Phil Jarratt's profile on newly-crowned world champion Damien Hardman ran in the September 1988 issue of SURFER Magazine.

Never having met Damien Hardman—the man who would soon become world champion—I asked around about him. “He’s kinda like Simon Anderson in his approach to life,” said one person. “It’s that Narrabeen thing, I suppose. But I wouldn’t put Damien in Simon’s class. He hasn’t got the brawn or the brains.”

I asked someone else whose opinion I respected if he thought Damien would take the title. He said: “Damien just hasn’t got the balls to go all the way. He'll choke like Barton, and Kong [Gary Elkerton] will get the gong [world title].”

Yet another expert: “It’ll all come down to finesse. That’s what will separate them. Elkerton has it; Hardman hasn't.”

I was beginning to get the picture. Informed circles figured Damien Hardman was not just an underdog—he was positively subterranean. After the third event of the ’87-'88 ASP World Tour, he had never been lower than third in the rankings, yet so many people had written him off as a serious contender, it was almost as if he had won his slot in a pub raffle. I wondered why. What was it about this ordinary-looking 22-year-old kid from Narrabeen—this former world junior amateur champion—that had so many convinced that he couldn’t cut it as the Pro Champion?

Looking for an answer, I reflected on the Mark Richards era, when Cheyne Horan had been the heir apparent. As it turned out, MR was simply too good, and the bathwater went cold on Cheyne. By then, Tom Carroll was on a championship roll that had been gathering momentum at Newport Peak for years. People had been saying Tom Carroll would be world champion since he’d emerged in 1977.

I dug out Carroll’s first-ever interview from my dusty files. Did he think, at 14-years-of-age, that he would make a living out of surfing when he grew up? “Not really,” said little Tommy. “You’d have to be the world’s best surfer to make a living out of it.”

Exactly. And even then, we knew he’d do it.

Then there was Curren, who was born to rule. Curren's assumption of the title went entirely according to script, and no one disputed that he was the best, and that he deserved it. Then along came everybody. In 1988, the heir was not so apparent, and when it came down to the wire, smart money was on everyone but the right guy.

On the night of April 23, hours before he was to become the new world champion, Damien Hardman did what he normally does on a Saturday night—he had a couple beers. His adrenaline was pumping, and his brain was doing overtime, so the beers helped. Slightly more relaxed, he went to bed—and lay there staring at the ceiling. Damien finally closed his eyes and saw himself taking off on long-lining walls that suddenly backed off into deep water, leaving him a runner off the track. He saw heads and bodies, and heard interference calls. He told himself winning wasn't everything; that there would be other years—he’d already surpassed his goal of finishing Top Five for the year, and anything else was just icing on the cake.

He told himself all that, then he told himself: “Bullshit! This is my title, and I’m gonna take it!”

Damien Hardman was born in 1966—the year Nat Young won the world title in San Diego, and a young Australian surfing writer bluntly declared in these pages: “We’re tops, now.” This was just months after professional surfing was first sparked—courtesy of Tom Morey and Carl Pope, at Ventura—in the form of a cash prizes' noseriding contest. Thus, Damien has lived his entire life in an era when Australians dominated the competitive scene, and it was theoretically possible to earn a living through surfing.

The Hardmans lived in Warriewood, a little beach town just north of Narrabeen, mostly famous for the Drop: a cliff from which, on blown-out afternoons during surfing's wild old days, people were known to hurl themselves into the surging water below. Brian Hardman worked in the finance industry, but his passion was the beach, where he performed weekend duties as a surf lifesaver. The Hardman kids—Damien, a younger brother, and two sisters—grew up with Warriewood Beach as their playground, and it was here that Damien launched his first surfcraft: a Kentucky Fried Chicken coolite.

When Damien was eight, a funny thing happened: Sydney was lashed by the worst storm in decades, and half the northern beaches washed away. Warriewood, which had only a tenuous hold on its sandbanks at the best of times, lost the lot. Real surfers had to look elsewhere, so when young Damien joined their ranks at age 10—with the purchase of a secondhand Bill Wallace popout—it was only a matter of time before he fled his home beach for the big-time over the hill.

But it was social pressure, not better waves, that first enticed Damien to Narrabeen. With little else to do on a beach with no waves, the Warriewood grommets embraced the mystical powers of the bong, and, still in their pre-teens, sat contemplating their navals. Damien gave it a try but found he preferred surfing. He was alienated in Warriewood.

Geographically, Warriewood and Narrabeen are about a mile apart. Sociologically, the distance between the two is almost incalculable. Kids played around at Warriewood. The heavy hitters hung at Narrabeen.

When Damien Hardman first made the pilgrimage at age 12, the lineup was dominated by several strata of surf heroes, who ranged from Bloody Good to Very Close To God. Terry Fitzgerald, Col Smith, the young Simon Anderson, and Mark Warren, were all at the very top end of the scale. Under them, guys like Tony Hardwick and Rob Staniford led a pack that seemed to expand to suit the moment. No matter how frequent the sets were on any given day at Narrabeen, there were only enough waves for the locals—and sometimes even a few of them had to miss out.

On one of Damien Hardman’s early visits, he committed the cardinal sin: He dropped in on “Mr. Vertical,” Col Smith. Smith at that time was a real force. Not only was he an experienced surfer, he also had very long hair, a stubble of beard, piercing eyes that looked right through you, and a physique that backed up any challenge he cared to make. Damien recalls: “I watched him doing this outrageous reentry right behind me, and he was swearing at me. So I pulled off the wave, paddled straight over to the point and stayed there until he left. I was probably too small for him to bother beating up, but I was shit-scared.”

Damien persevered, and eventually won a place in the lineup. It’s a curious thing about Narrabeen culture: Intrusions are resisted with everything from subtle psychological pressure to brute force, but once you’re in, you’re really in. It’s a closely-knit surfing community, whose lifeline is the buddy system—what Australians call “mateship.” If Narrabeen takes you to its bosom, you’re there for life—provided you keep the code, honor your mates, and don’t get ideas above your station.

Damien particularly liked Simon Anderson’s approach to the Narrabeen peeking order: He was a god, but he was a Narrabeen god, so he was also an ordinary bloke. "I looked up to him more than anyone else,” Damien recalls. “I liked the way he’d always speak to the grommets. He had a carefree attitude, and he was always himself.” Anderson offered the kid advice back then, and he was still offering it a decade later when Damien Hardman won the world title.

At 12, Damien entered his first contest—the Pro Junior. This was the schoolboys' event that had launched Tom Carroll, Cheyne Horan and Joe Engel, to name just a few, but it wasn’t so kind to Damien. In the first day’s qualifiers, he surprised himself by scraping through, but the next morning the swell had quadrupled, leaving the pink-cheeked grommets to deal with 10-foot Dee Why Point. Damien took a raincheck.

Te began entering Narrabeen club contests around this time, but his competitive ambitions were arrested here. The club was stacked with hotties of all ages—people he both idolized and deeply resented. Either way, he couldn't win a heat.

Damien’s parents removed him slightly from the Narrabeen syndrome by detouring him around the local high school—regarded by most students as a place to rest up and enjoy a relaxing bong between swells—in favor of the stricter all-boys Catholic school at Manly. This in no way dampened Damien's enthusiasm for surfing. In fact, it may have provided a safeguard against premature burnout. Students at Christian Brothers didn’t live to surf, and, unlike so many of his beach mates, Damien gained a wider appreciation of life and learning.

At 16, however, he felt he had learned enough. The vocation of pastry chef appealed, not only because it held the prospect of a lifetime of free cakes and pies, but because the day’s work was done by noon, leaving the afternoon open. A week of work experience training cured him of his young career ambition—and his addiction to pies. He decided to finish school.

At last, Damien started winning competitions: first schoolboy events, then club meets. It was the latter that gave him more satisfaction, but in the schoolboys he began to meet up with some interesting rivals. A kid from the southside named Occhilupo put up a fight, but Damien usually had his measure. Then, pow! Occy left the field behind. Suddenly, he was dynamite. He quit school, went on the tour at age 16, and the very next year was number three in the world. Damien was stunned—but he could also see that Occy had put himself under enormous pressure. It was a scenario he would watch unfold again and again, on tour, over the next few years.

In 1984, within a matter of weeks, Damien finished school and won the Australian Amateur Junior Title. While he still envisaged a career outside of surfing, he had no time to investigate such possibilities: Australia’s team for the World Amateur Championships in California was selected from the Australian Titles, and Damien was the first Junior chosen. In California, he beat down culture shock, and took the World Juniors’.

In amateur terms, at least, Damien Hardman had arrived.

But what to do next? There was something seductive about the Curren pattern: stay amateur for another year or so, hold back until they're almost panting for you, demanding you go pro. But after the World Contest, Damien went to Japan to surf in the Marui Pro, and it was all over. This was what he wanted. He could do well, even if it meant living out of a suitcase. He rang his dad and told him of his decision. Brian Hardman thought it was too soon, but offered support nonetheless.

Damien surfed through the Australian circuit and finished the year a creditable 36th—not bad, for only competing in a handful of events. The following year he did the full tour, and managed to stay in the crucial Top 16 right up to the last event, the Coke, where he choked early and had to be content with 17th position, facing a year of hard slog on the Back 14. As a consolation prize, he was named Rookie of the Year.

In 1986-87, Damien’s fortunes fluctuated wildly. He tore some cartilage, then aggravated the injury by surfing on it against doctor’s orders—a move that took him out of the South African contests. Back on the tour in Europe, he failed to fire, but then in Japan he grabbed a 5th, and an invaluable confidence boost. He ran hot through the Australian season, capping it with a win in the AA-rated Stubbies Pro—his first WCT victory. He finished the year at #6, and the improvement in his situation was marked not just by his ranking but by the interest of sponsors, as well. During the year he had signed with Rip Curl, Mango, and Aloha, putting himself into the year's top five money-earners.

The world was out: Damien was hot. But there was also another buzz concerning him—a stigma that would follow his progress all the way to the World Title. It was hardly original. In fact, it was the same slur used against the first World Pro Champion, Peter Townend, until he proved his mettle at Waimea. Damien, too, was the “three-foot-and-under” man.

Although the tag was questionably founded—Damien had proven himself in sizable waves all over the globe—his performances in Hawaii had cast a shadow.

His attitude to the North Shore circus is typically Narrabeen: “Who needs it? Seventy guys surfing Rocky Point to get their pictures in a magazine is not my idea of fun.” His visits to Mecca have all been brief, and his performances inglorious. In 1986, he managed a seventh in the Pipe Masters, but in the Billabong (at horror show Waimea) he finished dead last. The following year he took 25th in the Billabong, 13th in the World Cup, and 17th in the Masters. He says now: “I don’t think there’s any great pressure on me to win in Hawaii. Some people might think that, but I’m not gonna slash my wrists if I don’t win contests there. One of my goals is to surf really well in Hawaii, and I know I’ll get there, but it might not be this year or next. Hawaii is only an eighth of the circuit, so naturally the World Champion is going to be a good small-waverider, no matter how well he surfs over there.”

Nevertheless, there is a traditionalist school of thought that says no one can claim to be the best—not even the World Champion—until he has drunk a few gallons of Waimea whitewash, and left a piece of kneecap on the reef at Pipe.

Damien started the ’87-'88 season strong and confident, with a third in Japan, a ninth the Gotcha, a fifth at Capetown, and a win at the Gunston. He blew the California Stubbies, but fired back with a third in the Op Pro. After Europe, Japan, and the first Australian leg, Damien was on a roll, leading the entire pack. Then came the North Shore—and his results there, again, were disastrous. Ditto for the Coldwater Classic in Santa Cruz. He only fell to third in the ratings, but the psychological damage was beginning to tell.

Damien came home for the Australian finale badly in need of a confidence booster. His advisors—father Brian and manager Greg Day—told him to relax. Damien told himself to get mean. He was 300 points behind the leader, Barton Lynch, and about 150 behind Gary Elkerton. It was ridiculously tight, with Tom Carroll not far behind Damien in fourth position.

Lynch’s position out front proved to be his downfall. He had been there before, and he felt the screws tighten. To compensate, he started talking about the Title as if were a done deal, which seemed to pressure him into a slump. Elkerton looked the real danger, but when the two met at Bells, it was Damien who came out on top, having shown a newfound ruthless streak throughout the meet. “It’s something I've rediscovered in myself,” he says. “I toughened up. I almost had fights in the water with Sunny Garcia and Todd Holland, because I’m not prepared to let them take waves off me anymore. There was a time when I thought, ‘Let them have the wave; it's gonna eventually get down to who can surf the best.’ No more.”

At the IMB Pro in Wollongong, south of Sydney, however, Elkerton came storming back with a win.

Says Damien: “After Bells, I thought he was gone. I didn’t think he’d come back like that, but when he did, it scared the shit out of me. When K-word gets on a roll, he’s very, very dangerous.”

Of course, it all came down to the last event of the year, the Coke, at Manly Beach. Semifinals: Elkerton vs Hardman, winner takes the title. On the morning of April 24, Damien arrived at the contest to discover the swell had jumped a little, and there was a winding sandbar right, just made for backside lip bashes. His heart soared. He and Elkerton were scheduled to meet in the first semi at 8:30 AM. It was an ungodly hour for a world title showdown, but the beach was already packed. Directly in front of the judges, Damien noticed the huge Narrabeen contingent, led by Simon Anderson. They were there to cheer their boy into the title. When you’re Narrabeen, you never forget your own. Hardman looked at his crew and smiled to himself. He was ready.

Contest director Terry Fitzgerald then came over with the bad news—there'd been a change of schedule. The title clash had been pushed back until 11:00. Damien bit his lip, tried to avoid eye contact with Elkerton, then wandered away to fight a long, slow battle against nerves.

When the showdown finally begin, the crowd was enormous, the vibe incredible, and the waves good enough. Damien knew from the outset that Elkerton was still on fire, held over from his incredible Wollongong performance two weeks before. It would take a lot to stop him.

The hooter sounded, and the killing round began.

As the clock wound down, Damien figured one more good wave would clinch it. Some days are diamonds. The wave came, and he shredded it. Pulling out, Damien could hear the Narrabeen guys hooting themselves hoarse, Simon in the lead.

Damien Hardman had the heat in the bag. Minutes later, back on the beach, he was pronounced the new world champion. But the Coke was not over yet. He was torn away from a hungry media to surf the final against Barton Lynch.

It would have been easy to let up for this rather anticlimactic match, but something Barton told the press recently had revved Damien up again. He was getting used to knocking world champions off their pedestals, Barton had said. Not this one, Damien thought. He went out and thoroughly ripped. His run for the Title ended with a Coke victory—a satisfying coda.

It was time to decompress. Greg Day was getting married in the evening, and Damien was required to hoist a few in his honor. The next day—in true Narrabeen fashion—there was a celebratory barbecue, and Damien bought the kegs of beer that kept rolling out. The following, when he took the stage to accept the world championship trophy at the ASP year-end banquet, Damien was sore of head and red of eye, but no less pumped up. He did his mentor proud, with a speech punctuated by the kind of dry humor and meaningful pauses that used to make Simon Anderson's stage presence as entertaining as his surfing. Damien brought the house down.

He finished up by promising to be a good ambassador for the sport. “I don’t have a beer in my hand every day of the week," he said, reassuringly. Then the new world champion took another long gulp and partied on.

[Photos: Guy Finlay, Adrian Greer, Peter Crawford, Don King]

"MYSTERY ACHIEVEMENT," DAMIEN HARDMAN PROFILE BY PHIL JARRATT (1988)

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