If there’s one thing that draws a crowd, it’s people jumping into water in daring and stylish ways. But how much do the Cliff Diving World Series and Manu World Championships have in common?
It’s late summer on the Auckland waterfront. Hundreds of flags advertising the event and its high profile sponsor ripple along the Viaduct. An announcer tries to get the crowd excited as a competitor walks to the edge of the purpose-built platform. They look down at the turquoise water below, and jump, the marks of their passage dissolving into the sea.
It’s late summer on the Auckland waterfront. Hundreds of flags advertising the event and its high profile sponsor ripple along the Viaduct. An announcer tries to get the crowd excited as a competitor walks to the edge of the purpose-built platform. They look down at the turquoise water below, and jump, the marks of their passage dissolving into the sea.
What is the difference between these two pictures?
In the last month, Auckland has been host to two “falling through the air and into the water” events. The first, the final instalment of the Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series, brought professional athletes from around the world to the city, where they performed dives from as high as 27 metres, aiming to flip and twist into the water, landing feet first with the tiniest splash possible.
The second event is the Z Manu World Championships. Despite its name, it’s a more homegrown affair. Held only a few dozen metres away from the cliff diving, it’s open to anyone for a small entry fee. After heats held in Christchurch, Wellington, Hamilton and Auckland, the finals are next weekend. Competitors are judged on style – and the size of their splash, measured by cameras calculating both height and volume. While the energy drink-sponsored cliff diving world series has been around for more than a decade, the fossil fuel-sponsored manu championships are the first national competition, with $30k in cash and prizes (a maximum of $3000 for the first male and female competitor).
Several thousand eyes, and approximately half as many people, were watching the cliff diving competition. The branding felt a bit like a misnomer – there was no actual cliff – but the Red Bull corporate machine was in full force, with several dead-eyed young men drifting through the crowd hauling crates of the fizzy energy drink, flags lining the harbour, and huge logos slapped on the very big tower. A little boat scurried to collect divers once they popped up from the water, and a few of the athletes loitered in a branded ice bath.
Presumably in an effort to create content for Red Bull TV, the brand’s extreme sports website, there were cameras everywhere. Some videoed the divers on big screens so people could see the dives being performed even if they were standing behind tall people. There was at least one drone, camera people wearing wetsuits paddling in the water, and a long crane arm with a camera attached swinging from the tower. Then there were the hundreds of phone cameras held by spectators, filming the event rather than looking at it with their eyes.
It was yet another camera-bearer that brought Amira, 12, and her dad to watch the diving. “We’re here because this YouTuber Amira follows is competing,” Amira’s dad said. The YouTuber is Molly Carlson, a Canadian cliff diver with millions of followers on TikTok and YouTube and the habit of calling her followers the #BraveGang: she got the biggest cheer of the afternoon. “It’s amazing to see her in person,” Amira said. “But I would never try cliff diving.”
Fair enough: there’s something dizzying just watching it, people accelerating through the air for multiple seconds. Even these professionals pause on the ledge, as if contemplating the absurdity of being paid to travel the world jumping off dangerous things.
“Oh my God, oh Christ,” someone shrieked behind me as diver Meili Carpenter twisted and tumbled into the ocean. The spectacle of it, the scale of the fall, seemed to attract most other attendees, TikTok or not. What everyone I spoke to had in common was a total reluctance to even think about jumping 27 metres into the sea. “I would feel scared just standing up there,” said Jayne, on holiday and keen to check out some local events.
Charlie, with his baby son cradled against his chest, said that the scale seemed “professional”. “I wonder what the prize money is?” he mused. Later, I found his answer: according to this reporting, albeit from 2016, about USD$ 39,000 is paid to each athlete for each competition, plus bonuses for winning individual events. Charlie would be reluctant to jump that high, but he hasn’t been immune to the thrill of combining velocity with water. “There’s a spot near Thames where families go with their kids to jump – it’s not as high as here though.”
The cliff diving is clearly dangerous, the kind of heights that clearly no-one should attempt unless they’ve had lots of practice. But at the Manu World Championships, the vibes were more casual and backyard – although certainly more formalised than the bridges and wharves where the skill is usually performed.
Here, the competitors were nearly all brown skinned, and nearly all male: an entirely different demographic, and for the most part, physique, than the professional divers. “My husband and I have been thinking that we might be really good at this, because we have big bums,” said one spectator, who then hurriedly added that her name shouldn’t be attached to contemplation of the relative merits of backside dimensions.
There’s a grace to performing a manu, too, entirely different to a dive. Yes, the platforms are lower – the tallest one is five metres, which is about how high I got when I went bouldering one time then got to the top of the wall, looked down in fear and had to be coaxed down. Competitors walk to the edge of the platform, then there’s a half-hearted attempt by the commentator to get the crowd to count down from five. Everyone has their own style: a young man (most of them are young men) with wildly curly black hair is stick straight, then tucks a millisecond before hitting the water. On the three metre platform, someone bounces, then leaps outwards, twisting to land at a 45 degree angle, with the sucking sound of water filling the vacuum they’ve just created.
At the diving, no one watching seemed to know how the dives were being scored. Here, spectators – admittedly fewer of them – are confident discussing strategy. “The key to technique is creating that vacuum, so the water fountains up,” explains Mitchell, attending with his partner Sonal. “It’s a lot more grassroots, because even in the most rural communities, everyone will have a creek and something to jump off. Heaps of people have come from small towns to compete.”
They’re here to watch Wharepapa Reirson, a former manu champion and “longtime water baby”, according to Mitchell. As we speak, Reirson demonstrates a near perfect manu, landing like a staple in the water, dazzling droplets of liquid blossoming high above the structure created for jumping. He scores a 97.
Other spectators are less sure of the manu’s athletic legitimacy. “I was curious to see what they were doing. I’ve never done a manu,” says Richard, raising his eyebrows. The older American man lives a block away, and is wiping the remains of a black ice cream from a nearby shop onto a napkin, creating a Rorshach test of sorts. “I’m not sure a manu has the widespread potential to go to the Olympics, because I’ve never seen a sport like it,” he says.
He went to the cliff diving too, and says that it takes more skill “to not kill yourself”. Another 22 metres will do that. Still, Richard appreciates the way the contest is highlighting Māori and Pacific competitors.
Gale, wearing a pink T-shirt, didn’t grow up doing manus. She didn’t even know the event was on. “We walk along the Viaduct every weekend because it makes us feel like we’re on holiday,” she says. Her two kids have been riveted by the display. “We learned about manus from this really cute kids book,” she says. She’ll definitely be back to watch the finals.
“I’m alright at manus, but my mate is better, he’s the one wearing board shorts over there,” says Rain, a guy in his early 20s. His friend, who is competing, is also wrapped in a vibrant Snackachangi towel – one of the event’s other key sponsors, along with Skinny, Flava and Water Safety New Zealand. “I think it’s cool how many people have come down here to see it.” Rain’s mate Dave pipes in. “Yeah we’re just here with bros,” he says. Behind them, a cluster of tourists are completely ignoring the art of the manu, videoing instead the drawbridge bow back together after a boat has passed. Can you do a manu, I ask Dave. “Nah, I can’t swim,” he replies cheerfully.
The Z logo shines in the sun. The scores flash on a screen. Almost everyone is watching the sea, not visiting the sponsor stalls. There’s another magnificent manu, twist, tuck, water ricochets upwards. The crowd is admittedly smaller than for the flashy high diving, but in watching, everyone is together. “Oooooh,” sighs the audience, as the water sparkles with droplets returning to the sea.