“Take it up with him.”

“He’s stubborn. He lied about posting the video of the sharks. Said he would not, then he did. Last night. Everyone is talking now, asking questions. My daughter Bette is being hated and harassed. She is very smart girl and innocent of all crimes. King Jim Seafood is not criminals.”

Bette, Jen thinks—Casey’s shark-finning butcher on the high seas. She easily traces the events leading to this surprise confrontation: Bette’s recognition of surf celebrity Casey yesterday; Bette’s and her father’s Internet search of the Laguna Stonebreakers and the Barrel, through which they would learn of Jen Stonebreaker’s entry into the Monsters of Mavericks, her impressive training, which includes this early morning surf-paddling at Brooks, followed by her half-mile out-and-backs in the Pacific. Hell, the Laguna Beach Independent and Los Angeles Times have run pictures of her doing that!

Alone here at sea with nothing but a board to cling to, a ripple of worry goes through her.

The copilot is thin, and half a head shorter than King Jim. Black hair to his shoulders. A white Polo windbreaker over a navy sweater and white pants. Their clothes look new, or at least clean. In their sleek red Cigarette boat, they look like an advertisement, though Jen is not sure for what.

“You tell Casey Stonebreaker he should take down the video and give apology,” the captain calls out. His voice is strong and clear. “You tell Casey to say the video was taken in international waters. You tell Casey to say the shark-fin video was taken two years ago. You tell Casey leave Bette alone!”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?”

“Better late.”

“We like your restaurant!” Polo yells. Voice sharp, a smile. “Like very much!”

Jen hasn’t seen these guys in the Barrel that she can remember. Not that she necessarily would. Her restaurant has a big Chinese clientele, fish and seafood lovers, big parties from Taiwan, mostly, recommended by friends and relatives, big on the half-price happy hour cocktails and the Barrel catch of the day.

“What do you pay for rent at the Barrel?” asks Polo.

“It’s mine.”

“In her family a long time!” calls out the captain. “Your website is very good with the history. And the photographs. Are you going to surf the Monsters of Mavericks?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, that’s a scary place to surf. How much money if you win?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“To risk your life?” asks King Jim.

To beat your fear, Jen thinks, but says nothing.

“You could get more than that as a magazine model,” says Polo with a knowing smile. “Like your son.”

“I did that for a while. It got old. So did I.”

“You make Casey to take down the posts,” says the King.

“No. Shark-finning sucks and you guys should know better. Put it in soup so guys can get it up? Pathetic, gentlemen.”

“We’ll come to your restaurant.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Never make a threat. We want to open a restaurant in Laguna. Chinese seafood and fish. All fresh. A modern place, hip. More hip than Barrel. More now.”

“Good luck.”

“Laguna has money. It needs good restaurant,” says Polo.

“Sure. Laguna can use another good restaurant. Gentlemen—please go slow on your exit, would you? I’m heading home.”

Jen digs in her paddle for an eastward tack and starts off through the choppy water.

Then, something really bugging her, she angrily swings her board around to face Dragon.

“Leave my son alone.”

“Leave my daughter alone!” yells the King. “You make Casey Stonebreaker follow my orders!”

“He won’t,” Jen yells back. “He’s brave and good and always does what’s right.” Admittedly, though, Casey can be a bit self-righteous. For twenty-four.

“But maybe he stupid, too,” says Polo. “Makes trouble for everyone for no good reason.”

“Mutilating wild animals is a good reason for trouble,” she says.

“You kill fish for your restaurant,” says the King. “Big money. Same thing.”

“We use the whole fish. Sashimi, soup, sauces—everything but the skin and guts. The gulls get those.”

“You make Casey take down the videos,” says the King. “All platforms. Don’t let him be a fool. Maybe good things happen.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, turning away again and paddling for shore.

Well, maybe I am, she admits, with regards to Casey and his idealism. He’s no match for shark-finning pirates on the high seas. Right now her knees feel brittle and her heart beats hard.

She’s plenty angry, too.

She isn’t afraid of bad men, threats, heights, sharks, fists, guns, car accidents, wildfires, or viruses. In fact, Jen Stonebreaker is afraid of only one thing: the big waves she’ll be riding at Mavericks, and hauling Casey—and maybe Brock—into. Dragging her beloved sons into the waves that killed their dad.

By this notion she is privately, unabashedly terrified.

8

The next morning Casey hooks a 102-pound bluefin tuna—the largest and most delicious tuna in the world—on Desperation Reef. The reef is a not-so-secret hot spot for sportfishermen, and the prized bluefin hit it hard in summer and fall. Just a few hundred yards outside Desperation Reef lies San Clemente Island, owned by the Navy and used as an amphibious training base and bomb/rocket/missile proving ground. Not even the wild goats are welcome. Occasionally, Navy patrol boats will stop Casey, board Moondance, check his bait and refrigerated holds. They’re pretty cool guys, Casey has found, and some of them recognize him from the surf journals and the many YouTube videos of him riding gigantic waves around the world.

Today, this tuna fights him so long and hard, dragging Moondance across the heavy chop, that the anglers on the nearby charter, Buenisima, cheer and hoot as Casey finally completes his gaff-free landing of the beautiful, scintillating silver-blue missile.

Paws on the gunwale, Mae barks for most of this grueling forty-minute battle, the tuna sounding and taking line off Casey’s Penn reel in heated screams. She only barks at big fish.

Breathing heavily, Casey finally tail-ropes the tuna to a stern cleat, and sets the engine low to drag the fish slowly east, cooling the tuna’s internal temperature after its hard battle. Casey watches it through dark blue water shot with pipes of sunlight, the fish losing strength, gills slowing. Casey knows something of how it feels, having held the very last of his breath on long hold-downs by huge waves.

The swell is too heavy and the chop too high for cleaning the fish at sea, so Casey lowers his catch to the ice blocks in the hold, and hightails Moondance to Oceanside Harbor.

Where, an hour and fifteen minutes later, he ties off his boat and clomps up the launch ramp, leaving Mae to guard the catch, per usual. Casey gets his keys from the waders’ pouch, then climbs into the truck and backs the trailer down the ramp.