Matt George's profile of Tom Curren ran August 1985 issue of SURFER. This version has been slightly shortened and edited.


The late January sun is already singing its way into the Pacific, as a small grey truck pulls into Rincon’s deserted upper lot. The evening sky is aflame. The car door opens and a young man dressed in white sweats and a tank top steps out onto the gravel. Arms akimbo, he pauses, and looks east towards the purple hues. A moment. Then he begins walking across the lawn towards the cliff stairs, rubbing warmth into his arms against the chill. His walk is reckless but full of purpose. His hair is a tousled dirty blond. He is barefoot.

Down on the beach, he and the sunset are alone. Feet crunch through the low tide sand crust as he paces out estimated one-hundred yards. A simple line is drawn with a scarred heel. Then three deep breaths before he crouches down into a sprinter’s start and stares at that piece of driftwood 12 seconds away. His concentration wavers. He is leaving for Costa Rica in the morning. He is going to see his Dad for the first time in more than two years. Tomorrow Pat and Tom Curren, father and son, will be out riding lefts at a private point, both doing what they do best. Together. Again. He wonders what it will be like. Then the thoughts focus, the body tenses. He is waiting for that moment.

He explodes up and out, forcing himself into the violent rhythm of his first sprint. He's breathing, six seconds, seven seconds, breathing, nine, ten, then the last mad effort, achievement, and the warmth of winding it down. Tom comes to a stop, shakes it off, feels pretty good, and readies for his next.

Facing the red glow of the west, he crouches.

Marie will be with him of course. It should be a nice vacation for her, being a goofyfoot and all. Thank heavens she and Dad get along so famously. And no wetsuits in the middle of winter is always nice.

Three seconds, four, OUCH! Six, seven, breathing, stepped on something, nine, ten, pain, can’t think about that right now, eleven, TWELVE.

It's over, it’s over, control it, take it down.

He checks his toe. Dammit, piece of glass. Not bad though. Three to go.

There is a song playing in his head. The Who, “Sparks.’’ Live version.

In the dark dusk, he readies for sprint number three. Thoughts: He has never surfed Waimea. His dad has. Where does he fit? It was different for Dad. It was physical, more personal. Some glorious mad dedication to massive waves. He remembers what his father said it took to ride the hills: “a lot of rail and a lot of guts.” And how. Chasing that demon out in the thin air, all the right stuff. Him?

Three seconds, four, breathing, seven, eight, breathing labored, legs pumping, ten, eleven ahh, twelve, thirteen, FOURTEEN! He gulps, lousy start, a look at the watch. A slow one. Can’t allow that. He thinks about kicking the sand. He doesn’t.

He crouches again into a start position and remembers: The first glimpse he had of his father surfing Waimea was with a tub of popcorn in his hand, staring at Going Surfin' flickering across the Vets Hall too-small screen. Epic Pat Curren footage. To this day it looks impossible. Is it? Can it be done again? No, not like that . . .

. . . that spirit. It will take something different this time around.

Sand flies, three seconds, four, breathing, c'mon, c’mon, five, six, breathing, push it! Eight, nine, now! Ten, ELEVEN. Yes! Fast stop. He plops down and drinks the air. He recovers quickly.

Tom stands up, looks towards the sea. It’s been blown out for two days. A marginal left crumbles in, and Tom imagines himself surfing it. It closes out. He sighs and turns to toe the line. This is number five, the last one, then home. Readying, more thoughts. Costa Rica. He needs this. He decides he wants it. It will be a nice vacation anyway. A sigh. He looks at his toes for a time, eyes fixed, and raises his head as the answer forms: Take it as it comes.

It’s dark now as Tom pads his way up the stairs, over to his car. He feels better for the sprints. It’s getting him closer to his goal of never again being fatigued after a competition wave. The cardiovascular advantage, a new-found competition key. A glance at his watch puts a hurry in his step, another glance, a jog. Tom has just remembered something as he hops in the car, and it gives him a good excuse to spin the tires and punch it all the way home.


Tommy and Marie (Tom’s 20-year-old French wife) are back from Costa Rica and they have invited me over for dinner. It will be our last chance to talk before they leave for Australia. My last meeting with Tom took place on the eve of his trip down to Costa Rica and it was a bit odd. Tom is usually so comfortable with himself. That night he was not. Over the years I had never seen him . . . nervous. It almost seemed impossible. That night his gestures were quick and the music was never quite right. Tommy was preoccupied with the cassettes; Springsteen, no, try Sade, wrong again. The Who? Forget it. He finally decided on nothing. Silence.

Then something curious. Later on, when we were walking to my car, I asked Tom if his father had taught him how to surf. The answer came slow.

“Well . . . no. I taught myself about 14 years ago. My father was there though. But he just sort of stood back and watched.”

"Ummm. Yes. I like to think so. Listen, let's talk when I get back, I’ll have more answers then."

More answers? For 26 days I'd been wondering what he meant by that.

Tommy’s condominium, on first impression, seems almost at odds with itself. All three of us are sitting at the dinner table gorging on the best Chinese food in town and discussing all the important stuff. Mostly, Marie’s recent win at the Rincon Classic. A look around reveals a cozy little affair, a real home. The surf influence is understated, meaning that it doesn’t dominate the walls. Thoughtful photo art hangs instead, although the refrigerator enshrines surfing—cute little magnets pinning up cut out photos of Tom’s more recent exploits. The whole place, from overstuffed bookcase to lived-in kitchen, doesn’t exactly shout that it houses one of the world’s greatest surfers. It is organized, suggests comfort, permanence. Certainly not what you call a normal habitat for a 20-year-old surfer.

Tom is his old self tonight, like an intelligent puppy in a constant state of curious orientation. His mischievous side surfaces when I ask him how he thinks he will fare Down Under. He fingers a fortune cookie thoughtfully.

"Well, let’s see." He crunches the thing with his teeth (Tom opens just about everything with his teeth; “it drives my Mom crazy ”), pulls out the fortune, and looks perplexed. Then he smiles as he hands it to me. The message was simple: LUCK IS COMING YOUR WAY.

It is easy to see that the most important thing in Tommy and Marie’s life is each other. Almost four years ago, in 1981, a cute little French surf girl, visiting friends in America, literally bumps into Tommy Curren at the Channel Islands surf shop. They go surfing. They fall in love. And then Marie has to go home. Well, this launches an incredible international campaign of letters, phone calls and jet-set visits in France and Hawaii. It lasts for two years, backlit by Tom's meteoric surf-world rise. It all builds up to 1983 and, in Tom’s own words, “the most difficult phone call of my life. I had to call Marie and tell her that I was a professional now and going to Australia and that I probably wouldn’t be seeing her for a long time. At 8:00 pm I called over to France and told her." (A pause, a look at Marie, a knowing chuckle.) "Then at 9:00 pm I called her back, told her to forget everything I just said, and asked her to marry me. (Laughs.) Two months later I won the Grandslam and married Marie. It was a pretty good year.”

As Tom and Marie tell the story, they often refer and check facts with each other in French (Tom learned the language as a gift). It strikes me later how important this is. French affords them the luxury of privacy, even in a crowd. And this privacy, I sense, is paramount.

When the conversation turns to surfing, Tom gets thoughtful, and Marie puts a stop to his nail chewing. “Well . . . ," he begins, then falters, then begins again. "It goes way past recreation. It’s as close as you can get to living a primal scream. Good surfing is all a matter of channeling the wave’s energy to your board: using your body as the conduit."

He cites Rabbit as an early influence. "I've always appreciated the radical and want to get as vertical as I can. But I also believe that a little control and a touch of class goes a long way. Just look what Rabbit and MR did with it.

“Aerials are not a functional maneuver. Not yet, anyway. It’s the barrel-roll that has potential, that's definitely in the future, along with the refinement of re-entry controls . . .”

Re-entry controls? He talks like some kind of absent-minded technician, and as he goes he sometimes thinks out loud in French. Surrounded by his new Al Merrick quiver (with their all-new color scheme), Tom Curren’s words become a metaphor for his surfing. Thoughtful, radical, original.

This is a different Tommy than the media has depicted. Here on his own ground, you begin to understand the inner workings. The passion, the drive, all borne along on a current of remarkable intelligence.

He is often called “low key," “enigmatic," “man of few words.” In reality, Tom is a man on fire.

On the pro tour: “In some countries, like Australia, it is better to depict it as a competitive thing like tennis. But in other countries, like France, the carnival atmosphere goes down better. I think that the organizers and the surfers should recognize this and work together as sort of an adaptable traveling show.”

On the Hawaiian scene: “I think that there has always been an animosity there because most everyone goes to Hawaii in full force, just stomps all over it, and then leaves. That is wrong. My father didn’t do that, and I certainly never will."

On his Christianity and personal history: "It's a simple, private belief within me. It’s based on strengths, not weaknesses. I was 12-and-a-half years old and going down the wrong street in life. (A rare grin.) My Mom got me out of that, thank God.

On turning professional: "I took Shaun's example and waited for a strong sponsorship that would afford longevity. Al Merrick (Tom manager as well as shaper) and I finally decided on Op, Rip Curl, and Bucci sunglasses. It’s what I always wanted . . .”

But I wonder. Are you happy Tom? Satisfied?

“Oh, well . . . . " He sits up and squeezes his right shoulder, this demands attention. "I've definitely found what I want, what I always wanted, in my personal life." He looks at his wife. "Marie, the travel, and the financial side.” He thinks for a moment. Tosses a coin. "But, then again, no, I am not satisfied with my surfing. Not yet. I am looking to improve my Hawaiian performances and," he pauses for a moment or two, then pushes on, "I will be looking for the title several times over.”

Is he going after MR’s four-time record?

His brow knits, as though he's never thought of that. He laughs, weighs his words. "I think so, maybe . . . maybe.”

Fifteen minutes later I am again walking out to my car with Tom, just like we did before he left for Costa Rica the month before. Except this time he is not preoccupied. Something has changed; settled. Tom knows his time has come. His surfing genius has always been that innate sense of patience for just the right moment. And that moment is fast coming. We can both feel it.

Tom, have you ever felt that you had a legacy to fulfill with your dad being who he is?

This prompts a deep breath, exhaled through a small smile and a strangely wistful look to the left. “I used to feel that way. But now I understand that his was a different way. Now it's time to do it my way."


On another empty stretch of beach, just south of his beloved Rincon, Tom Curren has just finished stretching out. Australia is for tomorrow. It was great to see his father again. A lot of answers. Confidence is high. He grabs some sand and hourglasses it through both hands. His father had had his time, made his mark, and now lives a simple existence in a distant land. Now it is Tom’s turn. He says his father is impressed by what he's achieved in his career as a pro surfer but “he laughs at the obligations that come with it.”

Tom stands up and walks over to his starting line. Highway 101 roars to his left, the ocean answers to the right. He crouches down. Deaf to it all. Ready. His plan is simple.

A world tile in 1986. A decade of competition. Then he and Marie move to France and live happily ever after.

Have his time, make his mark, then live a simple existence in a distant land.

A legacy fulfilled . . . Tommy Curren's way.

[Photos: Jeff Divine, Rennie Ellis, Tom Servais]

"THE PRIVATE WORLD OF TOM CURREN," BY MATT GEORGE (1985)

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