“If indulgence is an art Tommy Peterson transcended
the highest levels years ago.”
There was a time in the mid-nineties when the idea of
owning a Tom Peterson-shaped Fireball Fish would send you crying,
with happy, into the silk folds of your kimono.
And, as fate would play it, Tom, then known as the little brother of
the very famous Michael aka MP, had his shaping bay
around the corner from my first job. Tom would visit every day,
terrible breath but a lovely spirit, and regale with tales of his
brother.
I didn’t buy one of his Fireball Fishes because, then, as today,
money finds it hard to escape from my zippered pockets, much to my
regret etc.
Two days ago, and shortly after his seventy-first birthday,
Tommy Peterson joined big bro MP up there in the heavens, riding
their dagger-sharp single fins along pale-green sandbottom
points.
Surfing World ran an excerpt from an old magazine describing,
perfectly, the wild man that was Tommy Peterson.
Tommy Peterson is the personification of the outrageous
surfer, both in and out of the water. If indulgence is an art,
Tommy transcended the highest levels years ago. Outrageous people
have always given surfing its character, so formulating the
collective profile was a must to include someone a bit to the left
and right of the straight line.
Though I’ve learned a few things about him, there’s no way
we could possibly use anybody else to represent the ranks of the
radical. Just for a bit of an update, Tom has been surfing around
16 years, always on the edge. He’s been shaping boards on the Gold
Coast for a long time, but currently works at Pipedreams.
Okay, so rather than go through the usual personality ebb
and flow we’ll select an antidote from the Tommy Peterson
encyclopedia of Totally Outrageous Behavior for your
entertainment.
Guy Ormerod tells us he was fishing off the bridge at
Tallabudgera and less than straight Tommy cruised up to say hi.
Upon questioning as to the depth of water there under, Guy
maintained it was deep enough to dive into. Tommy, not being one to
disbelieve a friend, proceeded to shed all his clothes, climb the
railing and dive gracefully into the brine below.
Now it seems that Tom got quite a kick from this performance
after swimming to the bank and sprinting naked up the Gold Coast
Highway. He continued to repeat the whole performance with likes of
high-powered real estate salesmen and middle-class southern state
holiday makers.
Obviously someone was so impressed by Tom’s foray into the
genitalia-flapping realms of nude ballet that they thought the
local constabulary might like to observe the finer points of youth
culture on the Gold Coast.
As the police car pulled up, Tom, in all his ringing wet
glory, piled into the back seat and said to the boys in blue, “Got
a durrie on ya?”
Then there’s the one about Tom’s venture into winemaking. At
a recent presentation dinner, Tom decided the excellent cuisine
deserved better than the carafes of rough red, provided for,
drained one and substituted a fine vintage Peterson yellow Hock,
later consumed by southern wine connoisseurs on the other side of
the room.
All surfers haven’t got styled hair and satin smoking
jackets. This is the real world where most surfers are looking for
a nice wave and a good time. The Tommy Petersons are just as much a
part of surfing as the mass media stars, and it would be bloody
boring without them.
