The Mexican girls knew nothing of surfing and stood on the beach and laughed, unimpressed, seeing Sharkey and Bingo sliding toward them on big waves. In the evenings, as they sat drinking beer next to the van, they were approached by Mexican boys, who demanded money or beer or cigarettes. The van was broken into one day when they were surfing, Sharkey’s camera was stolen. They’d hidden their wallets inside a door panel. “It was a shitty camera,” Sharkey said. “They can have it.” They set off the next day for the border.

In Hawaii that March they learned that Eddie Aikau had drowned in an attempt to get help by paddling on his board from the overturned sailing canoe Hōkūle‘a in the Ka‘iwi Channel. The following year Sharkey won the Triple Crown and was regarded as Eddie’s natural successor.

But by then surfing had become busier, more competitive—not the mellow fooling of past years but a fiercely contested sport, silent men jostling on waves. The prizes were bigger, the rivalries stronger, the endorsements greater.

It was in this period, early eighties, that Sharkey left Hawaii for California, telling the other surfers he needed a rest. But he confided to Bingo, who was in Santa Cruz, “It’s not fun there anymore.”

They surfed Mavericks and sold pakalolo, or gave it away, saying, “You looking for trouble?” inviting surf bunnies into the back of the van for weed and sex. They believed they could continue this way for years. “I’ll be pushing forty one of these days, Bingo,” was Sharkey’s refrain.

But still in Santa Cruz at a coffee shop he met Stella, who said she was a teacher there, and got her into the van, and fell in love. He called it love. He thought he’d experienced the limits of desire before, but this was something new, a passion that turned him into a monkey.

She was small, pale, with full lips and ash-blond hair, and there lingered on her skin—her neck, her thighs—an aroma of overripeness, crushed flowers, stale ones, like musky vanilla, but creamy in their festering. It was sour sexual perfume that acted on him like a drug. Stella had no interest in surfing, but that didn’t matter. After her classes she would breathe into the phone, “Come and get me. I’m horny.”

And he laughed because she was a college professor, the backseat of her car full of books, and shelves of them in her apartment. After sex in her bedroom—books there too—her odor was much stronger, and when she parted her legs and he clutched her he was reminded of warm fish guts.

She flung her arms out and said, “I want to be like a man. I want to do what men do—anything I want.”

“With me,” Sharkey said, looking for reassurance.

“Of course, my darling,” she said, sounding insincere.