“I find truth is in the ocean and the lies are on
land!”
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 Hamilton 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 in 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 Hamilton 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, who
was running the camera. I told her Brendan invested in Laird
Superfood. She apologized needlessly though graciously.
The stock price has rebounded.
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.
