Given the surf groupies out there, I imagine many middle-aged men, hipbones lost long ago in a sea of fat, swooning in the arms of the little master.

The three-time world surfing champion Tom Roland Curren, unbeatable for most of his career and who popularised the modern fish surfboard, has unveiled his retirement masterplan, a multi-generational surf school based in France. 

Curren, who turns fifty-seven this year, and his kids Lee-Anne and Nathan (from a teenage marriage to French gal Marie) and Pat and Frank, (from a marriage to Maki, from Panama) have formed Curren Surf School, operating out of the little Basque resort town Hendaye, on the Spanish border. 

Echoes of the Paskowitz family, yes? 

Tom has form in the surf coaching game, as BeachGrit’s Jen See observed at her home beach in Santa Babs.

Then, I saw it. Then I saw the most marvelous thing. I had to blink my eyes to believe it was real. For there was Tom Curren leading an Adult Learner around the lineup. The Adult Learner was perched precariously on a longboard as Curren paddled along beside him like a mother duck minding her chick.

If you’ve never seen Curren in real life, or at least not lately, he looks exactly like you’d imagine. A shock of blonde hair, grey around the edges, perpetually disheveled sits above a face cut deep with lines from the countless hours of staring at the horizon and beyond. His stocky build looks purpose-built for turning surfboards. These days, he has the slightly vague air of an artist, of someone who finds his interior life distractingly interesting, maybe more so, than the world around him.

A small wave came through with no takers. Curren cajoled his adult learner into position and urged him to paddle. Then he gave him a push. The adult learner came to his feet and did a thing that looked something like surfing. Success!

Suddenly, I was extremely jealous. I want a push, too! Where’s my Tom Curren! Tom, Tom, can I get a push? Tom, I need some help over here!

Getting a piece of Tom is real cheap, two hundred bucks an hour, add thirty if you want it videoed, and given the Curren groupies out there, I imagine many middle-aged men, hipbones lost long ago in a sea of fat, swooning in the arms of the little master.

Click here to examine the website, which miraculously switched from English to French over the past twenty-four hours, although details are pretty easy to comprehend. 

Any questions, ask France-based James Bickerton in the comments. 

And, here’s a taste of the Tom you’ll be getting, filmed last year.

And how it started with a high-torque V8 metalflake kustom pop song by California idealists Jan Berry and Dean Torrence… 

The song “Surf City” does not hold up to close textual reading — it is in fact ridiculous, what with strapping a board to your back and hitching a ride in your wetsuit etc.

But in terms of high-torque V8 metalflake kustom Gold Star Studio pop-craft, “Surf City” is as good as it gets.

The decades-long “Surf City” political scramble over who gets to use the phrase as a regional marketing tool, on the other hand, is just ridiculous and nothing but ridiculous.

Let’s begin with the song.

Jan and Dean (Jan Berry and Dean Torrence) recorded “Surf City” in LA in March of 1963. Brian Wilson first-drafted the words and melody, Dean tweaked the lyrics, Jan hired the Wrecking Crew for the track (that’s Glen Campbell on guitar) and in general arranged and produced the shit out of it.

In July, it went to #1. Jan Berry was very much on the spectrum of what the DSM-5 categorizes as “high-functioning asshole” (after dumping his pregnant girlfriend, Berry’s own parents adopted the baby which meant Berry’s son was also his stepbrother), but in ’63 he was an A-plus producer, further along than Brian Wilson and tuffer than Phil Spector, and “Surf City” was the first in a string of Berry-produced hits in which B-grade teen drama walks in one end of the studio and gets shot out the other as a sub-three-minute sonic masterpiece. 

Here’s how you know Jan Berry was a monster producer. His songs are impossible to cover. You can find a half-dozen “Surf City” attempts by other bands, and none are above average — even the Ramones can’t get it off the ground. Only Jan Berry could.

The Surf City branding bunfight started 20-or-so years after the song hit.

It caught me by surprise.

I thought everybody knew, like I did, that Hungtington Beach was Surf City. Except Huntington is not of course actually mentioned in the song, and in this Jan and Dean made-for-TV video (what TV show? anybody?) Surf City is Malibu, not HB.

Where does that leave us?

“Who cares” is a good answer, or something along the lines of “Surf City is a state of mind.”

But no, Huntington’s gonna be Huntington and in 2004 it applied for a “Surf City USA” trademark, just to kneecap Santa Cruz businesses and municipal officials from using the phrase for their town. Lawyers were called. Suits and countersuits were filed.

You knew all along who was going to win. Still, credit the Santa Cruz major who at one point not only issued a city-vs-city “surf-off” challenge to HB, but went on local TV to sing his version of “Surf City,” which in part went:

You think your pier compares to Steamers?
(Surf City is Santa Cruz)

Just give it up and go drive your Beemers.
(Surf City is Santa Cruz)

No BMWs are seen during any of the last several Huntington Pier riots, but never mind, score that point for Santa Cruz.

Huntington, as expected, won the legal fight and kicked all the poor people out of town. 

Meanwhile, if you’ve been following the 2021 World Surf Games in El Salvador this week, you know that the entire coastal region surrounding the contest site is being referred to as “Surf City,” and people that is down to the Salvadorian President himself hopping on the surf-marketing bandwagon. 

In other words, the whole thing has elevated from mayors to heads of state.

Progress?

Two takeaways:

1) Asshole or not, Jan Berry was a pop-music wizard and Jan and Dean deserve a sandy corner in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. 

2) Hats off to a little township on Topsail Island, North Carolina, that is actually officially named — not branded — Surf City, and has been since 1949. The waves are not great in Surf City, but give me a choice and I’ll take an hour at their Sea Turtle Rescue and Rehabilitation Center over an hour at Northside HB, thank you very much.

(You like this? Matt Warshaw delivers a surf history essay every Sunday, PST. All of ’em a pleasure to read. Maybe time to subscribe to Warshaw’s Encyclopedia of Surfing, yeah? Three bucks a month.)

“A colourful beach shack perched on top of a hill, looking out to uninterrupted ocean views… A mystical meeting of beach and bush."

The Australian surfer Ozzie Wright, and musician wife Mylee, have listed for rent the holiday spread they bought for $1.5 million in 2019, a dreamy beach shack on a quarter-acre of pristine national park dirt in Broadwater, seven hours north of Sydney, one hour south of Byron.

The sale came with a DA to bulldozer the old joint (“Build your dream beach house”) but Oz and Mylee have dressed it up in Classic Ozzie style, art on the walls, painted curtain dividers ‘tween bedrooms, couches covered in wild upholstery, a guitar in a corner. 

You wouldn’t have heard of Broadwater; it’s one of those towns you burn through along the Pacific Highway on the way from Sydney to Byron. Ain’t much there, you got the Richmond river, there’s a 150-year-old sugar mil that’s closed to the public, a pretty cafe operating out of an old Catholic church, ’bout it.

The national park is the town’s jewel, ten-thousand acres of coastal heath and wetlands and eight clicks of mostly empty beach. 

And, here you’ll find Oz and Mylee’s Happy Sun House, which is, as per the listing,  “a colourful beach shack perched on top of a hill, looking out to uninterrupted ocean views… A mystical meeting of beach and bush. A cosy and rustic shack not without things we love like, luxury linen sheets and a fully equipped kitchen… A truly blissful beach shack experience. A place where the sun hits the walls in a most beautiful way. An intentional space to disconnect from the modern world and reconnect to your creativity, gently allowing nature to ground down a busy mind.”

Five hundred bucks a night, if you want in, with a fifteen percent discount if you book for a week. A cleaning cost and service fee on top of that. Think four gees or thereabouts for a week in a little slice of Australian heaven.

Book, examine here.