I never knew I had a Surfer Dad. I was born in Margate, a place known for cockles and made famous by Chas & Dave, not rideable waves.
As a young train driver in London, my Dad read dogeared imports of Surfer, rather than Playboy. He let loose to The Beach Boys and The Rolling Stones, not the Beatles.
During the ‘summer of love’ my Dad went on surf trips, instead of acid trips. Back then it was a 10 hour drive from London to Cornwall along narrow country lanes, so it was always an adventure.
However, my Dad never mastered the surfer/father balancing act. To be fair, we did live in Kent (my Dad still does), he had 2 sons and he got battered by the winter of discontent.
It wasn’t until I became a serious surfer that my Dad told me he was a surfer too. At first I didn’t believe him, but then he showed me these: