Fate takes Robbie Page seriously. No half measures. His fortune turns really good or really bad. Page grew up poor ("the trash of the trash," he once said) in a Sydney housing project where you could easily tick off five or six arrest-worthy vices before lunch. He surfing life began when he stole two bikes, swapped the parts around, then traded one of the bikes for a surfboard.

On the other hand, Page was gifted with curly blonde hair, the brightest smile on the South Coast, and a fast, funny, gravel-voiced rap that attracted friends like moths. Everybody loved Page.

His pro career never quite took off. Ten years on tour, Page's highest year-end finish was #23. He hit the winner's podium just once, but in Pagey fashion he made it count, taking out the 1988 Pipeline Masters. It was one of those years where the surf didn't turn on (the event "degenerated into a variable beachbreak tussle," as reporter Derek Hynd noted), which only just proves the point, that Fate will pick up Page and snuggled him like a kitten. Unlike Tom Curren and Martin Potter and Wayne Bartholomew and dozes of other favored WCT other pros, Page will have the option of inscribing "Pipeline Masters winner" on his headstone.

On the other hand, doing time in a Japanese prison? That was Fate drop-kicking Pagey into the next county. Tim Baker recalled the episode in his 2013 book 

In 1992, Robbie Page had flown from Spain to Japan, having enjoyed the European leg of the pro tour to the fullest. Cannabis is decriminalized for personal use in Spain, and the Spanish leg had long been characterized by late nights and wild parties as the touring pros lapped up the Continental lifestyle. When Rob flew into Tokyo, he was pulled aside by customs for special attention, hardly surprising given his long hair, colorful clothing and surfboard bag.

He was relaxed about the customs officials’ earnest interrogation and search through his belongings, convinced he had nothing to fear. As they tore through his luggage with mounting frustration he sat and watched impassively. But when they went through his wallet, a small, folded square of blotting paper fell out and fluttered through the air, as if in slow motion. Rob’s heart skipped a beat . . . the acid.

‘We were all in Europe having a good time after the contest finished,’ he explained to me later. ‘They were partying in Spain, you know. People smoke marijuana in Spain – and hash. It’s all right. It’s legal. And myself and a couple of guys bought a couple of trips off this Spanish guy, had a big night, got wasted, charged on. And I had a couple of them left in a bit of paper, which I’d lost in my wallet with a lot of receipts and shit. Then I went through Japan six or seven weeks later and, Merry Christmas, someone found it for me. Thanks, you know.’

Robbie spent sixty-six days in a Japanese prison, half of it in solitary confinement. While he sat alone in his cell, the Marui Pro in Chiba, only a couple of hour’s drive away, went on without him. Yet no one from the sport’s governing body, the ASP, checked on him or offered any support or legal counsel. They simply listed him in the event results as a ‘no show’. When he was eventually released and deported, the ASP board voted to impose an eighteen-month suspension from competition, despite the fact that many of the surfers who voted in favor of the ban had been known to ingest the odd prohibited substance themselves. At the age of 26, it was a virtual death sentence to his contest career.

Four months after Page left prison and was deported from Japan, he was in Paris, dating a gorgeous young local woman, and having a long, casual dinner conversation with her grandfather—Francois Mitterrand, the sitting President of France. Later that night Mitterrand picked up a copy of 

, which happened to have an interview with Page, along with a detailed account of his drug bust. The President responded with a cool Gallic shrug, and a summary judgment: "He's done nothing wrong."

ROBBIE PAGE: PIPE MASTER, JAILBIRD, PRESIDENTIAL CONFIDANTE

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