Photo above is Teahupoo, Tahiti...on a small day.

A warm and passive sun hangs in the clear noon sky, a golden burst of inanimate glow that heats the pearly white sand, churning under his feet, to just the right temperature. He marvels at the deep green tropical expanse of this island paradise, and the amazing sanctity of each glorious, nature kissed, day.

It is nothing like the arid, sun-scorched California inland lake-towns he’s used to, where just a trip to the car can seem to raise blisters on your feet. Children and adults alike, racing wildly through the landscape-distorting heat waves, hooting as they emerge from the shade of some tree or building; dancing like ferrets on the flaming dirt and asphalt. They fumble agonizingly with keys and beach balls, coolers and folding chairs, as siblings shout “unlock the door, hurry!”, yanking wildly on the handle.

Placid crowds now gather at the road’s edge of Sunset Beach, Hawaii; cameras slung over craning necks, searching the waters with straining eyes. Binoculars and tripod-mounted, bazooka-style image gathering creations pepper the beach. Big-gun photographers with their judgmental looks, like necromancers who thrive on stolen moments of infamy, interpret the seconds of epiphany and genius with banal praise and pretense, holding the power to make corpses dance upon the page.

He watches patiently, a 7-6 thruster hanging by his side, cradled like a school book in his hand; the fragile weight of its carving Australian features balanced with perfect precision along the sharp rails of its light blue Aloha frame.

He slips the board in front of him and walks slowly to the water's roiling edge, waiting for the yawing inside set to recede from the compacted sand, trampled and crushed by the pounding surf. He just needs a little cool water to stiffen the corrugation of studded wax he keeps well maintained on the surface of his stick.

He pulls a fresh pack of Zog’s Sex Wax from his loose, knee length, Hot Tuna shorts, tearing the plastic coating from it with his teeth. He loves the sweet, tropical smell that always makes him want to take a bite of it. Placing the plastic wrapping in his pocket, and zipping it, he begins to run the hockey-puck-style disc of wax up and down atop the deck of the board, concentrating most of his energy at the upper rails where he knows he will need added traction for pushing himself to his feet in the turmoil. He then takes extra time to build thick nubs on the front and rear decks by lightly traversing them without knocking them loose. He always left the middle of the board, where his stomach lays, clean. He never could stand the wax that would gather on his torso and ball-up in the slight trail of hair that grew out of his shorts like some fraternal guide to his nether regions. “What the hell is that for?” he thinks, glancing at the hair below the bellybutton of his taught, widely ribbed torso. He begins to apply wax on the middle of the board anyway. He knows that today there are no second chances, and he will just have to tolerate the discomfort.

Vivid are his memories of the time he slipped off of his board in the throws of a deadly 54 foot drop, on the face of an 18 foot wave at Pipeline, because he refused to put wax on the middle portion of his board surface. He had been very lucky to only come out of it with some deep lacerations, crushed heel and a broken jaw. He had slammed into the shallow, reef-lined, bottom on his back-side as his face and chin folded crushing into his knees, leaving comical bite marks on one of them. The entire outer portion of his right forearm had been reduced to the texture of hamburger, exposing the bone. His jaw had been fractured on the left side, from the rear base of the Ramus, nearly to the Condyle bone, arching in a crescent down along the mandible bone just below the molars, finally curving upward through the front of his chin, and the lower eyetooth.

He remembers, as he slowly paddled to shore, being able to move the entire left side of his mouth like it was some replacement part on a Mr. Potato Head. Today, he can still feel the slight ache in his left heel where it had shattered; recalling also the searing alchemy caused by “vanas” (flames), the Polynesian word for Sea Urchin, that had added the element of fire to throbbing pain, where it riddled the flesh of his feet which had been the first to hit the coral where they grow.

He chuckles to himself, now wryly, knowing full well he had been very lucky that day. Only an hour after that, a young man had been pulled from the same spot with a broken back, barely clinging to life as one of the ambulances, always waiting close by on big surf days, whisked him away, sirens screaming. Just another statistic. Later that evening, at an after-party, some newbie surfers, attempting to drink away their fears, shakily spoke of how the kid had arrived at the emergency room…DOA.

Placing the Zog’s back in his pocket, knowing he will need it out there, he begins to assess the rolling expanse of the Sunset-break, West of Bones, he has decided he will paddle out to. The leeward wind is just strong enough to create rain at the top edges of the 20 to 25 foot waves which are stacking up in sets along the horizon; folding back at the lip where these giants bend from on high, straddled by the courageous and insane.

He feels the hundreds of excited eyes on his heavily muscled back. Willing him into the fray as a rush of energy, coursing through his body, erupting from his legs up through his torso and chest, tells him it is time. A powerful force, like always, seems to take hold of him as he dives into the receding surf, ducking with his board under the cool wet surface, emerging nose-first like a whale from the deep. This force, like a hunger, beckons to him, masking trepidation and terror with ecstasy, satiated only by a tangle with death.

Today, The Reaper’s artillery are raging cliffs of the sea, pulverizing everything in their path at 300 foot-pounds per square inch of dynamic power; towering peaks of liquid demolition. This day, death's chosen weapons…are mountains alive.

To be continued…