Mahina has the oxygen cylinder on her, mask snug and valve open.

The woman sits up, crossing her bruised and dirty legs. “Thanks. Thanks.”

Breathing deeply still, she looks at Mahina then Brock with what looks like gratitude and suspicion.

“What’s your name, woman?” asks Mahina.

“Gail.”

Brock fetches a cold bottled water from his cart, breaks it open, and hands it to her. She brings it to her lips, hands shaking.

“It’s going to get bad when the ’can wears off,” says Gail.

“Don’t get high again too soon,” says Mahina. “You’re just going to be doing this again. Unless you just overdose, up and die.”

“I don’t want to die.”

Gail pulls on the oxygen for another three minutes. Eats some melon and pineapple and downs another bottle of water.

“Help me up?”

With both big hands, Mahina pulls her upright. Gail manages to pick up her sleeping bag.

“Thanks again.”

She drags the ragged red nylon sleeping bag to the library wall, underhands it into a blue dome tent among other dome tents and lean-tos, then waves back at them, stoops, and crawls in.

When she’s inside, Brock looks at Mahina, shakes his head with weariness, and turns to see the Right Fighters shooting video of him again.

“You’re saving the wrong people, Stonebreaker!” one calls out, raising his phone high.

Brock feels the anger and takes off toward them, mayhem in mind.

“Thanks for the invite, Saint Brock! We’ll see you again!”

They sprint off in different directions.

Brock brakes and watches them go, heart pounding, bile rising.

16

Next afternoon Casey is on time for his Travel & Adventure Magazine interview and photo shoot up in Hollywood. A cover, no less. Last month it was Gal Gadot.

He’s standing on a small stage in nothing but swim trunks, his back to a ceiling-high black backdrop blanched bright by a blinding forest of lights. It’s hot, even with the fans turned up high to make Casey’s yellow-blond hair stand up and lean back with apparent velocity.

T&A is what Casey calls this mag, aware that his A is part of what they’re after here. The magazine contract requires one backside image to include “minimally and tastefully exposed buttocks, mutually acceptable by both parties.”

“Minimally” isn’t precisely spelled out, and Casey is definitely concerned about this picture, given his reputation as a privileged, vain, self-hyped pretty-boy Jesus freak who surfs big waves more for fame and money than the actual thrill of surfing. This being the general drift of the small, loose-knit, and very opinionated big-wave surfing scene—the writers, photographers, and filmmakers—and even some of the surfers themselves. There’s been some ugly backstabbing that Casey doesn’t dig, mostly from the tough-ass Santa Cruz guys, things like, Casey’s a Ken doll on a surfboard, Casey’s a rich Laguna boy, Casey’s chasing the legend of his father, John, who was surfing the Monsters of Mavericks the day he died.

Casey was surprised when he started hearing things like that, some years ago, when he first began making very big waves at Sunset, Jaws, Teahupo’o, Todos Santos, and Mavericks—and riding them pretty well for a young gun. Didn’t understand why how he looked and where he came from were such negatives. It wasn’t like Laird and Buzzy and some other guys didn’t do some modeling to make money. You had to make it somehow. There wasn’t a big-wave surfer on Earth—and might never be—who could make a decent living without sponsorships and modeling and product pitching. Heck, the biggest first-place big-wave contest purse for risking your life was, thus far, a whopping $50,000. How long could you live on that? And travel the world, chasing the biggest waves on the planet? Just the airfares and lodging were a fortune.

There have been digs on Jen, too. Not published or recorded, but rumors about what she didn’t do the day her husband died, how she could have gotten to the impact zone faster, should have used a more powerful jet ski, how she once said that she was never great on a jet ski to begin with.

Of course, Casey had read every word published about that day, and seen the video and film, and talked to everybody he could find who was in the water, and not one of them would say anything about Jen Stonebreaker being in any way at fault.

But still, he’s heard and overheard the rumors and innuendo, always attributed to someone who was there, someone who of course, to Casey’s face, denies all. His brother, Brock, punched out a flippant photographer who’d “insulted Mom” at the annual World Surfing Awards banquet not long ago, clips viral, assault charges pressed, a no-contest plea and ten days in Los Angeles County Jail and a $15,000 medical-damages bill for Brock.

Casey’s take on all this is he’s got a billion followers and fans who like and respect him and his family, and he’s not going to let the rumor mill distract him. It’s hard to put their wishes for bad karma out of his mind, but Casey does. Sure, they sneak in once in a while but Casey turns his heroic chin the other way, just like the good book says.

Now, after changing his swim trunks once again, the makeup guy dabs Casey’s crow’s-feet. Then, with a wide paintbrush, retouches Casey’s chest and arms with a body oil that gives him a slightly amphibious glimmer.

Well, Casey thinks, T&A has a circulation of 842,000 in print alone, so whatever floats their boat.

Mae lies in the corner of the studio, head resting on her feet, almost hidden behind the black backdrop, keeping an eye on Casey. After the pirates, Casey takes Mae everywhere he goes. It’s hot in here and she pants softly.

The magazine writer sits on a director’s stool with a small tape recorder on the floor halfway between him and his subject. He’s a hearty, middle-aged Australian, bearded and loud-voiced. Ian Keneally.

Casey has never done an interview and photo shoot simultaneously, and it’s hard for him to field questions and take the photog’s orders.

“Chin down and eyes up, Casey,” she says. She’s a thirty-something blonde who looks like a surfer herself. She’s got a camera in one hand, another around her neck, and two more on a folding table beside her. “Get that intense, matter-of-fact look.”

He gives it his best but Casey’s no model or actor, and he doesn’t know if he looks intense or just silly.

kerchack kerchack, kerchack kerchack

“Now wet your lips, then part them and pucker just a little. Like you’re about to say ‘surf’s up!’”

“Okay.”

kerchack kerchack

“Mr. Stonebreaker,” says the writer, “can you remember the first wave you caught?”

“Yeah, sure! I was five and Mom took me out at Old Man’s at San Onofre. Seven tries. Put me on a long board. This cherry eight-six Hobie—”

“Again, Casey,” says the photographer. “Part your lips and go ahead, just say it like a surfer would, say, ‘surf’s up!’”

Casey does as he’s told, which isn’t difficult. He’s spoken fluent surf since he was six—the slurred vowels and schwas, and his slack sibilants combining for cool nonchalance. The exuberance and the slang. It’s the only language he knows, having grown up with Jen, Jen’s surfer mom, Eve, and the Stonebreakers.

kerchack kerchack

“Nice, Casey, now look up and to your left, like you’re seeing a jet high in the sky. Don’t squint! Look amazed.”

Casey tries amazed. Tries not to squint against the ferocious lights.

kerchack

“So you’re at Old Man’s on the longboard, then what?” asks the writer with a terse glance at the photographer as she changes cameras.