Over the last few years, the heroic exploits in the ocean upon which the legend was constructed have begun to fade like an old Polaroid.
I was an OG Kelly Slater fan.
Sundeks? Check.
Quiet Flights? Check.
Kech on the deck? Check.
Momentum Gen tail slides > Eighties crew power carves? Check.
And, like his career, my fandom lingered long past the point at which any respectable adult would have let it fade away.
Dog named Slater? Check.
Autographed copy of his “autobiography”? Check.
Accurately predicted the name of his child in the BG comments months before the name was announced? Check.
My longstanding affinity for RKS 11 is well known to you, gentle Grit reader.
The pull quote at the top of my first ever piece for this fine publication cum mosh pit?
“Kelly Slater, even as a kid, was legendary.”*
The 2022 Pipe victory, on the literal eve of his 50th birthday, was the apotheosis of his journey.
Or so I thought.
What’s that saying, “never meet your heroes”?
In this first person social media age, the old saw has more teeth than ever.
Alas, over the last few years, the heroic exploits in the ocean upon which the legend was constructed have begun to fade like an old polaroid.
In their place, the outline of a new persona has been coming into view, one formed in a labyrinth of SM posts, wildcard contest entries, podcast appearances, and video parts, each turn, whether on water or land, more curious than the last.
“Curious,” as used here, is what bow tie wearers would call a “euphemism.”
Like when you want to say “bizarre,” or “batshit,” but polite company would frown on such rawness and prefer a dollop of diplomacy.
I take it there have been challenges.
Physical maladies involving feet, hips, back, and so on and so forth.
The demands of a fawning public.
The burden of solving the sandal, sunscreen and deodorant crises that we, the self-absorbed and insufficiently autodidact-ed surfing consumer, were blind to.
Distractions endemic to maintaining global surfboard distribution domination and piloting a cutting edge, sustainable, surf fashion brand, featuring blanket shirts and jeans you can surf in.
The wave pools, sprawling, artificial-barrel-spawning playgrounds for billionaire VALs and oil sheikhs.
And, of course, the cherry teetering atop the towering, multi-scoop sundae, the net that has ensnared many a would be free-spirited surf icon, that most ancient of distractions — fatherhood.
Do I begrudge the king these, his velvet crowns?
No.
As an exceptionally wise sage and native of KS11’s home state once observed, “it’s good to be king, whatever it pays.”
Do I wonder what happened to the surf savant whose wicked speed and razor edge turns first caught my eye amid the lion’s den that was First Peak in the 80s?
The aquatic Mozart who seemed able to summon sets on command, who conquered the wild seas and all pretenders to his throne, who at c. 50 years old won Pipe by taking off under the ledge and knifing a seemingly impossible drop on a growling Backdoor Frankenstein, pulling in as the lip exploded millimeters from his rail and exiting in an explosion of mist as if he were shot from a liquid cannon?
Do I miss that guy?
Hell, yes.
Do I trust this new guy, the one who stands for Olympic competitions in pools, who claims to have the informed blessing of his biggest business competitors, who swears he doesn’t recognize iconic shaping details of the boards he rode for decades or idiosyncratic fin box placements on the boards he currently rides, who at times seems, at least in spirit, to more resemble an out of touch monarch imploring his subjects to eat cake than the dialed in saltwater demon whose name my canine bears?
I have my doubts.
But if you’re still with me, you will have reached the denouement of this rambling exercise in nostalgic navel gazing and selective hagiography.
Because, after much soul searching, I have concluded that the problem lies with me, Rocks_Local, one time Florida native, current surf nomad, and occasional BG commenter — not Robert Kelly Slater.
Like KS11, I was born in 1972.
I, likewise, am a father of both adult and very young children.
I have also experienced both evolution and devolution, highs and lows, moments when I was convinced I had conquered the world (or at least my tiny slice of it) and (more frequent) moments when I wondered whether everyone would be better off if I were permanently absent.
To wit, it’s been a wild ride, full of unexpected turns, dark tunnels, bright lights, bad choices and marginally better ones.
And what is KS11 if not another flesh and blood traveler on this oft haunted and perpetually winding road we call life?
What is the point of my critiques, or even my expectations?
Me, the pot, mocking a kettle so much brighter than I that it may as well be on a different color spectrum altogether.
Ludicrous, really.
Would the world actually swing if I were king?
Or would it wonder when I lost my core card, when I transformed from “the guy” to “that guy”?
Indubitably, the latter.
If not for the magic touch of the marvelous Mrs. Rocks, I imagine my world would consist of the view from beside a mangled grocery cart under a tattered tarp, dumpster treasures scattered at my gnarled feet.
So, the dog’s name will stay the same.
The autographed book will continue to gather dust on my home office shelf.
And of course the memories, like the view of Parko and his middle finger salute from inside a heaving Kirra barrel, will remain.
As for this seemingly new guy who seeks to reap the benefits of his prior self’s 30 plus year utter domination of this mutant beast we call pro surfing?
More power to him.
But excuse me if I have some (other) place in my mind, where I go time to time.
*if you trudge through the archives to locate this piece, please ignore the various grit puns inserted post-publication by what I can only presume was an SEO maximizing bot. (Historians judging my contribution to pre-AI Apocalypse surf lit, take note.)