Zachary Zezima is a surfer, animator, and filmmaker based in Los Angeles.
His latest film, "The Inevitable Return," is a short documentary that explores how military technology and atomic testing became intertwined with contemporary surfing along San Diego's beaches.
Using vérité footage and animation, the short movie follows Shuuluk, a Kumeyaay surfer, as he interacts daily with the effects and complexities of occupation on his land and in his sport, and reclaims it as a practice of joy, play, and connection.
"The Inevitable Return" won the Jury Award from the Honolulu Museum of Art's Honolulu Surf Film Festival.
It also screened at the Portuguese Surf Film Festival and the Maryland Film Festival, as well as at community events in San Diego, Oceanside, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.
SurferToday.com sat down with Zezima to know more about a visual experience that is both about surfing and politics.
What first sparked the idea for "The Inevitable Return"? Was there a specific moment in the water or in your research when you realized this story needed to be told?
The film originally came from experiences in the water, where I felt like surf culture could be pretty exclusive, territorial, and even violent. It got me thinking about why, and in my research into critical surf studies, I uncovered quite a few reasons - too many to make a film about, so I chose one topic: the military's influence.
When it became clear that wetsuits, wave forecasting, and surfboard shapes, designs, and materials all came from military scientists, I thought this was information contemporary surfers should know about. In my opinion, surf equipment detaches us somewhat from the ocean and gives us the impression that we can and should dominate it and each other. A sense of battle exists in the lineups of Southern California.
Surf films often celebrate escape and freedom. Yours seems to confront history and politics embedded in those same waves. What made you want to challenge the traditional surf movie narrative?
I felt like there are enough surf films that center on beauty, celebrity, performance, and even nature. Surfing is so much more than that, and it has a deep connection to various histories that are difficult to learn about. I think it's important to know the history of what one does, especially if it's a defining practice or identity marker.
"The Inevitable Return" links military technology and atomic testing to the culture of surfing in San Diego. For readers unfamiliar with this history, what is the connection, and why is it important to understand?
Many of these technologies originated in the highly militarized San Diego area, and surfers and watermen helped create them as well. As for atomic testing, which displaced and sickened many indigenous people in the name of science, it gave us things like wave-measuring buoys, eventually evolving into apps like Surfline.
Surfing is often portrayed as universal and borderless. But your documentary suggests the ocean is also deeply tied to land, sovereignty, and history. How does Shuuluk's perspective complicate the idea of surfing as a "free" space?
It calls into question who is in the lineup, how they got there, and why. If you're surfing in Southern California and you're not an Indigenous person, these questions should come into your head before every surf session.
The film speaks about occupation, a word that carries heavy historical and political meaning. In the context of the Kumeyaay coastline, what does that occupation look like today?
The coast in San Diego is highly developed, either for military use or for multi-million dollar real estate. While the military does literally occupy the land, most homeowners in the area, especially on the coast, likely don't consider themselves to be occupiers, even though I would argue that they are.
One of the documentary's most striking ideas is that modern surfing in Southern California exists alongside the legacy of the Cold War and nuclear testing. How did you uncover that history, and were you surprised by how little it's discussed
I learned about it in "The World in the Curl: An Unconventional History of Surfing" by Peter Westwick and Peter Neushul, as well as in "The Crest of the Wave: Adventures in Oceanography" by Willard Bascom. I read a lot to make this film, as most of the information in it isn't found anywhere else but in texts like these.
It makes sense, it's not discussed that much - it's not particularly accessible, and making this film was a part of trying to reverse that and make the information more available.
Do you think surfers generally understand the military history of the coastline they ride waves along, or is that story largely invisible?
In my experience, many surfers generally do not understand the history of the sport outside of key facts, and do not acknowledge the coastline in a meaningful or holistic way.
The film frames surfing not just as a sport but as a practice of joy, play, and connection. Why was it important to highlight that aspect rather than focusing only on trauma or loss?
It's not my intention, especially as someone who's not Indigenous, to make a film about trauma or loss. Pain is definitely a part of the story, but the day-to-day story is one of joy and connection, which gets a long highlight at the end of the film.
You combine vérité footage with animation, which isn't common in surf documentaries. What made that hybrid style necessary for telling this story?
For some of the historical elements, there were photos to accompany the narration, but other times, there was nothing. I decided to fill in those gaps myself through animation that felt more experimental and energetic, mimicking the way history itself is often constructed and pushed forward, with its own momentum and motives.
As both an animator and filmmaker, how did animation help you visualize histories or ideas that couldn't be captured with a camera alone?
I originally started as an illustrator and then moved into animation, and for me, both of these practices allow the unseeable to be seen and felt. It's not only important to me to visualize what hasn't been visualized before, but to also imbue that imagery with tone, feeling, and mood.
You describe yourself as a surfer first. How did your own relationship with surfing shape the way you approached the story?
I surf for fun, so when I see people surfing and getting angry, it just makes me confused. I think this film and the history in it help to identify the ways we've been manipulated as surfers into prioritizing performance and dominance over enjoyment.
Did making this film change how you think about surfing in Southern California?
Absolutely. I surf now with a mix of extreme gratitude and sorrow - but that's life. I enjoy it while I can and feel lucky to be able to.
Were there moments during filming with Shuuluk that shifted your understanding of the coastline you thought you already knew?
Shuuluk has a deep knowledge of the coastline and its history, and he helped me see that it's almost a living being, with its own life and ebbs and flows.
Have Kumeyaay viewers responded differently to the film than general audiences?
Generally, I've witnessed appreciation and respect for this film from Kumeyaay viewers, but I can't speak for the community as a whole. General audiences tend to be really drawn to the hidden histories that Indigenous communities are already well aware of.
What conversations do you hope the film starts within the surf community?
I hope the film broadens conversations about surfing as a community practice, not as an individual, self-serving sport. There are so many aspects to surfing that most surfers don't interrogate, or never thought to, so my goal for this film is for it to open some eyes and ears, and hopefully make surfers more curious about what they do, where they do it, and why.
Words by Luís MP | Founder of SurferToday.com
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