If God Could Surf

Kelly Slater had it all: World championships, movie-star looks, celebrity status. But all he wanted was to prove he could still walk on water

"Life is good, right?" Trick question. You say no, and you risk offending the gods. A wolf blows your house down. Your dog is killed by a grand piano falling out of an apartment window. You go to Brazil and it's rainy and cold. You say yes, and everything stops right where it is. You never get bumped up to first class. It's always partly cloudy. You don't win your seventh surfing world championship.

Life is good? Maybe. But it could be better, right? Could always be better. Could be worse, too, usually. We know this. Still, we ask the question, most often of people about whom we think we know the answer-the rich, the famous, the celebrated. We look at their lives, what we think their lives to be, and want to know not so much if all is indeed good, but how good. Is it like we imagine? Better? Worse? Our eyes widen. Tell us. Now.

People ask Kelly Slater all the time. It's hard to blame them. He is, after all, different from you and me. He's Kelly Slater. So people ask. Like in early November, on a beach in southern Brazil. Chilly, gray day. Lousy waves. He has just won his third-round heat at the Nova Schin Pro, the penultimate stop on the World Championship Tour, surfing's marquee series. The next day will offer the chance to sew up a record seventh world championship, the culmination of a career comeback as impressive as any in sports.

Life is good, right?

Slater smiles and says, "Yeah, sure, for now."

Trick question. Lose tomorrow, and the season-long series will go down to the tour's final event, the Rip Curl Pro Pipeline Masters on Oahu's North Shore (Dec. 8-20). Win tomorrow, and Slater could become surfing's oldest world champ.

He already holds the distinction of being the youngest, having won his first title in 1992, at 20. He was voted Surfer Magazine's top rider from 1993-2001, and 2004-2005, an extraordinary run considering he retired following the '98 season, after winning his sixth title. Like Michael Jordan, whose career and impact are most often cited as analogous to his own, Slater walked away from his sport as champion (though he competed as a wild card and won events in both '99 and 2000). Like Jordan, he did more than just win. He introduced hyper-competitiveness to the break, and he kick-started an evolution of the sport, doing things no one had seen, or in some cases even imagined-such as multiple 360s, which he was doing by age 12. Moreover, he did it with the inimitable, intangible charisma that translates to something bigger than the sum of its parts. He was a superstar, surfing's first.

He quit at 26, burned out from the tour—as many as 13 events from March through December, with stops on every continent but Antarctica. He had a daughter to help care for, Taylor (now 9 and living with her mother, Slater's ex-girlfriend). He turned his attention toward other interests. He was on Baywatch for a season (the character Jimmy Slade, anyone?) and, yes, he dated Pamela Anderson. He modeled for Versace. Always passionate about music, he played a lot of guitar and released an album, Songs From the Pipe, with his band, The Surfers. The video game Kelly Slater's Pro Surfer hit shelves, as did an autobiography. He became a boldfaced name, hung out with movie and rock stars and kept his lucrative Quiksilver sponsorship.

Life was good, right?

Then, in 2001, Kelly's father, Steve, was given a diagnosis of cancer. The two had a relationship that could be difficult at times. Steve struggled with alcohol, and Kelly had been raised mostly by his mother, Judy, in Cocoa Beach, Fla. (His parents split up when he was 11.) After the diagnosis, Kelly spent more time in his hometown to be near his dad during treatment. Suddenly, surfing became a refuge, and Steve was enthusiastic about his son's decision to compete on the 2002 tour. But Steve's condition deteriorated quickly. He died in April 2002, while Slater was in California between tour events.

The surf world had changed in the three years he'd been away. In 2002, Kauai native Andy Irons won his first world title, finishing with a victory at Pipeline before a Hawaiian crowd that made it clear they favored the local rider over the sport's biggest celeb. The 2003 title came down to a Slater-Irons showdown at Pipeline, in the final heat, and Irons again raised the trophy. Last year, Irons won No. 3, with Slater coming in third.

It's enough to make you think Slater would be a little tense in Brazil. The Nova Schin Pro is taking place near the city of Florianópolis, on a barrier island about 350 miles south of Sao Paulo. Slater has arrived here with a substantial lead in the WCT standings. He could have wrapped up the title in France at the tour's previous event, but Irons prevailed there. If Irons reaches the semifinals in Brazil and finishes ahead of Slater, the title chase again heads to Pipeline.

For his part, Slater is serious about wrapping here, so serious that he put the word to his people: no press, no TV, no photo shoots—no distractions. He even asked top officials at Quiksilver to keep the champagne on ice, plan a party in Hawaii and stay home. Let him surf in Brazil. Alone.

Which isn't actually possible. In Florianópolis, it's all Kell-lee! Kell-lee! Kell-lee! He can't walk down the street without being mobbed by fans, who follow him around like a miniature weather system. Brazilians have their own rather singular notion of personal space. Think: suffocating. But Slater is used to it. He has been surfing here since he was 20. He graciously signs and poses, signs and poses, as the locals tell him they're pulling for him to win the title here. In a country with 4,578 miles of coastline and a passionate beachgoing culture, he is definitely a star. He has also been in the local news of late, thanks to tabloid speculation about a romance with Brazil's most super supermodel, Gisele.

"That thing is actually so funny to me," Slater says one night while hanging at the house he's renting with two other surfers for the event. He met Gisele three months ago at a surf contest in California, and now they're phone pals. "We're friends, but that's about it," Slater says. Part of the singularity of being Kelly Slater is that he's chatting with Gisele one moment and hanging out with the guys on tour the next—a strange combination of fabulousness and ocean-water brine.

THERE IS little swell for the first few days of the contest, so competition is postponed after the first round. Slater spends his afternoons surfing at remote breaks, where no one will freak at his presence. He spends most of his downtime at the house, where the vibe is mature dorm: no wild parties, but lots of energy drinks and snack food. He strums the guitar, makes goodnatured fun of his roommates and does a spot-on impression of Saturday Night Live's Tracy Morgan doing the sketch character Brian Fellows, zoologist host of "Brian Fellows' Safari Planet."

There are also various social obligationslunch here, dinner there. One night, a party is held in Slater's honor at the home of the owner of the TV network broadcasting the Nova Schin. He's a surfer. His place has a helicopter landing pad, a soccer field and a massive stone grill in the kitchen for Brazilian barbecue. Waitstaff serve grilled meats and caipirinhas. Other than Slater's crew, there are a handful of Brazilian surfers and a gaggle of girls, mostly friends of the host's twentysomething daughter, most of whom don't speak English. On a small stage, a guy plays keyboard and sings loungey U.S. pop covers. Turns out he's Italian and his usual gig is playing at a casino in Monte Carlo; he was flown in for the party. Slater claps after every song.

After a while, Slater is implored to join in, and readily does, plugging his acoustic guitar into an amp. He sings and strums Coldplay and Jack Johnson, as well as some of his own songs. Does he do this kind of thing often? "As often as anyone will let him," says longtime friend Todd Kline, a former pro who works for Quiksilver and whose job is, loosely, Kelly Slater tour management.

Slater is something of a natural on stage. Which is not surprising, as he tends to be naturally good at most things. Take golf. In recent years he's developed a serious addiction. He has a singledigit handicap and doesn't rule out one day trying to play professionally. Says another friend: "He plays golf like he plays poker, like he surfs, like he does everything. Focused. Aggressive. Intense." Like he drives. After the party, everyone piles into the van for the ride back to the house. Hip-hop blares. Behind the wheel, Slater the mellow guitarist is more prone to rhyming with Biggie, Puffy, Tupac and Mase. As he bobs his head and sings to the music, he speeds along, swerving up on the sides of the giant sand dunes that abut the road. Everyone laughs, calls for air. It's as if he's driving up the face of a wave.
Life is good, right?

THE SWELL never comes. The competition is moved to a break two hours south. The drive there is via a single-lane stretch that the locals call the Road of Death, and with good reason. There's apparently a direct correlation between Brazilian driving etiquette and the nation's attitude toward personal space.

On the last day of the contest, there is some measure of apprehension in Slater for the first time. It's almost as if, up until now, he and everyone around him have been going out of their way not to bring up the title-because it's clearly something Slater would rather not talk about, especially on the way to the event. So the topic becomes the 400-pound gorilla in the car. One way or another, the contest will finish today. The world championship battle could end as well.

Slater and Irons are not particularly friendly rivals. Though they share similarities in how they surf, they are in many ways opposites. Slater is at home in the spotlight; he's had years of practice. He is seemingly most happy when talking about anything other than surfing: music, movies, politics. He has apartments in Florida, Southern California and Australia. Irons, on the other hand, is most comfortable discussing his sport, at home in the close-knit, surf-dominated community of Hanalei, Kauai.

Driving to the beach-it's raining, of course-Slater listens to Michael Jackson. (Oddly, there's no limo to shuttle the six-time world champion, which raises the question: would Lance Armstrong drive himself to a stage in the Tour de France?) Slater sings along to "Rock With You," then shakes his head when the song ends. "I really hate Michael Jackson for becoming a freak," he says. "The guy is a genius. It's a waste." What does Slater listen to before surfing? "Nothing. Everything. Whatever."

He watches early heats from the competitors' viewing stand. Despite the rain and chill, a few thousand spectators crowd the beach and surrounding dunes. When it's time for Slater to surf, security guards clear a path, then encircle him with their arms so fans don't approach.

It isn't until midway through his 30-minute heat that anyone realizes Slater is in trouble. As time ticks down, an announcer says that he needs a 5.74 on his next ride, not a huge score, but the waves, already small and sloppy, dissipate by the moment. The tension is palpable, as if the notion of Slater losing is something no one had even considered. When it happens, only a handful of Irons supporters clap. Slater walks out of the water to silence. He hops into the competitors' warm Jacuzzi and sits in it alone, squinting against the cameras of maybe 50 photographers.

He is dressed and back on the viewing stand to watch Irons advance through his heat. About a half-hour later, Slater wants to leave, even though he'll still win the championship if Irons loses his upcoming quarterfinal heat. Too much anxiety, he says.

Security clears a path so Slater can hop into his car. As soon as he does, the vehicle is surrounded by fans pressed up against the windows. "Kell-lee! Kell-lee! Kell-lee!" But once inside, Slater says he's changed his mind. It wouldn't be gracious if he left. He remembers something that surfer C.J. Hobgood, a fellow Floridian and good friend, told him earlier, after pulling him aside in an attempt to cheer him up: "C.J. said that if it goes to Pipe, it'll be great for the sport. Having it end there between me and Andy would be amazing, and that I should be stoked to try and win it there. He's right."

An hour later, Irons surfs against Australian Nathan Hedge. If Irons wins, the championship will be decided at Pipe-again. If Hedge wins, Slater is the world champ. Before he gets in the water, Hedge tells Slater he's going to secure the title for him. Slater, watching from the viewing stand, pumps his fist with every move Hedge makes.

As the minutes pass, and it becomes clear that Irons is not going to win, the thousands of fans and hundreds of photographers are no longer looking toward the water but have turned toward the viewing stand, toward Slater. The fans start to cheer and, of course, chant his name. The announcer counts down the last five seconds, and the horn blows, ending the heat. The crowd erupts, as does the viewing stand. Slater stands, arms stretched above him. Seven years earlier, he had predicted he would someday become surfing's oldest champion. Tears run down his cheeks.

On the car ride back to the house, he listens to more Michael Jackson. Slater is the best in the world, again, his seventh title the culmination of a tremendous season-and career. He looks as much relieved as elated. He calls his daughter and friends and family. Later, he has dinner with a group that includes Hobgood and his twin brother, Damien (who won the contest), and Damien's wife. The owner of the restaurant sends over champagne. Afterward, everyone heads to a club for a party in Slater's honor. He walks though the kitchen entrance and is whisked to a VIP balcony, where more well-wishers offer their well wishes. Slater is enjoying himself, and at one point leaves the confines of the balcony for a walk among the adoring masses on the main floor. Soon he's back upstairs, where, truth is, he doesn't know that many people.

The next day, he heads to the airport. He's flying to Sao Paulo and decides to bring his world championship trophy on the plane as a carry-on. At the gate, Todd Kline tells Slater that Irons is on the same flight. The two have yet to speak since Slater won. Irons left the beach after losing his heat, saying he didn't want to get in the way of Kelly's moment. Almost as soon as Slater gets to the gate, Irons approaches. He offers a quick handshake and congratulations, and Slater thanks him. On the plane, Irons is sitting a few rows ahead of Slater, close enough to hear the stream of congratulations.

There has been plenty of speculation about whether Slater will now retire a second time. He says he hasn't decided, that there is an allure to defending the title. He will surf at the Pipe Masters, and after that … "I have no idea," he says. "No idea."

His ambiguous response is not a surprise, considering he often answers questions with a pun. At the airport in Sao Paulo, he's asked why. "I guess I like puns because they're two things at once," he says. With his win in Brazil, Slater recemented his stature as the greatest surfer ever. Life has been good. Life is good, right now. But nothing stops where it is. And as he ponders the meaning of puns, it seems as if Slater would like to figure out how to be something else at the same time too. He's asked if he remembers a pun he came up with at his triumphant party in Brazil.

His response: "No. I don't. Very vague. Isn't it weird that vague in French means wave?"

Yes. And no.

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