He hated hearing the man’s enthusiasm and seeing his gusto in the tightening gulp of his throat, because it was how he too felt, and any discovery shared was a discovery diminished. He thought of himself as a loner, and he felt mocked and subverted, as when he believed he had an original thought or impulse and he came across someone else who had the same one.

Wanting always to be first, he felt undermined by everything the man was telling him, especially “Maybe we could ride it together.”

That the man had not given the break a name gave Sharkey hope.

“First I need to find a place to stay,” he said.

“I know some people.”

Sharkey resented that too. The man was way ahead of him; Sharkey had no names.

“Please identify your bags,” a man in a gray uniform said to them.

They indicated their boards in the big padded sleeves, and their duffels—Sharkey noticed that the man had brought some boxes of food, but did not remark on it, or anything more; he felt already the man knew too much.

“I guess we’re the only two freaks here,” Doc said.

Outside the small airport building, which was no more than a shed, onlookers stood behind a fence, their fingers hooked on the mesh. One ragged islander in a misshapen bush hat held a square of cardboard, crudely printed BOWERS.

“That’s my man,” Doc said, and waved.

The man touched his hat, greeting Doc, then introduced him to an older man in a white gown next to him. “This is our fadda priest”—Doc shook the man’s hand—“and this our dive master Tofinga”—another handshake—“and my friend Tawita.”

Excluded from the familiarity and friendliness, Sharkey said, “There’s a hotel here, right?”

“Captain Cook,” the priest said.

“Also known as Main Camp,” Doc said. “Or you can join me in the village.”

“I’m okay,” Sharkey said. He hoisted his board bag and jammed it under his arm, and when one of the islanders, stepping forward, said, “Taxi?” Sharkey handed him his duffel and tried to push past the waiting men.

“If I can help,” the priest said, reaching and touching his arm.

“I’ll be fine,” Sharkey said. Again he resented being crowded and imposed upon, when all he wanted was to ride the wave alone. He wished to separate himself from these people, to be away and on his own.

He found the hotel, and a room smelling of its painted cinder blocks; he rented a pickup truck, and he set off the next morning to drive to the far corner of the island, to find his own way of getting to the wave.