In a rental car with broken air conditioning, somewhere south of L.A. on the 405, as afternoon temperatures rise, misery begins to take hold. Kelly Slater, in the passenger seat, has been talking about aerials: When he was 10, he saw someone catch air on a surf video and his mind exploded. That’s pretty standard stuff in surfing today, but back then, he points out, it was rare. Young Slater had no idea how to finish; he just zoomed up waves and launched, departing his board, taking flight with no plan in mind. “Why do that if you’ll never land it?” his dad asked. “One day I will,” he replied.
Now, though, he’s sweating. “I can’t take it anymore, man,” says Slater, who started this drive in sneakers, sweatpants and a hoodie. And then, there go the pants. That’s how he ended up riding shotgun in his boxers. Amid a series of emotional conversations, the metaphor has written itself: the world’s greatest surfer, laying himself bare.
It’s been a long day. Around 5 a.m. on March 25, Slater and his girlfriend of 14 years, Kalani Miller, loaded three surfboards, three massive suitcases and two carry-ons into a separate car at their house in Cocoa Beach, Fla., drove an hour to Orlando, flew to L.A., loaded up the rental with the busted AC and headed to Beverly Hills. Now they’re due south, toward a second home in San Clemente. Miller is napping in the backseat and Slater is yawning, resting his head on a hand beside an open window. Ready for home. See the dog, eat some food, rest. Another day in the life.
