Let us speak frankly without adornment or ado. Laird Hamilton is the god of surfing. Kelly Slater may be the greatest competitive surfer ever, Tom Curren the most beloved, but Laird Hamilton is surfing’s Poseidon and that reality snaps into hard focus as one ascends his Malibu Mount Olympus. Some few miles north of First Point, and high into the hills, the Hamilton Pantheon has booming 280 degree Ocean Pacific views and is fronted by an oversized swimming pool where demigods like Rick Rubin and Spiderman Andrew Garfield wander wet.
Laird was standing near the driveway when I pushed through the gate, extended a hand and gave me a firm “aloha.” His eyes, a sort of yellow/green that I had never seen on a human before, unwavering. I was instructed to get in my Ola Canvas trunks then get into the sauna because warming the body before working out in a cold pool is part of the program.
I had once publicly opined that I could smash Laird in a sauna-off, though after minute five I felt it would be more herculean a task then thought. It was a traditional steam sauna, not the new-fangled infrared sort, and hot. Sweat began pouring as Laird held court on a wide range of topics, from military philosophy to the importance of foundations. Those inside, including an acclaimed Brazilian jiu-jitsu instructor and my pal Brendan, nodded along, adding dribs and drabs where appropriate, but mostly nodding along.
When Laird said it was time to get out and begin, after some thirty minutes, I followed. Laird told me to get a snorkel mask. He told Brendan to get one too. Many dumbbells lined the pool. He selected two, 25 lbs each, and marched us to the deep end of the pool where we were instructed to get in and swim to the other side then back holding our breath. The water was clean and cold, containing zero chemicals or cleaners as I would later learn.
After our breath holding swim, he demonstrated our next exercise, dropping to the bottom of the pool, 11 feet deep, with the weight, switching hands then pushing to the surface. After that we swam across the pool again, holding breath, this time holding the weight. On the third trip, I came up huffing and made some comment about my generally unhealthy lifestyle. Laird just said, “There are no excuses.”
Another sauna session followed and this time we were joined by Laird’s wife Gabby. She is even more fierce than him, towering above and commanding more than equal attention. Amphitrite. The sauna conversation flowed, this time, to parenting, life in New York and Southern Methodist University.
There was absolutely no barrier, no arms-length or better-not-say-this-because-an-ill-suited-surf-journalist-is-sweating-on-the-bench. They dwell far above petty human concerns. Gossip and slander are only able to hurt mere mortals and I was warmed by their candor and by the steam.
Laird said that every son wants to take his father, the king’s, throne and every daughter her queen’s. Gabby shot him a wild side eye and responded, “They can have it,” though I can’t imagine anyone, not even the children of deities, being able to usurp.
Laird and Gabby have three daughters, the oldest a senior in high school.
Laird left the sauna, again, after thirty minutes, and I followed thus officially beating him the sauna-off by seconds. This time, back in the pool, we did jumping jacks in the deeper end with weights.
Laird said part of the deal is to prepare the body for a wipeout at Jaws. “Anyone can hold their breath for five minutes in the right conditions,” he declared, “but it becomes much more difficult under duress.”
I doubt I will ever surf Jaws. I also doubt that I could hold my breath for five minutes in the right conditions. I also make excuses.
The training could have continued, Laird seemed to be in zero hurry, but I felt it important to get the interview recorded in case I died. We followed Gabby inside where she made mugs of Laird Coffee with Laird Creamer for Brendan and Milo Kim, who was running the camera. I told her Brendan invested in Laird Superfood. She apologized needlessly though graciously. The stock price has rebounded.
And then it was time to Hate Surfing with Laird. We sat across from each other, a gorgeous dining room table betwixt.
There was no push out the door when it all ended, no looking at wristwatch anxiously. Laird made me a hydrating water and we talked some more in the kitchen before I excused myself and drove back down Mount Malibu, back to where common folk fight about dumb stuff, with a genuine appreciation of Laird Hamilton. He, at once, cares extremely much and not at all.
Some wild yin-yang as unique as his eyes.
Photography by Milo Kim
The I Hate Surfing trucker's mug is an oversized 14 oz by Australian master ceramicist Damion Fuller.
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