His legs trembled as he found his footing and they were still unsteady as he rode the wave, breaking right, away from the rocks, at the inside spot they called Pinballs, on the slant of the slipping, diminishing wave to the middle of the bay. Timing his fall, he dismounted and snatched his board and ducked into an oncoming wave and paddled back to the lineup, and rode again, this time with steadier legs.

When he was done—ten rides, two wipeouts—he found his small pile of belongings—his T-shirt, his flip-flops—and took a shower at the changing room and walked to the bus stop with his board. Within minutes a pickup truck stopped, the driver gesturing for him to put his board in the back.

“Was more bigger yesterday,” the man said as he drove away.

“I caught some at Pipeline.”

“Ass good. Was big.”

They rode for a while, the radio playing indistinctly, a whisper vibrating in the glow of the dashboard. The cab of the pickup smelled of wet dog fur and greasy rags.

“You got a name, brah?”

“Joe Sharkey.”

“Sharkey.” The man lifted his head, looking pleased and smiling, and he revealed himself as a boy, not much older than Sharkey, but Hawaiian, with a mass of thick curls and a dark complexion and a blunted nose. “Thass a good name—Sharkey. Maybe a shark your aumakua.”

“What’s yours?”

“My aumakua is a monk seal.”

“Your name?”

“Eddie Aikau.”

He spoke his full name with unusual clarity, like an announcement, and nothing after that, a pause, as though waiting to be recognized—an odd and unexpected formality in the smelly cab of the old pickup truck, passing through Hale‘iwa.

In the extended silence the smell was stronger. Sharkey’s perception heightened, but his alertness gave him only the doggy odor and the rattle of the loose door latch. After the eager greeting—Thass a good name—he was a stranger again, though the young man was still smiling.

He finally said, “I wen’ ween the Pipe last year”—not as a boast but stating a fact.

Sharkey jerked to attention and faced him. “Really? No kidding? That’s fantastic—oh, man.”

And now Eddie Aikau became quiet, gripping the wheel, nodding a little, his mop of hair exaggerating the subtle motion of his head. His expression was a mixture of modesty and pride, pleasure showing in his eyes, his lips pressed together in satisfaction. He had said enough; he was a listener now, he looked receptive—it was Sharkey’s turn.

“How did you do it?” Sharkey asked, but did not wait for an answer. “That’s incredible. Who did you beat? How do you train?”