growing more incensed by the minute, Occy took off and in his proper stance blitzed a beautiful wave. Then another. Then another.
“It just dawned on Occy that a hundred grand U.S. buys you a house off the Gold Coast.” observed a sardonic Damien Hardman.
Maybe that was it. Regardless, by the time Dorian, Andy and CJ caught on and switched their stance back, it was too late: Occy had won his second Op Mentawai Island Challenge. Before our finalists had even paddled back to the inflatables waiting on the shoulder, we had packed up our crew and prepared to head home, chastened by the realization that after a second conceptual failure, the fault really was ours.
How could we have imagined taking these surfers, most of them friends, dropping them into a tranquil, tropical setting, berthing them together in a beautiful, air-conditioned yacht, staging sumptuous communal dinners of freshly caught fish, exotic fruits and vegetables, shuttling them around the various breaks for uncrowded freesurf sessions…and then, at the blare of an air-horn, expect them to instantly transform into fierce competitive animals, clawing over each other on their way to the top of the heap. In the end, despite what we told Op, the idea of holding a surfing competition in paradise turned out to be not so great an idea after all.
But the WSL? I wish them well. I really do.
