Sid Abbruzzi, the ‘Clay-Faced Pauper’: How One Surfer’s Defiant Spirit Bound a Culture’s Soul

"Water Brothers was a lighthouse. And when that light goes out, that's the end."

At last, Water Brother: The Sid Abbruzzi Story released to the masses this weekend and it don’t disappoint. Amazon, Hulu, etc. 

Why take the time to dig into the life story of an aged, clay-faced pauper? Cause Saint Abbruzzi is a blessing. 

When Shawn Thompson’s best move is a reverse mortgage, when AARP offers discount ticket to the Surf Museum, it reminds us that our noses are slowly pointing to the dirt. 

But not for Sid Abbruzzi, the vicious seeing-eye dog for the Northeast surfer and owner of Water Brothers Surf Shop, that nomadic institution in Newport, Rhode Island. 

Since the seventies, surfers have made the pilgrimage to Water Brothers to get a glimpse at Sid Abruzzi, hoping to catch a lock of his hair. 

The film, produced by the Kannani Brothers, highlights Sid’s journey from kid to king, with enough raw footage of the Newport surf and skate scene over the last forty years to make you want to move to the little rocky town on the coast. 

Sid talked to Derek and Chas in Dirty Water and was described in BG a few years back as such:

Sid Abbruzzi might be the most famous shop owner alive today. Maybe not famous-famous but surf-famous, at least. His grey ropes of hair and tattooed body are more Pagans Motorcycle Club than surf icon. A model of the underground hero, Abbruzzi don’t own no clean Vans. Scars run down both legs with mehanical hip replacements caused by over fifty years of proper vert skating. 

Part animal―Part Machine.

But this isn’t an advertisement for his Water Brothers shop, that brick-and-morter citadel in Newport, Rhode island. Even if it was, you’d be outta luck. Abbruzzi doesn’t keep a website.  

Part animal―Part machine―Part idiot.

Sid isn’t living for money, and he’s beautiful because of it. Abbruzzi’s lost countless dollars from shunning major brands, preferring to stick with five-to-ten grand of inventory: Buell wetsuits and select custom boards. 

Moms come in. “Do you have Billabong t-shirts for my son?’  

“Sorry” Sid says.

But he’s not.

Like Andy Warhol at a Manhattan dinner party when asked why he wasn’t dining on the feast before him. 

“I only eat candy,” Worhol deadpanned. 

Sid Abbruzzi only eats candy, too. A shop that exists to support his own skating and surfing. Everything else is broccoli and he says the hell with that.

Sid started selling surfboards in his basement in ’69 then opened up a little beachfront surf shack down the street, the first Water Brothers. And a shack it was.

“I dug a little trench between the shop and the bar next door. Dropped an extension cord in it to get juice. For years, that’s where we sucked our electricity from. Every time a car drove over it in the beach parking lot, though, we lost power. We had a pot belly stove. It was a blast. We had it for twenty years. From ‘71 – ‘93. Never had a lease. We paid three-hundred a year to the landlord.”

It was Sid’s way from the get-go.

He says, “If you ever want to do anything, don’t ask. No games. Just do it.” 

Case-in-point. Sid wants to build a full-sized halfpipe in the lot next to the shack. Does it―sans blessing. The landlord shows up. Sid explains that it’s part of a project for their Explorers Troop. (A division of the Boy Scouts: changing boys to men, one ascot at a time) They were not, of course, Explorers. To cement the tale, Sid had uniforms made complete with a made up troop number patch set on the shirt sleeves. 

―And part genius.  

The film opens with a wide shot of Sid looking out over cold First Point. It’s gray, flat, and empty. A recording of Sid’s daily surf report overlays the scene.

“After fifty years this will be my last surf report. And in bigger news, Water Brothers is going to be demolished today.” 

It’s followed by a decade-by-decade look at the inception and growth of his shop, starting with Sid’s description that at the age of nine, he and his brother would cut out little surfboards from cardboard and bend rugs for waves. We’ve have the boards on our fingers. We’d do that all day long. 

In 1969, at seventeen, he and his buddies drove to New Jersey and bought six boards, got a couple of skateboards, and started selling them out of my basement. 

“And that was it.”

Soon after, Sid rented an abandoned shack off the beach for $300 a year. The business exploded as did the hype. Traveling skate and surf pros heard the whispers and started coming to hit the half-pipe, check the waves, and hang with Sid. The contests and the parties and the after-parties went on for years. 

Overtures from icons such as Christian Fletcher, Cunol-10 pitchman Tony Hawk, grizzled skate ripper Fred Smith, Obama decorator Shepard Fairy, philosopher Salema Masekela, and long-time locals give color to Sid’s story, shaping a narrative of a man who at once lives for himself and for others.  On loop, we hear about Sid’s mouth-foaming surf addiction all the while giving away his inventory and his time to the Newport community. 

The first-person insights reveals Sid Abruzzi’s heart. Two bits stand out:

Sometime in the eighties, a break-in left the shop naked, boards and merch gone. Sid went on private detective duty to find the product. He got the boards back but the cops took 50 pairs of sunglasses as case evidence. “We’re gonna keep them forever,” they said. 

Most of the shades were never returned. Big-hearted Abbruzzi forgave the thief.

“I’m friends with the guy to this day. In fact, he just detailed my van.”

He laughs, “I didn’t leave anything in there, though.”  

Pro skater Aquil Brathwaite shares that as a kid with holes in his pockets, he walked into Water Brothers with roller blades in hand. Sid grabs the blades, throws them in the dumpster, hands Brathwaite a complete skate set up, gratis. They called him “the give-away butcher.” Hypnotized kids were convinced they were sponsored after being gifted anything underroof. Plenty of kids took advantage, too, leaving Sid on the short side of the long green. 

That’s Sid. Big heart, little business sense. 

But the flick isn’t all rainbows. Two-thirds in, The Kannani Brothers turn soppy as they attempt to force the film into a Jay Adams, Old Man Look at my Life drama. The story goes flat here. It’s neither moving nor impressive. Grab a body on the street, ask ‘em their story, their family’s story, and you’ll find booze, narcotics, crimes, sometimes unimaginable. We all get it. Sid’s health choices are his. This type of voyeurism in the film plays cheap. 

Predictably, Sid bounces back from the brink and straightens his kinks: gets fit, gets married, gets back to shop business. 

In 2022, an offer to buy Water Brothers and the shop came in. Sid refused. Right after, the whole block was purchased and knocked down in favor of short-term rentals. Water Brothers, standing since 1992, was no more.  

Abbruzzi’s in his mid-seventies and likely will be wrestling his booties on till 100, maybe not on the Felipe Pomar plan, but his own way.  

The film ends with Sid chatting with an ancient man holding a sing for a handout. As Sid pulls out some bucks, the man starts singing, “Don’t have a heart attack – Water Brothers is comin’ back.” And Sid Abbruzzi laughs. 

After some untangling, Water Brothers reopened and for the first time stepped into the present with a website to get whatcha want. 

Essential, if you want to feel like a good human or avoid changing the oil in your work truck.