Eddie Vedder on Kelly Slater

Read an excerpt from the Pearl Jam legend’s introduction to a new book on the surfing icon, documented by photographer Todd Glaser.

Kelly Slater…A lot has been said. Kelly this. Kelly that. Surf films, magazines. Life-size posters in every surf shop. Eleven-time world champ, the ultimate GOAT. Thirty-plus years of being the most visible icon in the history of the sacred sport. And with all that… the press and admiration, the impact and inspiration, the titles and trophies…he is still underrated.

To quantify his influence, it’s been said that he is the Michael Jordan of surfing. No offense to M. J., but looking at Slater’s level of dominance throughout his career, it’s unparalleled. Michael Jordan is actually the Kelly Slater of basketball.

Here’s the thing—Kelly is different…bit of a freak. I’m not speaking derogatorily. Everyone who knows him has thought it, said it, been marveled by it. And just when you may think for a second that he is actually pretty normal, he will astound you with some act of freakishness.

It’s just the way he is. He’s a freak. Superfreak. A freak of nature… And, even more poignant, a freak with nature. Ninety seconds left in the heat, he’s down by seven or more points. There has been a lull, not a wave in sight. Thirty seconds left and suddenly a bit of corduroy shows itself upon the horizon. Ten seconds left, a peak begins to form, and just before the horn blows, K. takes off on a late take-off wave that came from absolutely nowhere.

And just when you think you’re witnessing a miracle, this wall jacks up and closes out on him, and way too deep, he disappears… And as you’re watching the seemingly unridden wave work towards shore, bouncing fifteen-foot whitewash towards the sky and thinking about what could have been…he comes shooting out of the barrel with the speed of a human cannonball. The roar on the beach erupts out of shock and dismay, minds having just been blown like the spit out of the doggy-door behind him. Luck, coincidence, wave-whisperer?

The fact that this drama has played out on more than a few occasions, you’d have to give some credit to some internal knowledge, a connection with the ocean and even a certain break. Or some insane karma. Or…that he’s a freak. A couple stories… His competitive nature. There was a time when Kelly would make an annual visit to this secret spot I used to hide out in, a little-known corner of the planet. If you were feeling reclusive, this place was an isolated dream. A perfect spot to surf, write, play, drink, go deep in conversation, or do nothing at all. During one of my stays in this beachside shack, I would take breaks from the writing and throw some darts. I got pretty good.

At some point in Kelly’s visit, I asked if he was up for a game. It became apparent rather quickly that this dartboard thing was perhaps the one thing he had no talent for. I was drilling the board quite proficiently and getting some big numbers, and he was sending more darts into the siding than the cork. I started feeling kind of terrible. Here’s my friend, traveled to get here, and now I’m pretty much crushing him… So I back off a bit, and he gets a few in. At least it’s not embarrassing. We get to his last turn, and he’s got three more darts…and I’m up by eleven. The guy who just started hitting the board is gonna have to hit three bullseyes to win. Not really possible. Ain’t happening.

But oddly the first one goes in. It was definitely a surprise— highly unlikely. And obviously lucky. But then the second throw. Another bulls. WTF? How does that happen? I’m, like, too stunned to say anything smart-ass as he aims his final dart into a tiny piece of crowded real estate and, of course, shockingly threads the needle, lands three bulls, twelve points, takes the game. I think his understated quote, delivered with wide eyes and ever so slight a smile, was, “Wow, crazy.” Um, yeah…crazy. He’s a freak.