The Devil may care. But he probably doesn’t.
It’d be a lot easier if it was as simple as “so long” — after all, he is arguably the most polarizing surf writer this side of recent memory — however, it’s not that easy. True to Chas Smith’s loud look-at-me ways, his tenure as surf’s Drunk Uncle is difficult to ignore (though his announced retirement has been less… well, loud, than might be anticipated). I’ve had the odd pleasure of meeting him twice; both times I was on the front end of being three sheets to the wind while he, instead, spoke about what a great woman his current wife was, and how he was happy for the quick breather from his newest love, his sweet baby girl. Not what I was expecting when we had planned to laugh, talk shit, and poke fun over endless White Russians in a fancy chalet-turned-bar and grill at the base of Aspen mountain, or at the chichi Milk Studios in New York. Not what anyone would expect after reading his exaggerated reports. Quite frankly, Chas Smith is as refreshingly down-to-earth and insightful in person as his words are ill-advisedly crass on paper. But this isn’t goodbye to the Chas Smith I’ve met. This is goodbye to the Chas Smith who has questionably coiffed hair and smokes his cigarettes like a dandy — and then writes about it.
Wherein surfing has been caricatured to the utmost extent in pop culture and even our own community, among one another even, this cartoonish representation has never been as skillfully embodied and, subsequently, employed as it has by Chas Smith. He has taken it to a new level that was both entertaining and insufferable, an exaggerated fixture that many couldn’t stand but will also hesitantly miss. His high-fashion sensibilities and pretentious purple prose was polarizing in a way that got blood boiling, that of his subjects and readers alike; for a shortwhile, he was surf’s antichrist. With this naive Devil-may-care persona, he drew attention to every place he went — places down dark alleys and low-lit roads, away from the beach, but still relevant. And in that, he made contributions to surf, contributions that outweigh some of the bombastic prose that accompanied his character. How?
He got it. He understood. He appreciated the disgusting undergrowth of surf’s bronzed, chiseled, healthy facade.
Rather than focus on the limited exploration of core brands and big-time competitions — the brands and competitions that largely pay the bills, mind you — he took notepad and pen into the trenches and wrote about the nastier parts of surfing, the parts that didn’t include perfect barrels and sunsets and shakas. Chas Smith disrobed unconscionable prejudice and drugs and slaps, albeit garbled in extravagant, absurd language and occasionally in terrible, distasteful, counterproductive style (read: the Fascist Issue of Stab…). He was even hypocritical at times, such as with the coverage of Andy Irons’ death. However, despite those missteps, he also shook up surf in a good way, in a constructive way, when he published the piece in which Australian icon Mick Fanning called him a “fucking Jew,” or chronicled the North Shore and its pay-for-play workings.
He dragged the rotting, cancerous corpses of apparent surf traditions out into the sunlight for everyone to see. He did all of this by being self-obsessed and dangerously curious, with nothing to lose — like he had when that same curiosity almost killed him in Lebanon as a “fabulous”war reporter. He might have done this for stand sales and pageviews and comments, but he did it when others wouldn’t. And it might not have been his intent, but with his cock-a-hoop finger wagging and condescending pooh-poohing, he incited knee-jerk reactions and thoughtful responses that, in turn, addressed long-ignored problems. He loathed boring, and he was always far from it. And in his adventures, he stumbled into news-worthy stories that showed an embarrassing side to surf — an embarrassing side surf needed to confront. That we’ll miss.
So, out of respect for Chas Smith, Derek Rielly’s Chas Smith from Stab and SURFING Magazine: f*ck you. F*ck you and your “fruity” language. F*ck you and your Dior suits. F*ck you and your attention-grabbing schemes.
See you in hell.
