A group of eager hurrying boys pushed past him. Sharkey hated being able to understand what was said, and that he did so imperfectly made it worse for its truth being blunter—traffic jam, press conference, a mass of excited chattering people turned away from him.

The news was of Garrett’s ride, the man himself being interviewed, the lights singling him out in the early-morning gloom. He stood straight, a small glowing man on the improvised stage, holding his magical board, the board glinting in the photographers’ flashes.

Looking fascinated, João and the others drifted toward the press conference, and Sharkey slipped away. Seeing a pickup truck passing, he stuck out his hand, and when the driver smiled in a wondering way, Sharkey pointed to his board and said, “To the beach—okay?”

His words were barely audible over the booming of the waves, but the board said enough.

As they drove down the hill to Nazaré and the beach, Sharkey glanced at the cliff at Sitio and saw a pack of children, not looking at the wave but kicking a football, and felt a pang for his insignificance.

A jet ski was parked on the slope of the beach, a man astride it, eating a small circular pastry.

“Take me out,” Sharkey said, slapping his board.

The man smiled—he understood but looked doubtful, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sharkey said. “Grande onda.”

Shaking his head, the man finished his pastry and licked his fingers, then began to drag his jet ski the short distance down the slope into the flop of the shore break.

No one saw Sharkey yank the zips, sealing himself into his wetsuit; there were no witnesses to his splashing toward the jet ski and fastening his board to the rear bracket. The man revving the engine did not speak English but used gestures—his voice could not be heard in any case in the loud surf.

That no one was watching made it easier; without witnesses Sharkey was so negligible as barely to exist, half submerged and insignificant being towed across the harbor and into the steepness of the swell, up and over two rising waves, and disappearing behind them.

And then he was at sea, in the middle of the channel, his back to shore, facing the incoming waves. When he let go of the tow rope and was released from the jet ski and was alone, he was a mere wisp on the water, ghostlike, no more than flotsam, perhaps not even visible to anyone on the cliff. And the jet ski was tipping past the crest of a wave and growing tiny, then gone.