The SURFING Blog: Memoirs of My Month, Chapter 3


Editor’s Note: Chas Smith is SURFING’s roving reporter on things in and around and sometimes unrelated to the world of surfing. We don’t ask questions.

I am skipping ahead in this story. To my today. Because the tour is back in Southern California settling into OK surf and morning sickness and thrilling heats between Kolohe Andino and Dane Reynolds. Professional surfing. Southern California. It so sexy!

And I am in Europe driving a Mercedes, drinking coffee and thinking about going to either Berlin or Milan though I can't really decide which. It so fab!

And even though I am removed from the action by two continents and one ocean, the Atlantic, I feed my fab with surfing's sexy. Surfing is so the sexiest thing on earth. Ever. Without equal. Sure sure, to be sure, it is sometimes difficult to feel sitting in the middle of the "industry" or not leaving "Newport Beach." But. Wandering through ancient Euro streets, all Germanic and proper, with sand still in my socks from a pre-flight session it is all very clear and obvious. And the Europeans stare wide-eyed at my salty blonde hair and I smile a Golden State smile.

Surfing is sexier than any of the other action sports. Sexier than any other pastime. It has mystique, it has history. It keeps participants fit and tan. Something about riding waves translates even to people who have never seen an ocean. Surfing, yeah, surfing is the sexiest.

So Slater and Smith (Jordy) and Ace and Jadson (Andre) attack Trestles in the early morning fog. And I reap the benefits far, far away.

You might think I'm foolish. But baby it's untrue. You might think I'm crazy. All I want is you. And, also, there is a pair of Gucci heels on my hotel room floor and a pair of silver studded Christian Loubs and a red streak of blood across one super white pillow. Sexy.

—Chas Smith