Portraits of John John Florence and Eddie Rothman from Welcome to Paradise Now Go to Hell. Photos: Justin Jay
If the surf industry is high school (which it kind of is), and winter on the North Shore is a mandatory field trip (which it kind of is) then Chas Smith is the mischievous yearbook editor who just pulled his last senior prank. Suspended, braddah! For just totally being him, baby.
I wanted to read Chas Smith’s new book, which alleges to reveal “the violence, corruption, and soul of surfing” while I was on the North Shore. I thought that was the right place to read it. But travel being what it is, I didn’t thumb through his swan song (his words, not mine) until returning to California. Which worked out better for a number of reasons. First, the book would have colored my experience this winter in a distractingly unproductive way. Which is a compliment. I would have felt compelled to verify things he wrote and drop into surfing’s Hawaiian underbelly on my own terms. It probably would have been a morally ambiguous and entertaining thrill, kind of like his book, but that’s not my vision quest at the moment. Second, as Chas explains in 239 quick pages – winter on the North Shore marinates and matures with time. It has an afterglow that’s not fully digestible until it’s in the rearview. So it was nice to reflect on the same people, places, and events that are singular to the North Shore’s sociopolitical hierarchy and compare his syntheses to my own.
It’s also an interesting task for me, personally, to review his book. I’ve got baggage, brah. I don’t think Chas really gives much of a shit about me or The Inertia, but for the sake of context and full disclosure, we’ve had a handful of interactions that have had undue influence on my own escapade in surf writing and publishing.
I think the first time I heard about Chas was when he wrote “Tales of a Fucking Jew” for Stab Magazine, which includes an episode where Mick Fanning calls him a “fucking Jew” at the Rip Curl House during Mick’s World Title celebration.
I interviewed him about it. It was a good interview. He was polite. I also asked Smith about an issue of Stab he edited that led with a passage from Hitler’s Mein Kampf. That pissed me off. Unapologetically sending swastikas to blond white teenagers in SoCal and the Gold Coast – two demographics who, in general (apologies for the sweeping generalization, but I stand by it), have an immensely inadequate understanding of culturally significant events and/or sensitivities to diverse cultures – didn’t sit well. Then, after a handful of shocking, semi-bigoted features were published on flare-up surf blogs, I took a simple, principled stand while working as Online Editor at Surfer Magazine; I said it’s not cool to be racist. Bold, I know.
SURFER ended up censoring the piece. I quit. And that episode, in many ways, birthed The Inertia.
But his new book isn’t nearly as salacious or juicy as I expected. Not that he doesn’t recount a few page-turners that might inspire a slap or two. He shares a conversation with Eddie Rothman at the Backyards compound that flickers with fire, but ultimately dances around any seriously incriminating information that might breathe life into Eddie’s mythical ascent. Smith does verify, on record, that Eddie “cracked” Graham Stapelberg, Billabong’s VP of Marketing, at the Billabong House two years ago and makes a brilliant analogy about it. Imagine Jeff Bezos (or the CEO of any Fortune 1000 company) getting beat up in his own house and surrendering. Not calling authorities. Just accepting the penance. That’s the lawlessness of the North Shore, and it really is unthinkable. It’s Mario Puzo. It’s Godfather.
Hawaii is part of the United States. But, then again, the surf community on the North Shore manages to operate under a different set of rules. For instance, we watched Eddie Rothman spit on Sam George’s face in full public view while at Surfer Poll this winter. Right in front of three giant security guards. No one blinked.
For those hoping to gain power and influence in this community, physicality and mental toughness still hold dominion the way they did in more primitive times. And that’s the point of Chas’ book. He gets lost in the morality of it. Good? Bad? Robin Hood? What’s an equitable arbiter of justice, anyway? Smith indirectly pits the Supreme Court’s values against Eddie Rothman’s. The North Shore can be a sordid melting pot of disgusting Neo-Colonialism, faux-tribal respect, and dues-paying. But it’s especially that if you’re looking for it. Chas was very much looking for it. The Gudauskas brothers have a different experience there. They smile big and hug often. Chas hunts for and makes stories.
Ironically, despite his intentions, Smith is at his best when he’s not prying the lid off surf lore’s supposed Pandora Box. His writing sings when he’s unafraid of his subjects. When they’re younger and less worldly and on more equal physical footing. The best stuff doesn’t come with Eddie. Definitely not with Kaiborg. The book’s most compelling writing revolves around the would-be rivalry between Kolohe Andino and John John Florence. What they represent to each other. Why they should (kind of) hate each other. Why Kolohe is grey before he paddles out at macking Pipe. Why John John is laughing.
Smith thoughtfully projects the cultural identities of Hawaiian and Californian surfing onto these two young adults. Boarding school vs. Public School. Silver spoon vs. spoonless. And his characterization of John John appearing to walk as if “he’s fighting sleep” cracks me up. Poor kid always looks so tired on land. And Kolohe’s arrogance. It’s the type of arrogance that begets success.
The earth has continued to spin in the short time since WTTNS went to press, and a few events have already dated significant passages. For instance, one chapter revolves around Bruce Irons’ place atop the Volcom House totem pole. Bruce doesn’t even have a space at the Volcom house any more. A whole story unto itself.
That said, I think the most confusing aspect of this book is its intended audience. I know Chas hopes to reach a broader slice of the book-buying population, but I’m not sure it succeeds. Because, ironically, the awkward politics that he and I find fascinating aren’t necessarily compelling for folks outside of the surf industry. It really is like looking at a friend’s school yearbook. Not yours.
I thoroughly enjoyed the book, because it’s my school. And, like Chas, I care a lot about myself. I like his pink shirt and how he demands the reader pay as much attention to him as to Eddie Rothman or John John Florence. Whether you love Smith or hate him, he’s more interesting than 95% of the surfers he interviews, and he tries his darndest to prove it. I like his convertible rental car and the North Shore radio: top forty mixed with Jawaiian classics like J-Boog. They’re on-point observations. And I liked reading his book because I can place myself in it. He basically wrote a book about what it was like to do my then-job in an intimidating, storied, and strange place. I also know most of the people he writes about, and I found many of his observations and characterizations amusing as a result. Inside jokes, basically.
But I know he wants to speak to non-surfers, because he deconstructs the lingo exhaustively. He describes what a right is. A left. A barrel. At first I read those descriptions with interest to see how he’d approach such a painfully mundane task. Then it became as painstaking to read as I’m sure it was to write. The book’s other serious shortcoming is its unapologetic, largely vacuous repetition. I think Eddie Rothman is referred to as “a legend, myth, or specter” 200 times. Just because you say it enough doesn’t make it true. Just saying it doesn’t actually mean anything. Similarly, Chas explains Pipeline’s significance and its poundingrumblecrash in Chapter Six, Seven, Eight, and Nine with as much detail as he did in Chapters One through Five. It’s amnesiac and borderline insulting.
My only other axe to grind is questioning Chas’ decision to write with interest (but without earnest reporting) about the death of Andy Irons. In 2010, Smith dismissed the notion of honest reporting around Irons’ death as disrespectful grave-spitting. Today, he wrote half-heartedly that he desires the opposite. If he wanted to share the truth and make sense of it, this book would include that in detail. It does not. It’s’ still an event cloaked largely in misdirection. Smith laments that, but he didn’t do anything to change it.
But I’m critical. I got baggage.
And I’m glad Chas wrote this book. It’s good. He writes as himself. It’s similar to his voice in Stab and Surfing, but he’s more comfortable. Freer. He’s also unsurprisingly intentional in including himself as a character, the thing that distinguishes him most from every other writer in surfing. Dude got divorced. He hated his wife. Behind the intentionally abrasive nose-thumbing and obnoxious appetite for fashion and self flattery, he’s got a beating heart like Kelly Slater does. His book has made me think hard about the North Shore, and how I would have approached the task of painting a portrait of life as a writer searching for stories during its heavy, strangely industry-saturated winter. He had the balls and took the time and energy to do it. It could have been (and still can be) done a million ways, but my hat’s off to him for completing this project. To the best of my knowledge, nothing like it exists. And his book will inspire a lot of conversation. The surfing high school needs gossip. It will lead to more open conversations. It will make visiting surfers think harder about their contribution to Hawaii, and it will inspire more thoughtful cracks and slaps in the future. Chas Smith has a growing portfolio of irritating, flamboyant, and thoughtful contributions to the library of surf writing. This is his best yet.
