“You scared?” Chas Smith’s sauna-off with surf god Laird Hamilton

Laird Hamilton is no ordinary man and this would be no ordinary day.

Brendan and I are driving from San Diego to Malibu to visit Laird Hamilton at his house when he asks me, “Did you bring any water?” Brendan is from Vermont and still mostly lives there. I tell him that I did not because I harbor an inner belief that if/when the world falls into massive drought, I’ll survive just fine since I don’t drink water. Like a camel. He pulls over at a gas station and makes me buy a bottle even though my wife really hates single-use plastics.

I woke up early, for this, with a pile of pure, undiluted dread choking my throat knowing full well that, at least from the outside perspective, Laird Hamilton is no ordinary man and this would be no ordinary day. The sun was not close to up. The back and forth between Brad Pitt and George Clooney in the Oceans 11 remake perpetually on repeat any time I wake at this hour since waking at “this hour” generally means some poorly conceived nonsense conjured during a boozy evening when the feeling of “this hour” can’t be imagined.

Brad Pitt: “You scared?”

George Clooney: “You suicidal?”

Brad Pitt: “Only in the morning.”

I went downstairs, made myself an Americano on the fancy espresso machine I bought the wife for Mother’s Day, gagging on that dark roast espresso hot water dread cocktail, then went outside, grabbed a Channel Islands Pro from the garage and threw it into the back of Brendan’s truck. He had volunteered to drive with the hopes, I think, that we’d stop and surf somewhere along the way, either up or back.

I didn’t tell him that, almost certainly, I would not be in the mood for surfing.

Through North County, Camp Pendleton, the first taste of Southern California morning traffic near Long Beach, a thickening of it in Santa Monica before loosening its grip as we hit the Pacific Coast Highway north. The sun was shining though the surf terrible and colored a sickening red.

“That’s Topanga,” I told Brendan, pointing at some garbage baby point out the windshield. “There used to be a guy named Stu who yelled at everyone in the lineup even though the wave is garbage.” I know this because my friend Josh used to surf Topanga when he went to UCLA but that was 20 years ago so I don’t really know if Stu is valuable insider information anymore.

We pass a gas station and this is where Brendan asks me about the water. He makes me go inside and get one. I also did not have any breakfast so impulse buy a Hostess cherry pie. Those will last forever at the end of the world and I’ve inoculated myself to them.

From here it is up in the combustible grass-covered hills overlooking Malibu searching for Laird Hamilton’s house. His wife, Gabby Reece, had texted the address to me the week before. I had punched it into Google Maps wrong so we overshoot by a few miles then swing back around and find. It is somewhat non-descript though on a dynamic plot. Few neighbors, booming panoramic views of the Pacific.

I enter the provided gate code correctly, weird, and it slides open. Brendan and I slip through.

Now, walking on to any man’s property without first knocking always feels lightly awkward, to me at least. There’s an implied arrogance, just sauntering in like it is all communal, and especially when the property belongs to Laird Hamilton. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He is standing at the bottom of the driveway, sprinkled with mid-morning sun, dressed in trunks and no shirt. “Aloha,” he says, with little emotion, extending a hand when we reach the bottom, “I’m Laird.”

His grip is firm but not pretend alpha. Not proving a point. His eyes are almost yellow and he really looks into my dirty blues, studying but studying slowly. He is shorter than I thought he would be but not short. I tell him my name is Chas even though it is Charlie.

To Laird’s left is one of the larger private swimming pools I have ever seen. It is a giant square, not Olympic length but long enough and wildly girthy. Four or five men are climbing in or out. One is bouncing from the pool’s bottom to its surface holding two black dumbbells over his head.

Laird asks if I want to work out or just talk but the question feels loaded. The thought of coming to Laird Hamilton’s Malibu home where he and Gabby Reece invented the XPT, or Extreme Performance Training, method wherein wild exercises featuring underwater weight play and not work out seems like it would reveal poor character. I chortle and say, “work out.” I knew this was the only answer. I also secretly wanted to because I am stupidly arrogant.

“Well, go get into some trunks,” Laird instructs and Brendan and I huff back up the driveway to his truck. Andrew Garfield, I notice looking back, is one of the five or four men sitting on the pool’s coping, panting.

He was once Spiderman.

Laird is still standing at the bottom of the driveway when we come back down, waiting. “You warm the body up before you cool it down,” he says, motioning to a barrel-like sauna, and we follow him over and in, sitting down on already warm cedar benches. He ladles a spoonful of water onto the furnace and a sizzle of steam rises into the already cooking air.

Now, every surfer plus every Hollywood star knows who Laird Hamilton is and I won’t belittle you, reader, with a lengthy biography here. Just as a reminder, though, Laird Hamilton was actually born Laird Zerfas in San Francisco to a Greek father who abandoned the family directly. Laird’s mother packed her infant son to Oahu where she fell in love with the core surf legend Bill Hamilton and the two relocated to Kauai. Strikingly handsome, the young Laird was discovered by a fashion photographer and plied with the glamorous life of a model. Brooke Shields and Bruce Weber followed but it was not enough and he pivoted to the surfing life full time.

His bonafides, there, include originating tow surfing, pioneering Jaws, famously going “Oh my God” at Teahupo’o, making stand-up paddleboarding great again and foil surfing too, for that matter. For all intents and purposes, inventing two different sorts of surfing while becoming the face of monster wave wrangling to the general public.

He is considered, by many, to be the manliest man alive and by far and away the manliest surfer alive. Joe Rogan, who knows such things and such men, sits like a fawning 5’2 capybara at Laird’s feet, spooning down his wisdom as if it was turmeric cream. Burnishing his own bonafides by overly-pronouncing the first “r” in “turmeric” just so he knows that Laird knows that he knows that “turmeric” is spelled with two of them.

So what is it like to be the manliest man alive is the real question in my mind, in the boozy eve, especially in a day and age when “manly” and “man” are antiquated notions. How does it look, up close, to be, by all intents and purposes, a god of antiquity? Laird is, of course, likened to Poseidon more often than he is not. Ruler of the seas. And that’s why the dread and morning americano gagging etc. Laird Hamilton, even the idea of Laird Hamilton, tosses personal shortcomings into stark relief. Our slovenly living very un-chill by comparison with a tall Greek tale.

Or my slovenly living, at the very least.

The best jiujitsu coach in the world happens to be in the sauna, once we establish ourselves enough to look around and introduce. As pure mercy, maybe even a gift from above seeing that I’m on a noble quest, the best jiujitsu coach in the world recognizes me for a book I had written, complimenting it etc. Laird doesn’t care. Laird, from the look and early feel of it, doesn’t care about contrivances like clout because then he would not be Laird Hamilton. He is not dismissive but also not particularly interested. Why would he be? Spiderman is outside the sauna panting on his coping.

Rick Rubin, the world’s most famous music producer, is panting now too. Water droplets glisten on his signature silver beard as he slouches forward, spent.

Laird explains how it is important to heat up the core and explains the broad brushstrokes of the XPT approach. Basically, to stress the body out maximally. “I can get anyone to hold their breath for five minutes in a controlled environment…” he says and I’m thinking “not me” while he continues “… but holding your breath while taking waves on the head at Jaws or Mavericks is what we are doing here.”

I am listening to maximum stress blah blah though also distracted by the hotness. I had once claimed, on a podcast, that I could beat Laird in a sauna-off but am properly gushing sweat at the twenty minute mark. Laird is merely glowing. Still, even if he doesn’t know it, this is my moment and when he gets up to leave, I sit for a few more seconds, waiting for the door to close behind him. Those must be the proper rules in sauna-offs and I would have won if it weren’t Brendan, who came out after me.

Stinking Vermont.

Though, in truth, I am quietly appreciative to have liquid in my body to actually sweat.

Laird beckons us to the far side of the pool, instructs that we grab swim masks off the fence, sizes us up and tells us to select a few pairs of dumbbells from a giant dumbbell rack. He says, “I’m just going to walk you through some exercises so you get a feel for what we do here.”

He hops in, making a small splash, and we follow. The water is cold. The pool is deep. Laird explains the exercise, we are to let the dumbbell sink us to the bottom then push off, dumbbell overhead, steal a breath at surface and repeat except switch arms on the bottom. He demonstrates. Brendan and I watch then I make Brendan and go first.

Laird should not care about Brendan nor me doing this but every interval, for both of us, he presses his face underwater and watches our form and rhythm. He provides pointers, corrects positions, explains why the form is important.

Why does Laird Hamilton care? I am not Spiderman. Brendan is not Rick Rubin. Neither of us anything and especially not anything to him. I am a hyper-ironic surf journalist, according to Matt Warshaw’s Encyclopedia of Surfing. Brendan is a landscape architect and fungiculture expert, I think. And yet Laird is deeply engaged to us in this moment and it stands out.

We do another exercise, this one swimming across the pool, girth-wise, with a dumbbell pressed to our chests. A few times snagging breaths in between, then without breathing in between and I am dying. Laird is now standing at pool’s edge, encouraging, cajoling, instructing. “No excuses,” he says. I say, “American Spirits.” He responds, “Sure, it probably doesn’t help but no excuses.”

And here we go again. The “no excuses” mantra has never been credible, to me. I’ve never seen anyone actually live the “no excuses” life but when Laird says hacking darts doesn’t help with holding breath while holding dumbbells while swimming exercises, it is still not an excuse. Just another impediment that can obviously be overcome. I can see it in his face when he says it. Actually believing that there are no excuses is wild and it stands out.

After swimming back and forth while failing and making internal excuses, Laird asks if we want more. There is no way I’m saying no. I don’t want any more, at this point, but I know that Laird knows that I know this is now a battle of wills and I think he will continue to give as long as I do. Plus arrogance. Brendan is game for anything as are, I imagine, most people from Vermont.

Back to the sauna.

The pool was, truly, very cold, the workout colder, and I am actually looking forward to heating the core again but this time an new force enters the barrel.

One Gabrielle Reece.

If Laird is Poseidon, Gabby is Artemis. The goddess of the hunt plus vegetation (See: Laird SuperFood). She is wildly striking, a towering presence with more instantly palpable force than the god of the sea. Gaze fierce, handshake fiercer. She slides next to Laird, on the already warm ceder benches, and instantly dominates the entire space. The best jiujitsu coach in the world no longer here but three other clearly important and successful men are. She asks Laird which exercises he showed to Brendan and me, all of them have names, pondered which exercises would have been better, and laughs while the steam rises again.

Gabby, and I won’t belittle you, again, reader, with a lengthy biography, is a legend. Born in La Jolla, raised in Saint Thomas, New York and Florida, she became the very face of beach volleyball at its heady peak. Athlete, model, author, co-inventor of XPT, icon, wife and mother. Where Laird’s eyes study slowly, Gabby’s pierce and pierce quickly.

She is taller than Laird, maybe even taller than me and also Brendan, who is no slouch but does tend to slouch. A towering figure cut from marble. The conversation flows completely unfiltered.

There is chatter about daughters, family life, college choices for daughters and what the kids want to be, want to do. Imagine being born demigods. Laird, as it so happens, is a girl dad. He shares that living in his house is like being on an African safari. When one of the wild animals (daughters) approaches, he just remains still and hopes for some kind of contact. I very much understand. And it stands out.

My daughter is a ballerina. An honest to goodness one which is not what you, reader, imagine unless you’ve ever been a ballerina or parent to a ballerina. My other daughter is a D1 soccer star.

The hustle and grit, in both, is relentless.

Neither needing or wanting my input.

This second sauna session is also relentless, maybe twice as long as the first, and I feel that Laird must have felt that I beat him round one because round two keeps extending, I am sweating, sweating, sweating, but Laird is here and Gabby is here and there is no way I am tapping out. Brendan, next to me, is not tapping out either. He is from Vermont where “unity” is included in the state motto.

Gabby and Laird’s power dynamic is a compelling thing to witness. Like a beach volleyball match wherein each manages to corral the opposing side’s best bump, set, spike then deliver another bump, set, spike. Ball never touching sand. Laird talks about how their daughters are perpetually attempting to usurp Gabby’s throne. That’s the way it works, he says. Children always trying to take out parents and rule themselves. Gabby giving him a wicked side-eye. “You think that’s what’s happening? They can have my throne, happily, and do what I do.”

Earlier, in sauna session one, I thanked Laird for allowing this moment to happen. He looked at me, quizzically, and said, “You got by the gatekeeper.” The “gatekeeper” being Gabby. I imagine the annoyance of dealing with people like me, non-water drinkers and on that one piece of business alone, there is no way the daughters want her throne.

Point, that time, to Gabby.

They continue, her asking Laird what initial XPT exercises Laird dumbbell swam me and Brendan through, him sharing, her shaking her head and saying, “You should have…” Laird debating then agreeing. And it stands out. Alpha man Laird, god of the seas Laird, is in a dynamic ongoing power struggle with his wife and business partner that he loses more often than not.

Set, now, to Gabby.

This sauna session stretches on longer than the first, the remaining Brendan forced water-turned-sweat and now, also, death tickling my eyeballs, but it ends the same as the first. Laird leaving and my arrogance, which I now realized is based off metrics that I make up on the spot without telling anyone, is buoyed.

Sauna-off, and match, officially, to me.

Back to the pool and more dumbbell swimming, this time reprising the jumping off bottom with dumbbells raised high overhead and I actively cheat while Laird observes Brendan. I know that I’m only cheating myself but were you, reader, there? Did you see? If a surf journalist cheats in a pool and nobody witnesses is it really cheating or just smart?

In truth, I know it is not smart. Laird Hamilton did not become Laird Hamilton by cheating.

I cheated, in any case, and pretended that I didn’t and that was the end of the workout. Out of the pool, internally heaving, dripping, feeling like a cheater but also feeling authentically me.

Gabby asks if Brendan and I want coffee before the proper just talking bit begins and we follow her into the house, gorgeously modern mixed with the bleeding edge of fitness. Hyperbaric chambers and whatnot. She graciously draws two ceramic cups of Laird Superfood coffee from a Laird Superfood coffee machine taking up the back wall, mixing in Laird Superfood creamer. I am terrified of a migraine headache so make Brendan drink mine, begrudgingly accepting that he is likely a better fit for the apocalypse than me.

Laird showered during this point, another thing I don’t do nearly as often as I should due an inner belief that if/when the world falls into massive drought, I’ll smell better than average since my body will be used to stinking.

I sell it to my wife as environmentalism.

We chat with Gabby a little more and I continue to be impressed with both her candor and complete lack of wariness, especially about me. And Brendan. The conversation moves upstairs before I go sit with Laird at a handsome blonde dining room table inlaid with either resin or maybe marble.

He is dressed in a charcoal polo shirt, hair slicked back, fresh and clean.

I ask him about the secret to a remarkable life and he tells me, “I don’t know if there is such a thing, I think we’re all on the same boat. I think it’s easy to look upon someone else’s life and envy it but I think that the pendulum swings and I think you don’t know great joy without great suffering. If your suffering is light then your joy will be light. If your suffering is great than you joy will be great. And I think it’s about that process. So if you are looking for more out of your life, get ready to suffer more.”

I ask him what excites him about the future of surf and he tells me, “There’s an endless frontier. There’s no end to the ways that waves can be ridden. There is no end, nor beginning. It’s just a continuation of the passion to ride nature.”

I ask him how old Laird is different from young Laird and he tells me, “I’m a sniper, now, not a duck hunter. More patient, better at waiting for things to come at their pace and not trying to make them my pace.”

He also tells me to, “Earn your food, earn your sleep. You don’t get that stuff for free. There’s a consequence for everything.”

We move to the kitchen after I run out of questions and he seems in no hurry to boot Brendan and I out of his life. He makes me a refreshing coconut-based rehydrating drink using fancy water from a fancy water swirler and we small talk about cars, travel, education, life and it all stands out. Laird Hamilton is not filling his hours with empty wastes or put-upon tasks. “Intentionality” is a vastly overused concept in this modern day but he seems to be living every moment of every day with real purpose, direction and integrity. To be living the very existence that seems like it has to be a marketing facade but it isn’t.

It is him.

At the end, he walks Brendan and I back to the driveway and watches as we disappear through the gate, exhausted but weirdly fulfilled. He’s still there, as far as I know, sprinkled with mid-afternoon sun, representing what we could all be if we didn’t cheat.

Yes, what we, you and I dear reader, could all be if we didn’t cheat but were also preternaturally gifted, strikingly handsome, conscious, well-showered, driven, fit, had homes in Kauai and Malibu, a massive girth pool with lots of dumbbells, hyperbaric chambers, eponymous nutrition companies, well-read jiu-jitsu masters, Rick Rubin, Spiderman and Gabrielle Reece.

Still, Laird Hamilton stands out.

(This story first appeared in issue 35.2 of The Surfer’s Journal, still the best magazine of its sort, genre, etc. Subscribe here.)