“Okay, this guy been on the North Shore since fo’ever,” Skippy said in a new voice, chirpy, his enthusiasm causing him to stammer. “He know Eddie Aikau, he know Jock, he know Sunny, and all the Hawaii ohana. He wen’ surf the big monster in Nazaré, but you never hear about it, ’cause Garrett he get all the credit—for true!” Skippy turned to Sharkey and slow-clapped in appreciation. “I admire this brother so much, and thanks for his kokua, showing up here. Let’s hear da kine he got for us. Give it up for surf legend da Shark—Joe Sharkey!”

Instead of applauding—which he expected—the youngsters shifted and gabbled in their seats, thrashings that made the metal chairs creak.

“Aloha,” Sharkey said.

In the murmur of response, he saw that Olive had taken a seat several rows behind the little group. Pale and apprehensive, she looked in her concern more than ever like his nurse, and he was reminded of his last glimpse of Hunter, feeble and flustered, attended by his nurselike wife.

“Thanks for that introduction, Skippy—but, hey, please don’t admire me. Yes, I knew Eddie. He died in a super-heroic attempt to reach shore from the Hōkūle‘a. He’s known more for that than for any wave he rode or prize he won. His sacrifice made him a god. And Jock—a great surfer. He still fixes roofs. Sunny Garcia—he made a million bucks in prize money and he’s one of the most depressed people I know.”

“Triple Crown, brah,” Skippy called out.

“But winning the Triple Crown didn’t keep him from trying to kill himself. And look at Andy Irons—how many titles? World champion. And he drugs himself to death, thirtysomething, in a hotel room in Texas.” Sharkey paced back and forth before the youngsters, whipping his hand at them. “You guys are groms—you need to know this. Maybe you’ve got the moves. Hey, you’ll probably blow your knee out hotdogging in a tube. Maybe you think you can get famous by riding a wave, even a monster wave, like me and Garrett. But let me tell you, it’s a very brief ride, even on a monster. A few minutes at most, and then it’s over. That’s not a sport, that’s a kind of play—surfing is playing in the water. And what do you do the rest of the time?” He paused and stared at them, then growled, “My hero, Greg Noll—da Bull—rode a monster in Makaha, or did he wipe out? No one ever saw it. He was spooked and gave up surfing.”

“Some guys, they wen’ see him,” Skippy said. “Just no picture.”

Sharkey leaned at them and hissed, “You’re stoked. Then you get old. Then you lose the stoke.”

“Wait, wait,” Skippy said, standing up, clutching his T-shirt in his distress. “You’re bumming them out, brah.”