"Chubby," by Kimo Hollinger, ran in the March 1976 issue of SURFER. It has been slightly edited and shortened.

He stood about 5'9" and weighed roughly 300 pounds. When queried by an airline stewardess as to his exact weight, he beckoned for her ear and shouted in it "282!" He often said he was pure Hawaiian, and when I would quiz him as to the “Mitchell,’’ his last name, he would feign anger and tell me to mind my own business. Atop his head, except when surfing or sleeping, was a battered and worn Kona hat, his most prized material possession. To touch his hat was an unpardonable sin. A girl who did this at a party was cooly admonished with, “Honey, you can kick me in the balls, but please don’t touch my hat.” (Adding to the hilarity of Chubby’s one-liners was a slight stammer, which became more pronounced when his dander was roused.) The rest of the Chub’s wardrobe consisted of a pair of his favorite shorts, an aloha shirt, and a pair of topsiders with no socks, all purchased at the local “Big Boy” store. For wheels, the Chubs had an old panel truck with an empty soda-pop box for a passenger seat.

He had a custom-made Velzy-Jacobs surfboard, but when this was out of commission, he could always count on his beachboy friends to provide him with an extra tandem board.

Chubby loved to cook, which made his presence at any and all occasions welcome. This talent for cooking enabled the Chubs to get gigs at various restaurants. Invariably, poor surfing acquaintances, myself included, would show up for a free meal. This did not always put Chubby in good stead with his bosses, but whoever heard the Chubs say no to a hungry friend?

Chubby was a fine athlete in spite of his height-to-weight ratio. He had been a good football player in high school and college, winning scholarships at both levels. But it was more for his extracurricular activities than his athletic prowess that Chubby was known. It is rumored that Chubby fell asleep in a snowdrift during a snowstorm in Kansas with no clothes on, and survived the night with no ill effects. (This excellent insulation that Chubby was blessed with also enabled him to surf Santa Cruz in the dead of winter for hours at a stretch without a wetsuit to the total amazement of the local surfers.) When asked, while attending college in San Jose, what his noble ancestors had contributed to history, Chubby replied, “They ate Captain Cook.’’ Chubby was also an excellent skindiver. I'll never forget the Chubs, completely naked, with only one fin on, lining up a hole outside Diamond Head in an adverse current caused by a tide change, and then trying to propel his buoyant body to the bottom for a shot. And that’s all the bottom time he ever had, one shot. And he brought up his share of fish.

But Chubby was most famous as a surfer. When his surfing and nap schedule didn’t conflict, Chubby would put on a performance. Because of his weight and short arms, Chubby wasn't the world’s greatest surfboard paddler. He got into waves when they were practically coming over. But once he stood up, it was pure poetry. He would stall his board to the last second, swing it around, step up, and let go. Hallelujah to anyone or anything that got in his way. The whitewater was treated as an afterthought. The Chubs would lean a rail into it, take his stance, and barrel through. Once out on the shoulder, he’d back up on his board and pull a cutback that left Dewey Weber envious. He would then destroy the next section and kick out. Meanwhile, on the beach, everyone's mind is blown. After awhile, he'd paddle in, balance his board atop his head, and delicately walk up the beach to his waiting panel truck.

We are now getting down to the nitty-gritty.

Let it never be said that C. James Mitchell did not enjoy a meal. After the surfing was over, it was time to concentrate all efforts on a more tangible enterprise. As Chubby was one of the few fortunate amongst us to be born great, he therefore excelled in all aspects of life. Eating was no exception. The tales are many, the feats awesome. I will recount a little story: We’re down at the bowling alley taking up the slack, and somebody mentions that the surf's up. There are too many guys for one car, so it’s agreed we take two. Conrad Canha and his syndicate in one, and Chubby, Don Manoukian (the professional wrestler), and myself in the Chub's truck.

But first we had to go up to Chubby’s mother’s house in Manoa to get his board. Then we had to stop on Kekaulike Street for a “Hawaiian breakfast,’’ beef stew, extra rice, biscuits, and two cups of coffee. After Chubby and Don finished that meal, we left the city, made it through the canefields, and were cruising along the seashore about to enter Nanakuli when Chubby said, “Hey you guys, do you mind if I stop and say hello to my auntie?” What could I say? He was driving. Manoukian was obviously thrilled. Chubby hung a turn into the Hawaiian Homestead. We arrived at his auntie’s, and the sweet aroma of fish frying wafted through the air. Wanting to surf, I had passed on the Hawaiian breakfast and was sure that after watching Chubby and Manouk devour theirs only an hour before, those two would also pass on a second meal at auntie's. Needless to say, I was wrong.

I started to feel apprehensive. Were we ever going surfing, or was this some sort of an eating contest? (I was 18 years old and on my way up. Who had time to eat when there were waves to be ridden?) I must admit that watching them smash that crispy-fried Kumu and sour poi and not partaking after continuous chiding was an excruciating experience. Chubby and Manoukian were so engrossed in their task they barely knew I even existed. When they finally finished and Chubby had completed washing his face and hands (at restaurants he’d request a finger bowl), and Manoukian had won over the auntie and her family, and all had said numerous “Thank you’s,” we continued our trek to Makaha. Because Conrad had zipped out in ahead of in his late-model Mercury, and had not stopped along the way, he and his gang had been surfing for three hours, were tired, and were going to hit it back to town. The Chubs and Manouk were already getting the panel truck ready for the noon siesta, and I knew I was surfing alone for a while until someone else came, or they woke up.

In time, other surfers started to arrive. I asked them the status of Chubby and Manoukian on the beach. No one could admit to seeing the Chubs, but they had seen his truck minus any activity. Finally, after surfing for three hours, I got bored and went in. I tried to wake the Chubs and Manoukian, but got nothing but flak in the form of a few grunts and a couple of half kicks. Finally, in the late afternoon, his majesty made an appearance. This is the best time of day to surf Makaha, and the Chubs put on an exhibition. Manoukian and I were the only ones present for the treat. The Chubs dissected the tubes and annihilated the soup, the most concentrated hotdogging I ever saw him do. After it was over, satiated with surf, sun, and good vibes, we relaxed and relished the apres surf.

By this time, I was famished. I called my parents and asked if I could stop by their place for dinner. I also asked if I could bring along a couple of friends. My dad asked, "Who?” I said, “Chubby and Don Manoukian, the wrestler.” My dad gasped and hung up. I presumed it was alright. My mom immediately made it to the market for another pork roast. My parents’ home is a humble abode, nothing fancy, but plenty to eat and drink.

When we arrived, my family had already eaten, and the table was set for us. Manoukian loves to eat, but is also a talker. The Chubs, on the other hand, concentrated on his meal. What was left of the first roast went. The second was being served when my dad shouted, “The man needs a towel." My dad, also called “Chubby,” and also a character, got a towel and wiped the perspiration from Chubby's face between bites. My mom and my brother Mike were awestruck. Manoukian now realized the folly of his misdirected energies, recovered, and began making up for lost time. The second roast went. Soon all the trimmings followed, and then the dessert. To this day, I am amazed that our little shack survived such a cataclysmic event. My mom and dad, I am sure, were honored by the presence of such distinguished personages, and never a word was said about the damage that was done. Of course, the Chubs and Don fawned over my mother, telling her how good everything was, and was one of the highlights of her cooking career. And, of course, my dad always had a new story to tell, and was happy. That’s how it always was with Chubby around. Everyone was happy.

Chubby was an excellent ukelele player and was the first to turn me on to hard jazz. His sense of humor was unparalleled, specializing in those one-liners. He’d be alternately dozing and waking up, and you’d be full-on rapping. When you’d least expect it, he’d hit you, and there was no comeback. Chubby was asked at a party once by this girl what his philosophy of life was. Chubby looked her over, shrugged, and replied, “Sweetie, if can, can. If no can, no can. And you can?" With all the bullshit that is passed out at Waikiki Beach these days, it is comforting to know that I knew the original.

I have tried here to give those who didn’t know Chubby an insight into what it was like to be a small part of his world, and a chance for those of us who did know him to reminisce a while. But I haven’t scratched the surface. There is so much more. Sammy Lee told me this one: Chubby promoted this get-together at Harry D's restaurant. He said it was his birthday. Everyone ate and drank to their heart’s content. When presented with the bill, Chubby started bawling. Sammy and the rest went sprinting down the sidewalk. When they felt it was safe to stop and take stock, they realized Chubs was missing. They snuck back to the restaurant, and lo and behold, there was the Chubs trying to escape through a window. He was stuck, and the waitresses and cooks that were pulling at his legs added to his woes. The troops couldn’t let Chubby sink, and they went to his rescue, but no one had any money.

Then, as if by some miracle, this proper-looking Oriental dude steps forward and picks up the tab. Chubby stops struggling, dries his eyes, and gives the guy a big hug. It seems that he and the Chubs had been classmates in grammar school, and to know the Chubs was to be his friend forever. Everyone thanked the guy, and it was business as usual, time for the next caper. And so it went.

As big as Chubby’s physical stature and appetite and sense of humor and rascality and surfing ability were, none of these things were as big as his heart. Chubby never had a bad word to say about anyone, and there wasn’t a prejudiced bone in his body. His friends were legion and came from all places and every walk of life. He’d sit under the 

 tree in front of the old Outrigger Canoe Club and dispense his special brand of magic to the faithful. If any group was singled out for special attention by the Chubs, it was the gremmies. When I was a grem, I got the treatment. When I got older and chesty, and young kids were a drag, I couldn’t fathom how the Chubs could be so patient and understanding with those brats. But that was Chubby. He’d listen to anyone’s hard-luck story, and if he could help, he would.

No less an authority than "Black Butch” Van Artsdalen can attest to Chubby’s hospitality. As a La Jolla grem, Butch would frequently venture north for the surf and scenery. A must stop on the way was Chubby’s pad in Manhattan Beach, specializing in beef tomato and rice, soft ukulele music, an extra sleeping bag, and good company. Chubby, above all the other people I knew on the beach, epitomized the Aloha Spirit that we hear so much about but rarely experience.

There never will be another Chubby. No one will take his place. Life goes on, and human values change. A race of people so unique because of their gentleness and generosity passes on, assimilated into that great American catch-all called progress. To pay our respects to Chubby and the Hawaiian people is to value the human experience, to care, to love. Would I be mistaken in believing that perhaps if more of us would accept this feeling of aloha and love for the land, this earth would be a better place to live in?

And if so, what tribute for Chubby? Nothing elaborate, nothing presumptuous. Some day, if there ever is a Surfers Hall of Fame, maybe between Greg Noll’s striped big-wave shorts and Lance Carson’s noserider, there will be that old battered Kona hat.

"CHUBBY," BY KIMO HOLLINGER (1976)

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