“Mom had me lay flat and stand up a few times. Then she pushed me into a wave and told me to stand up when I felt it take me. I fell six times. Hit the board twice. Gnarly. Then on the seventh try I stood up for, like, twenty feet. Awesome and a half. I was stoked. Forever. It was like—”
“Terrific, Casey! Now turn away from me and face the screen. Put your hands on your hips, you know, like you’re standing on the beach, looking out at the waves. Relax your waist, and cock one hip.”
“Which one?”
“Up to you, Case!”
Casey strikes this pose.
kerchack kerchack kerchack
“Mr. Stonebreaker!” calls out the writer. “What was your first big wave? I mean, over ten feet!”
“Hanalei Bay on Kauai. I was thirteen. It was fifteen feet, totally double-overhead. Victory at sea to a kid! I fell on the takeoff and it held me under, like, bad. Mom and Brock were there. Saw stars when I finally made it up.”
“Were you terrified?”
“No way. I couldn’t wait to go again. Got my breath, paddled hard through the incoming. Finally caught one and rode it. Massive. Mom and Brock watched. Kicked out and landed good. Epic. Life changer. Never forget. Ever.”
“I’m impressed you could ride Hanalei that young,” says the writer. “And Mavericks at nineteen. And Cortes Bank at twenty-one.”
“Dad did.”
“It just seems like one day you’re in Laguna riding five feet at Brooks, next day you’re surfing fifteen feet in Hawaii.”
“Mom took us all over the world for big waves,” says Casey. “Spent every penny for big waves. Summers and holidays mostly. Especially Christmas break, because that’s when the big swells hit. Brock and me haven’t had Christmas at home the last five years.”
“Casey!” shouts out the photographer, stepping in closer. “Now, keep watching those imaginary waves up there on the screen, but loosen the ties on those cool trunks of yours.”
Over his shoulder, Casey thanks her for the compliment on his trunks, made by his struggling beachwear line, CaseyWear.
“Now, Casey, reach back with your right hand and place your thumb between the waistband and your waist. Yeah, good—now put your fingers in the pocket and spread them out, like you’re trying to find something in there. Now, with your thumb still hooked over the waistband, lower the trunks an inch down your right side. Keep those fingers spread—you’re searching for your car key in the pocket. Or maybe some ChapStick. Yes, good bun work!”
kerchack kerchack kerchack
“Now pull down a little harder, Case, give me another inch of skin. It looks great, by the way, you were smart to do the tanning back there. Good, tan, oiled, and glittering muscle.”
kerchack kerchack kerchack kerchack
Casey shakes his head slowly and smiles at the black backdrop, holds his pose, thumb on his trunks, fingers in his rear pocket, as it hits him that this is one of the funniest but most uncool things he’s ever done. He listens to the camera motor drive, firing away like it can’t get enough. It’s some kind of rad joke, he thinks, to tan and oil your butt for a picture. He decides to post about this. Make a little fun of himself. God knows what the Santa Cruz boys will say. Maybe post when the story comes out in T&A.
“Do you ever get tired of being handled like a piece of meat in some of these photo shoots?” asks the writer.
“Not really,” Casey says over his shoulder. “The people are always nice, and if it’s for an ad, it pays really good. But I do wonder what God thinks.”
“What do you think He thinks?”
“He must see vanity under the sun, and striving after mammon. Maybe some not-cool sacrilege and coveting, too, in how people think when they see the pictures. Nothing super heavy, though.”
“So far as pictures go, Casey,” says the photographer, “these will be pretty tame. I don’t think God would mind one little bit. He’s got bigger fish to fry, this world being what it is.”
“Gnardical,” says Casey.
“What’s that mean?” she asks.
“Gnarly and radical together. Gnardical.”
“You mean God and frying fish?”
“Exactly.”
Half an hour later the photog says it’s a wrap.
“Thanks, Casey. You’re great to work with. And I have hellos to you from Bette Wu. We went to school together at UCLA. I shot her in Laguna a few days ago. Bette lit up when I told her we’d be working together. Says she knows you.”
Casey doesn’t know what to say to that, goes with nothing.
“Oh, and don’t miss that billboard right out front on Sunset.”
17
With the photo shoot done, Casey puts his shirt and jeans and flip-flops back on, then pulls up a director’s chair in front of the writer. The stage is dark and the fans turned to low.
He talks and talks.
Interviews are easy now. He used to get excited and wig out talking about surfing and lose his train of thought, but at twenty-four he’s so used to talking about himself—how he does what he does, and what’s the biggest wave, scariest break, most dangerous wipeout, most terror-struck moment in the water he’s ever experienced—that he can answer without really thinking. He knows what a sound bite is.
But sometimes, an interviewer wants to get the really choice, heavy-duty stuff, which is what this writer asks now:
