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"Mistah Kurtz, he dead!"

Permit me an indulgence readers. There is an article of unfinished business to attend to and some conclusions and reasoning we can draw from observation after the Tahiti sortie.

Following the Finals presentation the stars fled the show quickly. There was talk of partying in Papeete, and an oddly discordant atmosphere descended on the marina of Teahupoo. Aussie Pub Rock from the 80's was playing out of some vestigial PA system. A more jarring note could not be imagined. Despite the victory laps and triumphant narratives being trotted out by long suffering journos the prevailing mood in the after-glow was slightly off-key, maybe a touch deflating; like a post-coital cuddle where only one lover has reached orgasm. How like Pro Surfing.

Wandering home as the mountain clefts became bathed in deep shadow the good ol' boys were drinking beer out of a pick-up, playing Bob Marley. I could see Heairii, missing a tooth or two from some misdemeanour or other, with his people. Where was Slater? Ensconced in some luxury hotel room, alone with his ambition, more than likely.

"Steeb!" A voice from the drinkers called my name. I went over. It was Tei'ho, my original fishing buddy who had welcomed me to Teahupoo with the warm tallie on day one. A warm beer was quickly thrust into my welcoming palm.

"E'ha to oe huru," I said. The boys cracked up. Bottles were clinked all around. A rather stunning female specimen came around from behind the pick-up to clink glasses. Tall. Immaculately dressed in heels and a cream mini twin set. Chocolate thighs that glistened in the golden light.

But wait, what is that above the lip? Unmistakeable. A small hairy moustache. Fa'afafine. A Tahitian ladyboy. Beside the fa'afafine stood a small man, mostly toothless, with a shock of crazy white hair. He was saying something. What was it? I could only make out, "Bob Dylan".

"Bob Dylan", he said again, with increased urgency.

Of course. I had a Bob Dylan shirt on, with Don't Look Back written in bold black ink underneath the unmistakeable visage of Dylan. He was pointing at the shirt and then to the fa'afafine.

"She want?" I said.

He nodded furiously.

Fuck, any fa'afafine who's a Bob Dylan fan is alright with me. I stripped the shirt off my back without hesitation and handed it to the beautiful ladyboy. Without any embarrassment and despite the cheers and unbridled hilarity afforded to the good ol' boys the ladyboy stripped off her jacket and blouse. She had a white brassiere on, barely filled with small bud-like breasts, over which she pulled the Bob Dylan shirt.

She bent down and kissed me on both cheeks. Her green eyes, as bewitching as the jewelled South Seas were welling up with tears. It made mine well up too, truth be told. The old man was cackling, dancing a jig on the spot and the boys were cheering.

Your correspondent had to beg his leave, overwhelmed, not for the first time in Tahiti, with powerful emotions. I looked once more at the boys, at the shirt so proudly displayed by the fa'afafine, at the lagoon with it's hues of blue darkening and turning to burnished gold as the setting sun descended over the western ocean, where thin strips of white could be seen on the outer reefs.

Don't look back.

Heavy-hearted, I trudged home shirtless.

Surrounded by the mysterious, divine Pacific, the "tide-beating heart of the Earth" as Melville called it, a listlessness of vacant unconscious reverie embalmed me. The circus had left town, moving forwards inexorably. Onwards to the shores of California, where strong south swell pulses - ironically passing by the Isles of Tahiti with thundering fury - are expected to bring to life the cobblestone point break of Lower Trestles.

Slater has now faced down and defeated four generations: the Pottz/Elko/TC warriors; his own Momemtum gen; the AI/Coolie Kids; and now the Mod Coll. To achieve domination against four generations of sportsmen would be an unrivalled accomplishment of the age of recorded History.

He is acutely aware that in overhead surf he now suffers a performance deficit against the Mod Coll. His second low-volume revolution surfboards can, in lined up pointbreak surf, look underwhelming and tinny, lacking authority in the top turn. This was comprehensively demonstrated in his loss to Jordy at Snapper in overhead surf. He must bring appropriate equipment to stave off this aesthetic disadvantage.

Pro Surfing remains on an upwards trajectory, propelled chiefly by the Slater/Mod Coll narrative, with strong support from the AI comeback and Fanning Focus. Inevitably, as the gap between the sport and the average recreational surfer widens, Pro Surfing will be forced to deal with the issues of resource sharing and take some responsibility for the culture of surfing it plays a large part in creating. But for now, that issue remains off the radar in the sports governing body. Like all large institutions a cultivated myopia fed by a stream of sycophantic coverage suits it's short term goals.

That will change.

The Outsider returns to the jade green milky bosom of the Northern Rivers, weary of the pro circus and mindful of the words of Genghis Khan after conquering the empire of Persia: "I turn to Simplicity. I turn again to Purity".

Pro Surfing: It's my dream. It's my nightmare.

Thanks for reading.