"Dark Star," Matt Warshaw's profile on Sunny Garcia, ran in the June 1993 issue of SURFER Magazine. 

A common prediction in 1987 was that Hawaiian Sunny Garcia, then 17, would in three years time either self-destruct completely or develop into one of the world's great surfers. Garcia extended the time frame to five years, and began 1993 having come surprisingly close to doing both.

He wasn't surfing's original boy-wonder. He didn't invent drug problems, or romance problems, and he wasn't the only young pro to grow up angry and stressed. But the sheer velocity of these elements smashing into one another during Garcia's down phase in late '88 and early '89 put him in a league alone. And his recovery, at it stands, has been just as phenomenal. Today, at age 23, he's married with two daughters, is the #3-ranked surfer in the world, and for the first time in his adult life admits that things are going well.

So the new and revised Sunny Garcia story might be written like this: Poor kid from a broken home surfs his way out of the neighborhood as one of Hawaii's hottest prospects; works hard and finds success on the pro tour; nearly destroys himself on cocaine and a series of failed relationships; straightens out with the love of a good woman, and, stable at last, rises to the top of his sport and contends for a world championship.

It works as a one-paragraph summary. Fill in some details, and leave it there. But no, there remains something disturbing and unsettled about Sunny Garcia; something that resists a Frank Capra plot line. Maybe it's just because Sunny will still put on that fearful, dangerous look; maybe it's something deeper. Without a doubt, the tension and anger that used to pour quietly from Garcia's dark eyes has been subdued, and he's a giant step removed from the abyss he was perched over in early '89. Furthermore, he's taken on the role of husband and father with remarkable ease. But it's hard to say if he's anywhere near tranquil. The bad days of are no longer fresh in anybody's mind, but neither are they a distant memory, and it's difficult to consider Garcia's future without a vague feeling of suspense.

Everybody's surfing, at some point, is affected by love and romance. With Sunny Garcia, however, the two go hand-in-hand. Long-time acquaintance Brock Little says, "You could chart all the ups and downs in Sunny's surfing according to what was happening in his love life." Garcia himself offers a simple explanation for present #3 WCT rating: "I got married."

Sunny's wife, the former Anela Peneku, born and raised in Honolulu, is 21, small, blonde and attractive. At first glance she looks too much like a San Clemente High cheerleader to be anyone's savior; and even with one daughter pressed against her shoulder and another clutching her legs, it's hard to believe she's the mother of two. But Anela's revitalizing effect on Sunny is obvious, and her easy command over the children, (Kaila will be two in May; Logan is almost a year younger) prove that she's a young adult very much in control of her surroundings. Sweet but strong. "Anela calls the shots," says a friend. "She runs the family."

Anela is the sophisticated member of the family; 

 echoes faintly as she calls her husband's attention to an elegant piece of architecture, or brings up a news item, or explains the condition of the family finances—the managing of which is her providence entirely. "I take care of everything," Anela says. "I know where the all money comes from, and I know where it's all going." Sunny nods his in agreement and says, "I don't worry about taxes, I don't worry about bills, or dealing with money in any way." His voice is higher than expected, and the words have a certain thickness; not a lisp, but close. "I was no good at any of that. Anela came into my life and cleaned it up."

Both agree that his designated role, aside from father, is to surf well and bring home paychecks. Beyond that, he does chores at their recently bought house near Makaha. Sunny enjoys the image of surf god as domestic laborer, and says with some pride, "I wash the clothes, wash the dishes; I vacuum the house, sweep the floor, everything."

The correlation between Garcia's surge on the WCT and his courtship, marriage and family-building with Anela is obvious. In early '90, just before Anela came back into the picture (the two had dated for three months, when she was 14 and his was 15, "one of those dumb little high school things," she says), Garcia's once-mighty professional promise had all but disappeared as he stagnated at the bottom of the Top 16. A little over two years earlier, in the Spring of '88, he finished 17th in his first full year as a professional—and everybody but Garcia considered the result a stunning achievement. Derek Hynd summed up: "He's a modern-day Cassius Clay—a slick, black nightmare come to whup some ass." Garcia's own assessment was strangely bitter: "I'm dissatisfied. I'm displeased. I'm sick of waiting." The anger was as real as his surfing ability. Nobody had the courage enough to pull Garcia aside and say that 17-years-olds, no matter how talented, 

John Shimooka, Garcia's best friend at the time, says the impatience came in part from Garcia's background. "Growing up on the West Side, boy—it's like the Bronx; it's like bad parts of Oakland. Sunny brought himself up. He always went after what he wanted, and got it. So even though he made it to #17 that year, he already thought he should be at the top. He was disappointed."

Garcia had been a fighter in school. He says he first got suspended from class school at age six, and that he dropped out of high school in ninth grade after an older kid walked into his photography class, pinned Garcia against a wall and, in front of the teacher and a room full of students, beat him so badly that he spent two days in the hospital. Garcia never went back to school. He'd already been surfing for seven years, and had won virtually every contest he'd entered (losing occasionally to Shimooka), and from that point it was just a matter of lining up sponsors before he turned professional.

Things happened quickly. Before the year was out, new sponsor Billabong sent him to Queensland to live and train with '78 world champion Wayne Bartholomew. More than most, Bartholomew recognized the young Hawaiian's double-edged potential. "First, I was amazed at what a good surfer he was at such a young age. But he was really tense, even then. He had all this energy and aggression; he wanted to kick ass, but at the same time he wasn't yet able to contain and focus his energy. I figured if he could ever harness his own spirit, he was going to make it." Under Bartholomew's tutelage, Garcia took third in the '86 Stubbies contest, and finished the year rated 47th. The following year he shot to 17th, and was named the WCT's Most Improved surfer.

On tour, Garcia had an ascetic lifestyle completely at odds with his teenage peers: no drugs or liquor, no late-night perversions, seemingly no outside interests at all; just bursts of beautiful power surfing followed by hours in front of the TV back at the hotel room. He was constantly upset about his results. He took a runner-up finish in the '87 Op Pro as an insult; once or twice he openly raged at contest officials over calls he though were unfair. But mainly he swallowed down his strange anger and glared at the world quietly.

Garcia began doing cocaine midway through the '88 season, with took to it with his usual determination and ferocity. He'd be broke at the end of each month, waiting for sponsor's checks. He destroyed an expensive car. He dropped 20 pounds. He began peeking out from behind closed curtains, in the same hotel rooms where he used to zone out in front of the television, sure that the police were on the way. "I was so bad," Garcia says now, "that guys I knew who were drugged out heavily didn't want to party with me." Shimooka, who by that time was on tour, confirms: "It was a black time for him; it was a black hole. I dabbled in a lot of different things, different drugs. Sunny stayed with one thing. He didn't drink or smoke. But the way he was doing coke, he was bigger and badder than anyone. Sunny was scary. I worried about him a lot."

His surfing became less dependable, and even though his year-end rating went up a notch, to #16, Hynd wrote that "in one year, Garcia has self-destructed . . . the gift he had is a strewn memory."

But in some ways, Garcia's drug use wasn't typical at all. He was in deep,  immediately, but got out just as fast six months later. He still claims never to have developed a physical need. In fact, there's defiance in his voice, almost a note of pride, as the story comes out. Nobody saved him from drugs. He wasn't Born Again. He didn't so much as consider any kind of 12-step program. Take Sunny at his word, and the whole episode might be read as a risky and expensive outlet for his swollen competitive drive. He wasn't just going to do coke; he was going to do more coke, faster, than anyone around. And to his credit, he never blamed his parents, the schools, the President, or his confused inner child. He takes full responsibility for the episode, but doesn't blame himself, either. "It was a six-month party, and I don't regret any of it. I had a great time. I hid from a lot of problems, which is what I wanted to do in the first place."

There was no single moment when he decided to quit. The '89 WCT  season was coming up, and it just seemed time to move on. "I wanted to surf better," he shrugs, "and I wanted to 

 better." Garcia not only says  he hasn't done coke for two-and-a-half years, but that he hasn't even had the urge. Told that a lot of people will call bullshit on such a claim, he gives a cold smile and says he doesn't much care what other people think.

Garcia has reason to doubt the collective wisdom of the public. If they were clueless enough to vote him #27 in the most recent SURFER Poll, behind a number of shorebreak specialists and WCT has-beens, they may as well go ahead and question his strength of character.

Actually, that's not entirely fair. For a number of reasons, Garcia hasn't much been in the public eye. He's been consistently undersold by the surf media—

 magazine, for example, has never done a full profile on him, and he's had just one American cover shot. But Garcia's own career management has been poor. He's jumped sponsors too many times for any surf brand CEO to feel comfortable about his loyalty. He doesn't search out photo sessions, and is easily frustrated by crowds—he says he's only surfed Sunset and Pipeline two or three times each, total, not counting contest heats. The net result is that Garcia moved up to his current high rank quietly and without much notice. 

Meanwhile, he doesn't have the kind of bang and flash common to the New School surfers who have moved to the fore over the last two or  three years. His surfing is a hard to pin down, exactly. Some descriptions tend to the ethereal: Billabong President Bob Hurley talks about Garcia having "a sixth sense, or a kind of secret understanding." Most people begin with a comment on his natural talent. An analogy/comparison can be made to two-time world champion Damien Hardman: the Australian's surfing is nearly flawless in its own way, perfectly faceted, cut and polished, while Sunny Garcia seems to be the product of natural forces, a black pearl; the most innately beautiful surfer since Tom Curren. Brock Little's description is more nuts and bolts, but still accurate: "All the power, all the water flying off his rail—but he still looks completely relaxed."

Garcia's surfing is best appreciated live; something gets lost during the translation to video or film. Photographs are even less accurate. (Other great surfers have had the same problem with still photography; Bobby Owens, Michael Peterson and Ian Cairns come to mind.) Pictures do show off two of Garcia's basic style characteristics, though: a beautifully straight back, and the folded-over fingers on his right hand—the latter trait stolen from Dane Kealoha. Garcia's body is quiet; he rarely throws his arms out to re-balance, even as he gouges deeply through critical sections. The end effect is both raw and elegant; powerful and subtle. Tom Curren is the only surfer to have a better sense of flow; a more pleasing line. It's a comparison Garcia would welcome. Asked for his definition of good surfing, Garcia answers without hesitation: "Curren, '84 to '86. Completely smooth, powerful and graceful. I watch videos of Curren from those years, and compare it to Kelly Slater today—and I like Curren."

Only a few dozen people, mostly world tour insiders, really understand the accomplishment of Garcia's 1992 season. Without question, it was the most impressive #3 place finish in the history of professional surfing: Sunny won the Triple Crown, six WQS events, a WCT event, and finished runner-up in the Pipeline Masters despite having to leave the water (with a big lead) 13 minutes before the final horn. Some benefits are obvious: more money and respect will come his way in '93. Better still, there's been internal recognition as well. Garcia finally seems able to appreciate what he's done.

The big change, he says, is that he can now find motivation from a wider range of feelings. For years, to prep for heats, he depended on anger and revenge. "I used to need that, I depended on it, to make me surf better. I still use anger now and then, but for a long time if I wasn't angry I couldn't win. I never used to do well when I was happy; I'd be sort of slack. Over the past couple of years, I've learned how to surf when I'm happy. Now I can do it no matter what kind of mood I'm in." The anger, he says, came from his not being able to fully dictate a given situation: he had no authority over contest officials or the surf, and only a limited effect on his opponents. Today, Garcia says, "I've learned to live with things that I don't have total control over. With kids, you 

 to live that way. I'm more patient. You need to be unbelievably patient with kids. Everything else, surfing, anything, doesn't even compare."

But Garcia admits that his surfing still thrives on emotion and challenge, and that he'll get all he needs next season going after Kelly Slater. Damien Hardman, far and away the ASP's most consistent surfer over the past seven years, and the only other person rated ahead of Garcia, doesn't seem to exist. "More than anything," says Bob Hurley, "Sunny wants to show the world he can surf as well as Kelly Slater. That's his goal. That's his motivation."

Slater and Garcia have been friends for years, and Slater remembers the first time the Hawaiian came to Florida. "He came to stay with a girl, I think it was in '86 or '87, but she'd started going back out with her old boyfriend, so he ended up at my house." The two have kept in touch ever since; never really tight, but closer than the surf world might prefer. "We just laughed at some of the things we read," Slater says. "People were looking for a rivalry, and it just wasn't there."

If both surfers end up neck-and-neck for the '93 world title, however, their friendship will probably suffer. Slater admits that he and Garcia didn't spend as much time together this year on the North Shore as last year. Garcia doesn't like the fact that he's had to bring "tail-slides and tricks" into his repertoire to bump his scores up. "That's Kelly's thing, and to win heats, you have to do 'em. That's just the way it is. But I think it's weak. Not to take anything away from Kelly. I know he's doing all these aerials, 360s, whatever, but tricks are for kids. That's kid stuff."

Apart from style differences, Slater and Garcia, in '93, will also use two completely different approaches to training. Garcia claims the secret to success last year was that he only surfed two-to-three hours a week. "I was hungry to win; I wasn't hungry to surf. So I'd hold off, hold off, not go out, so when it was time for the contest, 

 I wanted to surf; then I was hungry." Slater, in contrast, estimates that he spends 12-to-30 hours a week in the water. He's diplomatic when commenting on Garcia's low output: "That's Sunny. That's natural talent."

It's hard to argue with Garcia's approach; the results speak for themselves. But the same can be said for Slater. Garcia's surfing last year, in places, was virtually perfect. But if both surfers maintain their '92 trajectories, it's Slater's title to lose.

Which is not to say the Sunny Garcia hasn't come as far. Over the past three years, in fact, all things considered, he's come further.

Garcia still can't (or won't) identify any core reasons for the discontent that he used to wear openly, saying only that he hated the idea of other surfers, who weren't nearly as talented as he was, getting better results, more money, more attention.

But there was never any question that Garcia himself, as early as his mid-teens, believed that a wife and family would be the elixir for all his problems. What to make of this? Psychologists, philosophers, and 100,000 self-help books would say that looking for solutions in another person is asking for trouble. 

On the other hand, it may be that Garcia has an innate feeling about what's good for him, just as strong and as his innate feeling for riding waves. The future may come down to whether Garcia is a tragic romantic or a family man. The former spells disaster—for his WCT rating, his surfing in general, and his sanity. But if he's a real family man, he'll make it. There has always been a fundamental kindness about him, but now it's closer to the surface. Brock Little says "everyone who really knows Sunny will tell you that he's mellow, caring, loving person. It's just hard to crack the shell. He's got that 

; that intimidating look. And he still likes to use it." Garcia himself says "I look the way I do on purpose. I still don't feel comfortable talking to most people." Anela says much the same thing. "The mean side he has is mostly a front; a defense."

But Garcia is defenseless when Kaila, his older daughter, pats his unshaven cheeks with both hands, then pull him forward for a kiss on the nose, and it's this soft gesture that stays in mind as he talks, with some detachment, about his future in surfing. Five more years on the tour, he says, give or take a season. A world title—maybe. "I'd like it, but I don't need it."

It is entirely possible that Garcia here is putting up a new kind of front. John Shimooka, for one, thinks Garcia's competitive drive that may have gone underground for the moment, but remains as strong as ever. "Sunny won't stop until he gets that title. He's a machine, he really wants it, and I think it'll be a major disappointment if he doesn't go all the way. Then you'll see Sunny get angry."

But it may be that Shimooka hasn't taken a close look at his friend over the past few months. Anela and the kids, the house at Makaha, the long-deferred satisfaction with his surfing—it all adds up to a new balance in Garcia's life. During his rookie year on tour, Garcia said that 20 years down the road he'd be fat, happy and married, raising kids at Makaha. Today, he leans back and rubs his flat stomach as though it already had the extra 40 pounds. He smiles. "Hey, I'm working on it."

"DARK STAR" - SUNNY GARCIA PROFILE (1993)

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