His mom is in a red sleeveless dress and white sneakers, greeting guests, checking in at tables, bustling between the kitchen and the bar and the front desk. Beyond the second-floor deck, the Pacific advances to shore in small waves that fizzle to whitewater.

From his bar, Casey can see the life-sized bronze sculpture of his father standing in the lobby, one arm around his sharp-nosed gun surfboard.

Inside the Barrel, the surfboards on the walls—each one with a history and a plaque—shimmer in the lights. The big-screen surfing videos provide nonstop rides, drop-ins, bottom turns, and wipeouts on some of the biggest waves ever ridden.

The videos are paeans to chaos: a yellow helicopter hovers over an impact zone at the Jaws break on Maui, marking a flailing, board-less surfer while a wave towers behind the chopper. Jet skis swing surfers into rising fifty-foot waves at Nazaré in Portugal, then speed for the exits and into the sky. Helmeted, buoyancy-vested men are pitched from four-story heights into mountains of whitewater at Mavericks. Boards spiral and shoot and break into pieces like breadsticks.

Casey likes the photographs better, especially the older ones:

Dewey Weber at Makaha.

Greg Noll at Pipeline.

Margo Oberg at Sunset.

Jeff Clark and Jay Moriarity at Mavericks.

Mark Foo at Sunset.

Laird Hamilton at Jaws.

Mike Parsons at Cortes Bank.

John Stonebreaker at Mavericks.

John Stonebreaker at Teahupo’o.

Maya Gabeira at Todos Santos.

Jen Stonebreaker at Mavericks.

Garrett McNamara at Nazaré.

Casey has met most of them: his human pantheon, almost gods.

Casey looks up for a moment at the picture of his father dropping into a fifty-foot wave at Mavericks twenty-five Decembers ago. He’s beautiful in the air, arms up, legs extended, feet locked into the straps on the deck of his orange-and-black board. Of course Casey wasn’t even born yet but he knows his dad made that wave, got massive points for it. His father looks confident, firm in his destiny. Or is it fate? God’s will? These are large considerations, and not yet settled in Casey Stonebreaker’s twenty-four-year-old mind. He’s looked at this picture thousands of times. Sometimes it’s a celebration, sometimes a headstone, knowing what happened just a day later.

“Nail those pirates, Craig,” says Casey. “They must have killed fifty sharks today. Beautiful threshers and blues, everything. Even a baby white. Threw them all back in to die.”

“She’s a big ocean out there, Casey.”

Casey knows that the CDFW is understaffed and outgunned. They always say that. Realizes with a little chill how defenseless he and Mae really are out there.

Not to mention the sharks, and Craig Lockabie.

Casey enjoys his last peaceful pre–happy hour minutes. He tells Jen about “Bette” and the shark finners. Soon the Barrel bar will be stuffed with drinkers. Locals and tourists. Loud, but good people. All cocktails half price, including their signature Scorpions and Lapu-Lapu triples, with jalapeño skewers and miniature umbrellas. These cocktails are messy and time-consuming to mix, but crowd-pleasers just the same.

So, before all that cuts loose, he checks his mail for word from his twin brother, Brock, last posting from Florida in the deadly and massively destructive aftermath of still another category-four hurricane.

Sure enough, Brock and his Go Dogs are in Fort Myers, performing their so-called “rescue mission” in the wake of the storm.

Casey watches the NBC video of Brock, his wife, Mahina, and two other women—all clad in Day-Glo green and black Go Dogs rain suits with the snarling dachshund stenciled front and back. They’re helping drenched and bedraggled citizens into a school bus. The rain slants in; palm trees reach out like they’re trying to grab someone. The refugees from the storm have rolling luggage and bulging plastic bags, children by the hand and babies in strollers.

He calls Brock:

“Brah, looks like you’re beating back hell in Florida.”

Brock answers:

“It’s evacuation at this point. Eighty-six confirmed dead. The school districts are supplying the buses. We’re getting people to higher ground, which in this part of the world is far, far away. You should be here. The Go Dogs need drivers. We need muscle and energy.”

“I’m fishing for Mom and training for the Monsters.”

“You’re a selfish, vain striver, Casey.”

Casey takes this one on the chin, same as he has his whole life with Brock. “I caught a hundred-pound bluefin for the Barrel today. Caught some shark finners, too.”

“I saw that Surf Tribe underwear ad last week and you looked like a dolt.”

“It’s just work, brah. The modeling.”

“Get off your ass and help! It’s not what the world can do for you.”

“Only God gives and takes.”

“That bullshit again,” says Brock. “Look, Casey, I’ll be in California tomorrow. The Feather Fire in Ukiah. Twenty thousand acres and zero percent containment. Come on up, help me out.”

Casey is again amazed by his brother’s ferocious energy and drive. Leave a Florida hurricane and fight a California wildfire the next day?

“When we get those people safe, you and I can surf,” Brock says. “Get ready for the Monsters.”

“Are you even going to show up for it?”

“You know I hate contests, but I like the money,” says Brock. “That’s all I want … keep the rescue missions financed…”

Brock continues on but the connection falters, then corrects.

“I’m worried about Momster surfing Mavericks,” says Casey. “She hasn’t ridden big waves since before we were born.”

“Or done much towing with the jet ski,” says Brock.

“Right. Is Mahina going to tow you?”

“Hell, yes,” snaps Brock. “She’s the best. Look, Case, I’m stoked that Mom is towing you. Just remember—she hasn’t done it since we went big-wave pro. Six years.”

“But she’s working out real hard now,” says Casey. “Every day. Especially on the jet ski. You’re the one who has to get yourself ready, Brock. You gotta be ready to surf Mavericks, or you know…”

A beat of silence, then: “Well, Casey, Dad was ready, but there’s that jealous God of yours again—giving and taking for his own entertainment.”