The oceans of the world have been charismatic and hypnotic to the majority of the peoples of the world since man’s first steps on the Earth. When man took to the seas, it was a natural progression of the love affair. A person’s first time sailing on the sea, whether it’s on a surfboard or on a magnificent yacht, is a love affair consummated. The sea tolerates us most of the time, but she can also be an unforgiving host who does not suffer fools.
Searching for Michael Peterson is a film about one particular Australian surfer, but it brings into play many other Australians from the sport throughout the course of the movie and the extra features on the DVD.
Watching MP, as Michael Peterson was known, on a wave is akin to watching the Flying Wallendas in action; the fastest gun to ever live; Manet painting flowers; and Dame Margot Fonteyn gliding across a stage, all rolled into one. His performance was poetic and heart-stopping at the same time.
Peterson was reclusive even when he was standing next to you. People also said he had this phantom-like ability to suddenly appear. Several surfing contests were on the verge of being forfeited to a contender due to Peterson’s apparent no-show, and suddenly, there he was, a perfect ride on a perfect wave, and not a soul had seen him enter the water.
Mister Smooth, the Mad Monk, MP, Darth Vader, the Syd Barrett of surfing — these were some of the names Peterson earned. Mister Smooth, for his acrobatic moves while seemingly cemented to his board; the Mad Monk, for his vicious verbal attacks and intimidating stares, and for the “long gangly killer orangutan paddler arms and the primitive psych-out vibe that ‘the missing link’ was capable of;” Darth Vader, for his brooding, threatening persona; Syd Barrett, for his meteoric rise and fall due to a combination of mind-altering drugs and his crushing birthright — schizophrenia.
But the saltwater was his therapy, allowing him to show off his artistic, uncanny ability on a surfboard, while simultaneously withdrawing deep within himself, both of these as soothing as a balm to his tortured soul. On the big waves, tons of water crashing around him, he was a combination of a primitive and a skilled technician: “Aloof, awkward, and monosyllabic on land, Michael Peterson was transformed upon immersion into saltwater. His surfing was frenetic and savage, a personal blitzkrieg on the idyllic green walls running down into Rainbow Bay.”
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