Other surfers were better known and made more money on the circuit, but Sharkey was more photogenic, the face that these businessmen wanted as the face of their products—the scarred face, the Shark. He had burned blond hair, tousled and too long, his body was blue with tattoos, and even in furious water he had an easy stroke that powered him into the break. Most of all he had the smile. And as a result of having been an outsider, bullied at Roosevelt, snubbed by locals early on, having had to make his own way, he knew how to be a friend, to show humility, even when he resented having to be humble. His pretense of mildness made him approachable, and it worked with women.

Most money men were smooth and aloof, as smug and serene as magicians, and with that same well-it and unreadable face. You knew they were wealthy because they never looked hungry, they hardly smiled; they sat unmoved amid powerful silences, as though wreathed in clouds.

And yet some of these millionaires clung to him, wanted to be near him, wanted to know him, to have him as a trophy acquaintance, and after listening to his stories tried to impress him with stories of their own. But this bafflement became his muffled humility. He smiled to think he might have what they wanted, the thing that was lacking in their lives—and what was it? The freedom to spend every day exactly as he pleased, to paddle out and ride a wave, a boy’s dream: a life of playing hooky. Maybe that was the dream of the money man—maker of sunglasses and T-shirts and bathing suits, owner of a mansion in Malibu: to be a carefree boy on a wave.

Grateful for the endorsement money but embarrassed by their frank admiration, Sharkey affected to complain—the breaks were getting crowded, the pressure to perform more intense; the meets were gangbangs; surfers had discovered Bali.

“I want your problems,” one of the businessmen said.

“Seriously, it’s getting harder,” Sharkey said superstitiously, hoping he sounded sincere, because his life had never been happier.

“I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat,” the big men said, and Sharkey felt pity for them, for having inspired such envy and making their success seem small.

Incredibly, they wanted his life, even the cagiest and the most worldly of them, who had everything, or so it seemed. They were persistent, often crassly demanding. “I’ve got to have more face time with you,” one of his sponsors said, sounding like an insecure lover. And dealing with their attention, which seemed like clumsy wooing, he understood how a pretty woman felt, disgusted and repelled, dealing with the hot gaze and roaming hands of an unwelcome man—how did you fend him off without seeming like a complete bitch?