Big influence, he would say later of Eddie, after Eddie disappeared in the sea and there was no one around to dispute it. He conveyed the impression, one that a nonsurfer would understand, that Eddie had taught him how to move on the big waves, the secrets of Hawaiian wave-riding, consecrating himself to the surf. And for years, in the anecdotal way of North Shore surfers, he was associated with Eddie and won the contest that was held in his name at Waimea, saying in his acceptance speech, “I knew this great soul”—and the story of their meeting on the road, in the golden dusk, two boys headed for fame. “Destiny.”

What he did not say—the simple truth—was that he had always surfed alone. Going out every day, exhausting himself, surfing until nightfall and often in the dark, bobbing in the water, he learned the behavior of waves, their mood and curvature, how they lifted and curled, the ways in which a certain bellying just beforehand suggested slippage and speed. He learned to predict from the swell what a wave would do, by studying a break, reading it thoroughly, the inner life of its push, as if each length of wave were a line of poetry, each set a stanza, with its internal rhythm, so that he could insert himself into it—not waiting for the wave to accommodate him but something deeper, meeting it on his terms, finding harmony, becoming the wave.

Friendship with other surfers helped. The early advice of Uncle Sunshine had given him discipline, but while he insisted that all surfers felt a kinship and learned from each other and were mutually supportive, always spoken of as the North Shore hui—“da braddahs”—they were solitary on their wave and often resented each other, and had taught themselves to surf and become better through repetition, surfing every day, taking the biggest waves, because those were the waves that demanded the most agility and strength, the most nerve.

These young men, he knew—but didn’t say—pretended to be a tight group, and celebrated and drank beer together and preened for the girls. But they were alone—alone in the sea, alone in their lives, like the sea creatures around them, slipping through the ocean, the turtles and seals, the schools of fish and pods of whales you’d mistake for companions, not realizing that they always swam alone.