‘Kelp head’ testing political waters

Jefferson “Zuma Jay” Wagner sails up Latigo Canyon Road in his Dodge minivan.

He is complaining about the “beautiful people” marring Malibu with their egos -- building colossal homes on this iconic stretch of coast.

He has a wry, low-lidded gaze and bears such an uncanny resemblance to Clint Eastwood that he once did a beer commercial in Japan as Dirty Harry. His van has 275,000 miles on it and smells of unwashed wetsuits.

“I have a mega-mansion myself, 4,000 square feet,” he says. “I don’t even see parts of my house for weeks. Now, 17,000 square feet: What do you do with that?”

Wagner is owner of Zuma Jay Surf Boards, an institution of 33 years that has become a cultural crossroads in Malibu, drawing tourists, celebrities, workaday folk, billionaires and mom-driven surf groms from the Valley. He slept in the back of the shop for more than a decade and now holds court behind the counter, dispensing quips and esoteric commentary along with the leashes, wax and ding-repair kits.

The store has never been profitable enterprise so much as point of departure.

At 54, Wagner has been a hobo, Hollywood stuntman, pyrotechnician, weapons expert, Marlboro man, champion sailor, model for Ralph Lauren and Banana Republic, reserve sheriff’s deputy, lover of several supermodels and actresses, surf instructor to Britney Spears, author of a book on surf wax, owner of six acres of shaded canyon land just off Pacific Coast Highway and a man whose life story has been optioned by Universal Studios.

Now he is running for City Council in Malibu -- because he is angry.

On Latigo Canyon Road, he pulls up next to a telephone pole riddled with bullet holes, testament to a rural lifestyle that refuses to make an exit. Across the road is a wood bungalow from the 1930s, set discreetly beneath a canopy of oaks.

“These are the houses that Malibu used to be about,” he says. “This is the lifestyle Malibu used to be about. The owner of this is a schoolteacher.”

A silver car rounds the bend. “Right up the street is this guy,” Wagner says. “That’s a Bentley.”

Wagner wants to restrain what many see as an inexorable force: the transformation of Malibu’s end-of-the continent ruggedness into a gaudy version of Palm Beach.

Malibu has struggled with this tension over identity for decades, in the meantime evolving into a strange mix of contradictions.

Homes worth more than $20 million sit steps away from the likes of McDonald’s and KFC on a bumpy highway in constant need of repair. Trailers and modest houses lie hidden among eucalyptus and oak, while cantilevered castles loom on the ridges. And the environmentally conscious populace, surrounded by so much nature, produces some of the most polluted waters on the coast.

“There’s all this talk about green here,” Wagner says. “You know how much gets done: zero. We have all these wealthy people here who have failing septic systems. How is that possible?”

His detractors in Malibu’s small-town politics often describe him as “colorful,” conjuring the friendly surf bum stepping into an arena outside his realm. Even Wagner puts up a surfer’s front of insouciance, saying he just drifted into the many interesting circumstances of his life, like Forrest Gump.

And then he launches into a long discussion of economic theory, in which he nonchalantly and correctly uses the word “geosynchronous.”

His longtime girlfriend, Candace Brown, says he is as tortured and serious as anyone. “He lost his first wife in a plane crash,” she says. “He hasn’t gotten over it.”

She says he follows a rambling curiosity wherever it takes him, be it learning the ancient Chinese game of go, taking courses in gemology or becoming an expert in the use of explosives for special effects.

The state fire marshal regularly calls on Wagner to train firefighters how to inspect movie sets.

“He’s probably one of the top 10 highly regarded weapons experts around,” said Deputy State Fire Marshal Al Adams, who oversees the film industry’s use of explosives and firearms.

Wagner grew up in the wilds of Hidden Hills, on the other side of the mountains from Malibu. His mother was a bohemian jewelry maker, his father a knife salesman and devout atheist with an encyclopedic mind. As a child, Jeff came upon the Malibu surf scene at the peak of its golden era, with legends such as Mickey Dora and Johnny Fain finessing the waves that peeled so smoothly around the cobblestone point.

He attended the University of Pacific in Stockton on a track scholarship, where he fell in love and eloped with Shannon DeMeuse, the daughter of a wealthy hotel and property developer from San Francisco. A year later, in January 1974, she, her brother and her father were killed when their private plane crashed into a mountain in Utah. Wagner was devastated.

He set off to sail the world on the DeMeuses’ 73-foot racing yacht, Blackfin, ultimately delivering it to England for sale. When he returned to California, he started shaping surfboards in a shack on Zuma Beach.

Zuma Jay was born.

Two years later, in 1977, he moved to a small commercial strip a few hundred yards from the Malibu Pier, where the shop remains today.

Being a surf symbol in Malibu -- versus La Jolla or Dana Point -- quickly brought unexpected perks. Hollywood producers would visit the store looking for people who could do stunts in the water. Celebrities signed up for surf lessons. And top photographers sought out surfers to do modeling.

One day in the early 1980s, photographer Bruce Weber walked in and asked Wagner if he would like to model for a shoot at the pool at nearby Pepperdine University. Wagner was skeptical, wondering if this was some kind of ploy for gay sex.

When he learned the job paid $1,500 a day, his wariness vanished.

For the next dozen years or so, Wagner was a top model, working for Marlboro, Ralph Lauren, Banana Republic, AT&T;, Valentino and Umberto Ginocchietti. He earned enough to buy some land in Latigo Canyon and eventually built his home there.

He parlayed his Hollywood connections into more stunt work, then started up his own company renting firearms to the studios.

Since the war in Iraq, defense contractors have hired him to set up explosives for training exercises at military bases around Southern California.

So why does the self-described “kelp head” want the quotidian responsibility of municipal governance? His home isn’t even in the city of Malibu. To qualify as a candidate, he rents a small home on the beach within city limits. His critics say he’s playing fast and loose with the law.

Wagner has ventured into public affairs before. He unsuccessfully ran for the Malibu City Council in 1992. And in 2000, he won the concession to revive the Malibu Pier, a project he concedes has been a mess of delays.

The politics surrounding the April 8 election pivot largely around the issue of development and the performance of the current City Council. Wagner is one of five candidates running for three open seats.

Malibu city government is a unique animal. The city does not draw much revenue, leaving its annual budget no larger than working-class cities its size, about 13,000 residents. Yet a single zoning decision can have financial ramifications in the tens of millions of dollars. And unlike such places as Hawaiian Gardens or Signal Hill, Malibu’s actions affect 21 miles of coast treasured by people from all over the county and beyond.

Wagner says the city has been too slow cleaning up the water pollution and supports irresponsible retail projects that worsen traffic. But more than anything, he thinks it has approved too many variances for mansions.

Councilwoman Sharon Barovsky says Wagner simply does not understand how government works. “He hasn’t really been involved in anything other than the pier,” she said.

She points out that the council bought critical parkland, implemented inspections on septic systems and has tried to limit mansionization with tighter zoning regulations.

Wagner, who is out-funded by his opponents, says he thinks his only chance is to finish third, which would get him on the council.

He’s certainly gotten a taste of how contentious small-time politics can be.

First there was the anonymous letter: “You better never go to your house for 4 years if you run. We have people watching.”

Then the anonymous phone call:

“Mr Wagner?” the caller asked.

“Yes,” Wagner said.

“We have pictures of you.”

“Doing what?”

“Riding your bike on the sidewalk. It’s a vehicle code violation.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you’re not wearing a helmet. There’s a helmet law in California.”

Wagner laughed and told him to send the photos to the newspaper.

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joe.mozingo@latimes.com