“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.”
“Yeah, there He is,” says Casey. “But I love you, Brock, and the unbelieving demons inside you.”
“You’re messed up, man. See you at the Feather Fire. You should help this miserable world for once, instead of only yourself.”
Casey pictures Brock, his minutes-younger twin brother—lanky, dark dreadlocks, inked to the max—in every visible way Casey’s opposite.
Casey worries about him. Always has. Worries about the body that Brock drives to physical extremes in order to ride immense waves. And the angry heart that Brock so eagerly displays. The fights he picks, the scars he wears, and the weapons he collects. The way he thinks he can save the world, one disaster at a time. Playing God instead of worshipping Him.
“There’s bad karma at Mavericks, Brock. Pray to God for protection. Valley of death and all like that.”
“I dread your God, Casey. Just shut up.”
5
Beneath a billowing gray sky pocked with red embers, Brock Stonebreaker and his wife and his Go Dogs—in a motley battalion of pickups, utility vehicles, and vans—have encamped within the eye-burning haze that chokes the Feather Fire evacuation center on the Mendocino College soccer field.
The hills surrounding them are limned in wind-driven flames that launch embers into the sky like fireworks.
The fire was zero percent contained when Brock, Mahina, and the Go Dogs got here two hours ago, and it’s zero percent contained now.
