A shoulder injury from a wipeout at Jaws, when he was hit by his board coming out of a barrel, sidelined Sharkey for almost a year. In that year a number of new surfers emerged, and Hunter showed up limping—“Fucking hip replacement, can you believe it?”—and Sharkey said, “I’ve been out of action too,” and thought, But I have nothing else.

Even limping, Hunter had an outlaw aura and a loud shout, was often pictured with a cigarette in one hand, a gun in the other, and the aura gave him a look of danger and celebrity. But more than that, his writing guaranteed that his achievement would last and be remembered—not the ride on water, leaving no trace, witnessed by a few guys onshore, but indestructible books, a legacy. Sharkey was dazzled by the very idea of a book. For the nonreader a book was a powerful fetish object, something magical, its creation a mystery. It contained secrets.

Even so, Sharkey was not provoked to read one. Reading made him feel like a child.

Their lives were parallel, and because Sharkey was ten years younger, he measured himself against Hunter, often gratified by the correspondences, or shocked when he realized that in ten years or so he might be like Hunter, angry, negative, raging, lame, because his youth was gone, his talent diminished.

“I can’t write this,” Hunter said. Another year, another week of the Honolulu Marathon, Hunter sitting at a table in the kitchen of his suite, his new girlfriend sobbing in the bedroom. “You have to do it.”

“Impossible,” Sharkey said. “No way.”

“You’re not high!” Hunter looked frenzied and resentful. He slapped his computer, avoiding the half-chewed slice of pizza that had dripped sauce on the keyboard.

“I’m a high school dropout, man!”

“All the better. It’ll sound raw.”

“I can’t write,” Sharkey said. “You have to do it.”

“I’m buzzed.” He licked his lips. “Can’t see. Dope sick.”

At times like this, his face gleaming with sweat, his skin pale, his eyes reddened, he did look sick and was probably feverish.

“Your friend, that guy Moe.”

“Moe Kahiko?”

“Yeah. He can write it.”

“Moe can barely speak English,” Sharkey said, trying not to smile at the thought of Moe sucking on a blunt, his big dirty fingers tapping at tiny computer keys. “What is it you need?”

“Column for ESPN. The deadline’s tomorrow.” Still sitting, elbows on the table, head down, he called out “Patty!”

The woman who had been sobbing softly in the bedroom came to the doorway, wiping her eyes, looking sorrowful.

“Find someone to write my piece. Or else do it yourself.” He had not turned or lifted his head; he spoke in animal grunts, crouched like a monkey, and then began to shout.

He was still shouting as Sharkey slipped out of the room.