Let My People Go Surfing
The Education of a Reluctant Businessman
by Yvon Chouinard
Most businesses optimize for a single metric: profit.
But what if a company optimized for something else—like environmental sustainability, employee happiness, and product quality—and still managed to thrive?
Let My People Go Surfing (2005) reveals how Patagonia has done exactly that. This isn't just the story of an outdoor clothing company; it's a blueprint for building a business that stands for something beyond the bottom line.
About the author
Yvon Chouinard is the founder and owner of Patagonia, based in Ventura, California. He began his career by designing rock climbing tools before moving on to a variety of environmentally friendly and sustainable products for outdoor adventurers. He has also founded several initiatives and charities that support environmental causes.
The Company That Refused to Follow the Rules
Look at your outdoor gear. If any piece has the Patagonia label, you're holding more than just a product—you're holding a statement.
That windbreaker or backpack represents a radical business experiment: Can a company prioritize the planet over profit and still survive?
For decades, conventional business wisdom said no. Patagonia said yes.
Most companies view success through a single lens—quarterly earnings. Patagonia uses a different measure: Will our grandchildren have a planet worth living on?
This isn't just clever marketing. It's the foundation of a business that has thrived by breaking nearly every rule in the corporate handbook.
The Blacksmith Who Built a Revolution
The best business solutions often come from solving your own problems.
Yvon Chouinard didn't set out to create a multinational company. He just wanted better climbing gear.
Born in Maine in 1938 to a French-Canadian family, Chouinard found himself an outsider when his family relocated to California. In the mountains, however, he found his place. Climbing became more than a hobby—it became his identity.
But there was a problem.
The climbing equipment available in the 1950s was bulky, inefficient, and damaging to the rock faces Chouinard loved. European manufacturers approached climbing as a conquest of nature, building tools that scarred the very environment climbers came to experience.
Chouinard's solution was simple: He would make his own gear.
Teaching himself blacksmithing, he began crafting equipment that was lighter, stronger, and more functional. Soon, fellow climbers noticed. They wanted his gear, too.
"I never wanted to be a businessman," Chouinard often says. Yet by solving his own problem, he inadvertently built a business.
By 1970, Chouinard Equipment had become the largest climbing hardware supplier in the United States. Success brought its own challenges, though. Chouinard noticed that his popular pitons—metal spikes hammered into rock cracks—were damaging climbing routes as they were left behind.
Most companies would have ignored this problem. After all, pitons were their bestsellers.
Instead, Chouinard made a decision that defines Patagonia to this day: He completely phased out pitons in favor of environmentally friendly aluminum chocks.
It was a move that could have bankrupted the company. Instead, it established a principle that would guide every future decision: When faced with a choice between profit and planet, choose the planet.
When a Surfer Becomes a CEO
"I've been a businessman for almost sixty years. It's as difficult for me to say those words as it is for someone to admit to being an alcoholic."
These words open Chouinard's book, revealing the tension at Patagonia's heart: a company founded by someone who never wanted to run one.
With climbing gear established but limited to a niche market, Chouinard faced a choice: stay small or expand. He chose the latter, but on his own terms.
In 1973, he launched a clothing line under a new name: Patagonia. The principles remained unchanged—simple, functional, durable products that solved real problems for outdoor enthusiasts.
The transition wasn't smooth. An early shipment of rugby shirts arrived late and poorly made. The company had to sell them below cost, pushing Patagonia toward financial disaster. They even contemplated a loan with 28% interest—the business equivalent of a payday loan.
This crisis forced Chouinard to confront an uncomfortable truth: loving the outdoors wasn't enough. He needed to become what he'd always avoided—a businessman.
But Chouinard approached business the same way he approached climbing: by rethinking conventional wisdom.
While other outdoor clothing was drab and utilitarian, Patagonia introduced vibrant colors. Where competitors sold individual garments, Patagonia introduced the concept of layering—teaching customers to use fewer, more versatile pieces together.
These innovations weren't just good for sales. They reflected Chouinard's belief that consumption itself was problematic. If customers bought fewer, better items that lasted longer, both they and the environment would benefit.
"The more you know, the less you need," became a company mantra—perhaps the only retail business actively encouraging customers to buy less.
The Crisis That Defined a Company
Success is often more dangerous than failure.
By the late 1980s, Patagonia was growing rapidly. Revenue doubled, then doubled again. New employees were hired quickly, many without proper training. The focus shifted from quality to quantity.
It was the classic growth trap—and Patagonia fell right into it.
Then came 1991. The economy slumped, orders decreased, and suddenly Patagonia faced a crushing debt load. The company was forced to lay off 20% of its workforce—people Chouinard considered family. The tool division, Chouinard Equipment, declared bankruptcy.
Most companies respond to crisis by doubling down on conventional strategies: cut costs, increase sales, expand markets. Chouinard did something different. He questioned everything.
"There's a direct connection between the health of the natural environment and the health of our business," Chouinard realized. "If we want to be here 100 years from now, we need to ensure the planet is, too."
This epiphany led to what might be the most radical business decision of all: intentionally limiting growth.
Patagonia established formal environmental commitments:
Donating 1% of sales or 10% of profits (whichever was greater) to environmental causes
Printing catalogs on recycled paper
Examining every aspect of operations through an environmental lens
The company's first major environmental campaign focused on saving the Ventura River, where Chouinard had witnessed the devastation caused by damming while testing products. This wasn't distant philanthropy—it was protecting Patagonia's own backyard.
What appeared to be a setback had actually clarified the company's purpose: Patagonia wasn't in business to grow for growth's sake. It existed to prove that a company could thrive while prioritizing environmental responsibility.
"Growth for growth's sake is the ideology of the cancer cell," Chouinard often says.
Marketing That Makes You Think Twice
"Don't buy this jacket."
This headline appeared in a full-page Patagonia advertisement in The New York Times on Black Friday—retail's holiest day. The ad detailed the environmental costs of creating their best-selling fleece jacket and urged customers to consider whether they truly needed it.
Any marketing textbook would call this corporate suicide. Patagonia calls it honesty.
Most companies hide their supply chains. Patagonia exposes its own, flaws and all. Most brands create artificial scarcity. Patagonia tells you when you don't need their products.
This approach stems from a philosophy that treats products as tools, not fashion statements or status symbols. In Patagonia's view, a jacket should be purchased because it serves a purpose, built to last for decades, and repaired rather than replaced.
This philosophy extends to their catalog—what they call their "Bible." Unlike traditional retail catalogs focused solely on selling, Patagonia's includes essays on environmental issues, detailed information about materials sourcing, and practical advice for outdoor adventures.
When they introduced the concept of layering clothes for warmth, they explicitly told customers this wasn't a ploy to sell more items. It was practical advice for staying comfortable with fewer pieces.
"It's easy to make things complicated," Chouinard often says. "Making things simple is hard."
The simplicity extends to how they photograph products: real people using gear in real environments, not models in studios. No embellishment, no exaggeration.
This radical transparency creates something most companies can only dream of: absolute trust. When Patagonia makes a claim, customers believe it. Not because of clever marketing, but because of consistent honesty—even when that honesty might hurt short-term sales.
The Product Philosophy: Build It Once, Build It Right
The most environmentally friendly product is the one you don't have to replace.
While most companies plan for obsolescence, Patagonia designs for permanence. Their product philosophy is simple but revolutionary: Build it to last.
This approach begins with a fundamental question that guides all design decisions: Is this necessary? If not, they don't make it.
For products that pass this test, two principles define Patagonia's approach:
First, multifunctionality. A Patagonia backpack isn't just for carrying gear—it can serve as a sleeping pad, a water collector, or an improvised shelter. This isn't just convenient for users; it reduces the total number of products they need to purchase.
"The solution to our environmental crisis lies in consuming less," Chouinard explains, "but consuming better."
Second, durability. While competitors release new models every season, Patagonia focuses on perfecting core designs. They'd rather sell one backpack that lasts twenty years than twenty backpacks that last one year each.
This commitment to durability extends to their repair program—the largest in North America. When products eventually wear out, Patagonia will fix them, often for free. They even send repair trucks to outdoor destinations, fixing gear on-site regardless of brand.
The environmental impact of products drives every decision. When Patagonia discovered in the 1990s that conventional cotton farming used 25% of the world's pesticides, they committed to using only organic cotton—despite higher costs and supply challenges.
The transition nearly bankrupted the company. For almost two years, they struggled to source organic cotton that met their quality standards. Instead of compromising, they worked directly with farmers to develop new growing methods.
"There is no business to be done on a dead planet," Chouinard says. It's not just an environmental stance—it's a business calculation.
Let My People Go Surfing: The Workplace Revolution
Most companies structure work around rigid schedules. Patagonia structures schedules around waves, weather, and life.
The company's workplace philosophy is captured in the title of Chouinard's book: "Let My People Go Surfing." It's not a metaphor.
When the surf is good, employees are encouraged to hit the beach. When fresh powder blankets the mountains, the ski slopes suddenly have Patagonia employees carving turns. The company believes that time in nature makes employees more productive, not less.
"Work had to be enjoyable on a daily basis," Chouinard writes. "We all had to come to work on the balls of our feet and go up the stairs two steps at a time."
This isn't just about recreation. It's about creating authentic products. How can you design climbing gear if you don't climb? How can you improve a wetsuit if you never surf?
Patagonia hires for passion first, skills second. They believe it's easier to teach business to an environmentalist than to teach environmental values to a businessperson.
The trust extends beyond flexible schedules:
On-site childcare at headquarters since 1984
Paid environmental internships
Healthcare benefits for all employees, including part-time staff
Bail money for employees arrested while peacefully protesting for environmental causes
This approach creates intense loyalty. Patagonia's turnover rate is one-fourth the industry average. When positions open, they receive hundreds of applications for each spot.
The company seeks leaders who inspire rather than command, who set vision rather than micromanage. Hierarchy exists, but it's flattened by open communication and mutual respect.
"The best managers," Chouinard believes, "don't build dependencies—they work to make themselves unnecessary."
The Business Case for Environmentalism
"There is no such thing as sustainability," Chouinard often says. "It's a journey, not a destination."
At most companies, environmental initiatives are a sidebar—peripheral projects designed more for public relations than impact. At Patagonia, environmentalism is the business model.
The company evaluates every decision through an environmental lens:
Will this product exist in twenty years?
Is it made from renewable resources?
Can it be recycled at the end of its life?
Does its production pollute water or air?
Does it harm wildlife or ecosystems?
This approach leads to decisions that seem commercially counterintuitive. In 1994, Patagonia conducted an environmental assessment of their four primary fibers: cotton, wool, polyester, and nylon. They discovered that traditional cotton, despite being "natural," had the worst environmental impact due to pesticide use.
The company gave themselves 18 months to switch entirely to organic cotton or stop using cotton altogether—despite having no guaranteed supply chain and facing a 50-100% cost increase.
Patagonia extends environmental concern beyond their own operations. Their "1% for the Planet" initiative—donating 1% of sales to environmental causes—has generated over $140 million in grants to grassroots organizations.
They've even created venture capital funds to support environmental startups and invested in regenerative agriculture projects that capture carbon in soil.
In 2018, the company updated its mission statement to something even more direct: "Patagonia is in business to save our home planet."
Critics might call this idealistic. Patagonia points to their balance sheet. Their environmental commitments haven't hurt profitability—they've enhanced it by creating unparalleled customer loyalty.
"The protection of the environment isn't an initiative," Chouinard explains. "It is our entire reason for being."
The ultimate lesson of Patagonia might be this: What's good for the planet can also be good for business—if you're willing to redefine what business success means.