Tom Lowe Is As Relatable As He Is Psycho

I’ve surfed with Tom Lowe. Quite a bit actually. And no, I’m not talking about leaping over the ledge at Mullaghmore, or Jaws, or really at any waves that will get your adrenaline flowing — unless you’re terrified of cutties and head-dips.

I lived in the same town as Tom for a couple years. We’d get our dings fixed at the same place, surf during the same windows of time, and say hullo at the pie shop. Of all the talented surfers in said town, Tom had probably spent the most time on the homepage of Surfline or MagicSeaweed, but you wouldn’t have guessed it.

In fact, the tatted up fella from the UK hardly gave indications that he even surfed, much less that he was a certified lunatic. He would sit quietly under the local pack, and talk candidly for hours with anyone — traits that stand in stark contrast to the polite briefness of many ‘pro surfers’.

I remember an early morning — bombing swell — with just a friend, myself, and Tom trying to negotiate the outer ledge of the towns best point. A 30 knot devil wind was making the takeoffs troublesome, and all three of us started the session with wind-blind pencil dives.

The biggest set of the morning rolled around the point, looking exactly like I didn’t want anything to do with it. Tom, of course, shouted in delight and whipped around. His inky fingers pulled at the water furiously, while he squinted through the emerald mist.

He disconnected from everything — his board, the lip, the wave, the cosmic order of possibility — and somehow landed at the bottom of the wave, just in time to pull under the curtain. Child’s play, it seemed, without a camera in sight.

Vans Europe and Wasted Talent have just done a profile on Tom’s unique surfing upbringing — or lack thereof. It’s profoundly visceral, and he’s as good a fella as he seems.

Give it a watch, especially if you need some motivation to pull out the lumber this season.