The Year of Surfing Dangerously

a short story by Terence Loose

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I

t was August, I was twenty-two and I needed a place to live. I was about to start my first year of college after taking a few years off to work unimportant jobs, travel and surf. Now it was time to get serious again. So, sitting on the couch of a high school friend, I half-heartedly circled descriptions and prices of available living space. My prospects looked grim: a half dozen representations of the overpriced, undersized hovels that make up the Southern California renting scene. One stood out, however. I recognized the address as on the beach side of Coast Highway in a nice North Laguna neighborhood and the price was a third less than anything else I had circled. Then came the ad’s last line: “Must surf; no smokers, no snivelers. Apply in person.” It seemed more a challenge than a solicitation, but the place seemed too good to let go by.

I answered the ad the next morning. A petite Polynesian woman, in her twenties I guessed, answered the door. Silently – she spoke just enough English to explain she spoke none – she led me upstairs to a large living area and gestured for me to sit on a couch which commanded a panoramic ocean view. After pouring me a glass of water, she backed out a door, closing it behind her.

The room I was in was also Polynesian. Tribal artifacts and tapas hung on the walls; the coffee table was made of heavy dark wood, ornately carved; there were freshly picked hibiscus flowers and green palm leaves placed in its middle. Instead of a wall or windows on the ocean side, there were only posts; the entire stretch was open, shutters drawn back, with a wooden deck running the length of the room. The view was a magazine spread, looking south down the Laguna coastline. Instinctively, I moved out to the deck, taking in the fresh summer air and the sound of ocean crashing into rock less than a hundred meters away. I laughed to myself that the ad must be a joke, or that the owner was renting out the recently deceased dog’s house.

I was pulled out of my mental wandering by the sound of a door closing. I Turned. Standing in the middle of the room was a man wearing a flowered sarong, no shirt, no shoes. He was tanned, apparently in his late twenties, with the raw muscles that are carved from natural sports rather than Nautilus machines.

“I’m Jake,” he said.

“My name is Kevin. I came about the room.” I started forward and put my right hand out.

Jake’s hand came out but instead of offering the second half of a handshake, it held a pointed finger. “You surf, I can tell that already. What I can’t tell yet is if you’re a sniveler. We can’t have any whiners around here.”

His words stopped me. The scene would have been silly had Jake’s voice been anything but one of total control. The words came out clearly, with a calm and confidence that demanded respect. Still, I felt unfairly cornered.

“Well,” I said. “I’m not known for a Kleenex fetish.”

“Good answer. Let me show you your room.”

And that was it. That was how my twenty-second year – at once my favorite and my most terrifying year – began.

I moved in one week later, in mid-August, still wondering whether I had made the right decision. Had I moved in with a madman, one of the colorful nuts for which Laguna is famous? Or did I stumble onto a rarity: a nice pad at a good price? I had no idea. What I was sure of was that I had no choice but take the room. Besides the modest price, my curiosity would not let me pass. Who was this guy Jake. It was obvious that he was the owner of the manse, but how? It was also obvious from his tanned skin that he didn’t spend the requisite 70 hours a week in an office to pay for such a spread. I didn’t recognize his face from TV or the big screen; and his features, while chiseled, were just weathered enough to spoil any big money from modeling. Finally, as yet, I had seen no signs that he was an artist. Family money, I supposed, but he didn’t strike me as a loafer.

If I were to discover more, though, it would have to wait. The first month I lived in his home, Jake did not. But, far from cold darkness, it was a month of comfort beyond my means, not close to starving student level. My room was downstairs with its own lush garden patio and as perfect as the rest of the house. The bed was a four-poster teak masterpiece, obviously hand-carved, again in Polynesian motif. There were paintings of tropical islands on two walls, each with a perfect left peeling into the frame. A carved writing desk graced a corner and bamboo wind chimes clonked in the soft breeze just outside large French doors. Within this tranquil setting, I soon fell into an easy routine. I would wake fairly early, go for a surf or paddle, bring back coffee and breakfast to enjoy on the upstairs deck, then spend the day reading or, if the waves were good, going for a second surf. In the evening I either waited tables at a local seafood restaurant or went out with my friends. I never had them over to the house – in fact, I was careful to be vague about where I now lived. The last thing I needed was one of them deciding a kegger in Kevin’s new million dollar digs was essential. I liked my new-found luxury too much to blow it so frivolously.

Tatiana, the petite and exotic woman who let me in that first day, came twice a week to clean. She was shy and nice and we got along well, albeit silently. Unfortunately, though, information on Jake’s whereabouts, or anything else about my new landlord, was safe with her.

Nor were there clues around the house. No pictures, travel plans scribbled on message pads, or phone messages. In fact, as far as I knew, the phone in my room was the only one in the house. The house got no mail; I assumed Jake had a box at the Post Office. Jake’s room was locked – I noticed Tatiana locking it one day after cleaning it – its heavy teak door barring me from its interior.

So, in this simple and silent way, August turned to September. And with the turning of the month I was reminded of my promise to myself of a more serious outlook. I began to think about the coming school year more, surf less. My plan was to load up on units and get a year and a half of study completed in the year. I would then take classes during the following summer and, with any luck, have enough units to qualify as an engineering major by the next fall. It wouldn’t be easy, especially since I had to work nights to supplement my meager college savings, but, I rationalized, think how easy those last two years would seem.

I now only had a few weeks to the start of classes and, instead of putting in a string of last bashes, I took on extra shifts at work. I worked six nights and three days, became blurry eyed and started taking orders in my sleep. But I figured a few extra dollars now meant a few extra days off down the road, when I really needed them.

It was during this time that Jake returned. I ran into him on the upstairs deck on a Sunday evening, the first day I had off in over a week. I thought a slow sunset might be just the thing to unwind. Jake was standing, facing the ocean, apparently waiting for the same thing.

“I didn’t know you were home,” I said.

“Got home three days ago; you’ve been busy.”

“Work. I’m trying to earn some money for the school year,” I said, and immediately was sorry I turned the conversation to the subject of money with a landlord I hardly knew. Clumsily, I added, “By the way, I didn’t know what to do with the September rent. Are you gone often?”

“That, right. You can give it to Tatiana or just wait till you see me. It doesn’t much matter,” he said in an almost bothered tone. “How have the waves been?”

“The waves?” I was still wondering where he’d been and why a landlord didn’t care about his rent. “Oh, well, like I said, I’ve been working a lot. . .”

“You look pale.”

I wanted to change the subject – I was starting to feel challenged again. “How was your trip?”

“Relatively speaking, average. On most people’s scale, incredible. I’ve come to the conclusion that perfection is over-rated.” He paused; he turned toward the sinking sun again and seemed to be thinking out loud more than speaking to me. “Yes, perfection is simply everything we expect it to be, so for something to be perfect means that we’ve already experienced it in our minds. It’s old the very first time. All those wonderful imperfect surprises are what keep our dreams alive.” Another pause, then: “It’s funny. Most people spend their entire lives chasing perfection without the slightest chance of catching it. They don’t know how lucky they are.”

This, I was soon to learn, was a typical conversation with Jake: taxing. There was no rest in it; no warm-up or idle. Just full-throttle philosophizing. And just now, I was on empty, going uphill.

I didn’t – I couldn’t – say anything for a moment. Then, with exaggerated casualness to hide my curiosity I said, “Where did you go, anyway?” This was a direct question. As I would come to realize, Jake hated them; they were flies in his conversation, acknowledged only long enough to swat them away.

“A small island far away. The name would mean nothing to you.”

“All I know is it sounds like you were in a better place than I’ve been all week,” I said, hoping to lighten things up.

“I’m not so sure,” he said, and went to his room.

“You have absolutely no chance of catching a wave in that bed.”

This was the first sentence I heard on the morning of the third day after Jake arrived home. It was still dark out but my room light was on and I blinked into it. Jake was looking down at me. He had my seven-two under his right arm and my kaki work pants – which I had dropped on the floor only hours before after a particularly late shift – in his left. He tossed them on my chest.

“I’m sure it was just an oversight that you didn’t set your alarm,” he said. “I’m sure you know that Point is huge. I’m sure you got no sleep just thinking about all the perfect tubes going unridden in the dark of night—“

What the hell was he talking about? What was he doing in my room? Above all, what time was it?

Still half asleep, I pushed the pants aside, “I have a really long day coming up at school—“

He cut me off. “All this excitement has got me hearing things,” he said and turned toward the door. “I thought I heard someone sniveling. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

We pulled up to Newport’s 18^th Street just as light was starting to show over the hills – the sun was still far behind. Jake parked the car without checking the waves; we were surfing, period. There was a slight chill in the air, the kind that always comes with big surf and makes you wonder if it’s colder than usual or just your nerves. I pulled my spring suit from the back of Jake’s Range Rover. Jake slid his seven-four out and tucked it under his arm.

“No wetsuit?” I said.

“I hate those things.”

“I hate being cold.” I said. Jake had a knack for putting me on the defensive.

“I don’t plan on sitting long enough to get cold,” he said and started toward the water.

A few minutes later I was standing next to him on the sand just north of the main peak. Jake was studying the wave, which was as good as Point gets. The summer had brought a moderate amount of south swells, so the sand bar that formed the Point was sharp but not over-filled: there was one clear take-off spot followed by a fast hollow wall. During my walk out, I had seen a 12-foot set come through and it looked like most waves were makeable. It would have been perfect, I thought, if it wasn’t for one thing: the crowd.

Like Pipeline or Wedge on a macking day, it was quickly becoming a zoo – wild animal park would probably be more accurate. There were already a dozen or so guys in the water, two or three pushing one another dangerously further inside the peak for position. Another dozen lined the beach waxing boards, slapping wet wetsuits and generally procrastinating – the surfing culture’s merciless peer pressure almost oozing from their faces.

To me the scene was hideous. I knew that by the time I got my first wave there would be 40 guys in the water, stretched all the way south to closed-out Boneyards desperately scratching for one three second ride. Half would be pit bull aggressive, half would be nothing more than dangerous obstacles.

Unlike most of these idiots, I had no illusions about my skill level. I could hold my own in reasonable surf and, if the conditions were right, in the big stuff too. I prided myself on keeping a healthy, humble respect for the awesome power of the ocean. But when it became a chaotic circus, with random acts of stupidity played out against a backdrop of triple overhead surf, I stopped having fun. And fun was the main reason I went surfing.

But on this morning Jake’s challenging way had suppressed my better judgment. My will was not my own, for if it had been, I would never have paddled out.

“We’re wasting time and waves,” he said suddenly. “Two things you never get a second chance at.”

There it was again, in case my will was thinking of mounting any sort of reasoned attack on my emotions, the challenge was renewed.

We paddled out into the growing mayhem and were soon separated thanks to an ill-timed set. I was swept north and lost track of Jake, which I felt would be all the better for my surf.

In the next few hours I caught a few good, but forgettable waves, none of the sets but nice clean tubes that – going on the vague general images I still hold – would make the highlight film on 350 surfs out of the year.

Jake did get the big ones. I finally caught sight of him again when a huge set rolled through. He was right on the peak, stroking hard and alone. It was as if the minions of surfers had parted to let him through. The wave jacked just as he stood up and he leaned a little in: he was too deep to afford a wide bottom turn, and he knew it. A gooffyfoot, he had the advantage of a frontside attack. He drew an angled line down the face, pulled up off the bottom as the lip was beginning to fall above him and found his line with a casualness that belied the massive wall in front of him. From my inside north position I watched as he flew through the barrel, tightening to a slight crouch as he rode deeper and the vortex shrank and roared around him. But far from appearing desperate he looked comfortable. He seemed more a part of the wave’s energy than a mere mortal trying to outrun it. Finally, he shot out as easily as he had entered, flipped his board over the soft inside shoulder and began paddling out again.

It was one of the four flawless rides I saw him get that day.

Maybe they were the reason I stroked into that final wave. Maybe Jake’s grace made me believe that since I was made of the same substance, came from the same source, I could ride into perfection as easily.

The wave was big, smooth and as good a wave as I have gotten in California. The drop was perfect, my board felt as if it were hydro foiling down the massive face. When I hit the pit, my instincts took over and I leaned hard into my bottom turn. Giving up little speed, I made a smooth transition onto the face and drew a tight line across the wall jacking fast in front of me. I felt my inside rail set and waited for the hollow show to begin. Time did that slow down thing; everything was right and the world was, for that instant, orderly.

Then it happened.

Some fool took off just as the first section threw over me. Worse yet, he didn’t make the drop. I saw a splash. I felt spray, and then the impact of a hundred-and-forty-pound high school freshman getting pitched onto my head. We became one tangled cluster of flesh, bones and fiberglass being ground into the sand by a thousand gallons of seawater. When finally we were pushed far enough inside to deal with the wreckage, I found myself attached to less than half my board. I also found blood streaming off my left shoulder, no doubt the spot Mr. I-don’t-see-you-in-that-tube landed his air drop.

I was fuming, so angry in fact, I was scared to say anything: I was afraid of what I might do. The kid took this opportunity to quickly paddle away, board intact and apparently unscathed. No sorry, nothing – and he had the nerve to paddle out again.

When I got to the truck, Jake was waiting. He was dry, smiling, leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed.

“That was some wave you got. Perfect positioning,” he said.

I stopped. I stared. I held up the bottom half of my board with my right hand; the other half I hadn’t bothered to search for.

“I got my board busted by a fledgling asshole. Not to mention this.” I nodded my head toward my left shoulder. “I wish I had never paddled out.”

“Wrong!” he said with a force that stunned me. “Years from now – next month – you won’t remember any other wave you rode today, but that one.”

“Are you kidding? I’m already trying to forget it.”

“Kevin, life’s ecstasies are never remembered unless framed in struggle. Embrace them both; one is nothing without the other.”

I was too exhausted and too furious to feel challenged into submission. “What is this? Confusion Philosophy 101? My life would have been much more ecstatic if that kid would have been taught some surf etiquette.”

Jake stared at me calmly. “You’re sniveling again,” he said, and got in the truck.

Jake left on one of his mysterious trips a few days after the swell died away. One morning he was just gone; no explanation, no hint of when he might return. We hadn’t spoken much since that day anyway, the silence not a grudging one but, at least on my part, a little awkward. My shoulder healed fairly rapidly, the gash not being deep enough for stitches, but I still used it as an excuse to stay out of the water and turn my attention to school.

September turned to October and with it came signs of fall. People from other states claim Southern California has no seasons – or more often that it has but one perennial summer. But any native will tell you this is not true. Fall has distinct signs. The water turns a darker shade of blue, giving the first hints that colder temps will soon stream down from the north. Sand begins to disappear at favored point breaks, changing them from inviting beaches to rocky protrusions. And people acquire a slight tension, knowing that they will rely on weather reports more heavily to plan their weekends.

Fall meant a change in routine, and I was now no different. I spent every morning and most afternoons on campus. Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights I worked at the restaurant and on weekends I spent most of my time at the library or in my room studying. It was a grueling schedule – especially for someone fresh off two years of leisurely travel. But I convinced myself it would become easier with time.

My surfing was put on hold; the only time for it would have been early mornings and the long days and nights stopped me from getting up a minute before I had to. Weekends were less rigid, but the combination of poor conditions and crowds usually provided me with a convenient excuse to waste any extra time enjoying a lazy stupor from the hard week.

It was on one of these lazy Saturdays, Jake still away, that a knock came at the door. It was the only visitor – aside from Tatiana – I would see at the house the entire time I lived there. I hesitated; the rarity of the situation it took on an ominous feel. Finally, my curiosity took over.

When I opened the door a boy about my age with sandy blond-hair, tan skin and an athletic build stared back at me. He introduced himself as Bill and said he used to live in the downstairs room – my room.

I must have looked confused, because he added, rather quickly, “Is Jake here?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said. I thought I detected a hint of relief in his face.

“Listen,” he said after a moment’s pause, “I just came by to pick up some stuff I left here when I moved out. Couldn’t fit it in the car at the time. I won’t be a minute.”

I was about to say I’d rather Jake was here, but he was already in the door. It was then I noticed the cane and the limp. He was wearing baggy long pants but there was no cast on his leg.

I followed him, silently, to the garage. The cane was pretty new; it still had a price tag stuck to it and the rubber stopper on the bottom was hardly worn. My eyes roamed up to his arm. At the elbow was a five or six inch jagged scar, also fairly new – the holes where the thread had wound around the gash were still visible.

When we got to the garage he started going through the storage cabinets that lined the wall. I stood at the door.

“So when did you move out?” I asked, trying to hide my curiosity.

“End of July,” he said from behind an open door.

“You must have had a good reason. It’s a nice place.”

He closed the door and looked at me. “Oh, it was a good reason.” He stuck his head in the next cabinet. After a brief silence, he said, “So, what’s your big adventure?”

“Adventure?”

“Yeah, what’s the dragon Jake’s got you chasing?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

He closed the door to the final cabinet and looked at me. Studied me, is more what it felt like. “Hmm, so you don’t know yet. Open the garage door, will you?”

“Know what? What are you talking about?” I was growing impatient, nervous. The sensation you get when standing at the top of a cliff rushed through me in a flush – your primitive side wants to get closer, look over the edge; your rational side is pulling you back.

“Well. If you really don’t know. . . Hey, there it is.” He limped toward a TV-sized cardboard box in the corner.

“Give me a hand with this, will you,” he said, holding up his cane.

“What do you mean surprise?” I said, my chin resting on the box in my arms. He was at his car, opening the hatchback, and didn’t answer. “I really wish you’d tell me what you’re talking about,” I said, now sliding the box into his car.

“Really late, really,” he said, opening the driver’s side door. He had forgotten to close the hatchback.

“Wait,” I said and slammed the hatchback a little harder than need be.

He stopped, one foot in the car, and turned. “Listen,” he said, “it’s better if I don’t say anything. Things could be a lot different for you.”

Before I could get out another plea, he was pulling away.

For a week my mind gnawed on that conversation, the limp, the scar. As the days went by my fortuitous low rent and luxurious surroundings haunted me as sinister and questionable. What had been serenity became eeriness; quiet turned suspicious, threatening. I vowed to confront Jake when he arrived – about Bill, about the rent, even about his mysterious comings and goings. After all, I rationalized, a tenant had a right to know how to contact his landlord. What if a pipe broke or the toilet backed up?

I planned what I would say and tried to steel myself against the defensiveness Jake always managed to induce in me. This time it would be different, I told myself. This time I would control the conversation. I would do the talking, the questioning. Jake would do some answering.

With each day my anxiety grew. I found it impossible to relax at home; I stayed at school longer. On the weekends I spent more time at the library and picked up brunch shifts at work.

It was on one such day, the Saturday after Bill’s visit, that Jake returned. I had spent all day at the library and came home tired and hungry. I had a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with Cheese and went upstairs to eat it on the coffee table. I lifted the burger to my mouth, but it never got there.

“I like a man who’s not afraid of a big sloppy hamburger,” Jake boomed.

Startled – my nerves were by this time fried – my hand twitched and the slabs of beef slid out of the bun, landing on the open wrapper and splashing my pants blood red with ketchup.

Looking up, I said, “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

Jake was standing on the deck, leaning against the rail, arms crossed, facing me. Laughing.

“Settle down,” he said. “I’ve got some news that’ll cheer you up. Guaranteed.”

I didn’t respond. I was wiping my pants with a balled up napkin, my mind frantically trying to piece together the commanding interrogation I had rehearsed all week. But once again Jake had caught me off guard and I was reeling into the ropes. Defensive and defenseless.

“You’re going to Tahiti,” he said.

There was a silence.

“Well, say something,” he said finally.

“Tahiti? What are you talking about?” The conversation was, as usual, red-lining out of my control.

“Tahiti. You know, French-owned, high mountains, deep ocean, barrier reefs—“

“I’m familiar with Tahiti,” I said with a week’s worth of frustration lacing my words. “I just don’t know what you’re talking about. You come in here after disappearing for two weeks and—“

He cut me off. “I hate to say it, but you may be the first person in history who actually complains when told they’re going to the world’s idea of paradise.”

“Just hold on,” I said. “Let’s start over. Pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Okay, okay. Put it on simmer. Just trying to have a little fun,” he said, moving to the bar to get a few beers. He handed me one and said, “Here it is. I’m going to Tahiti, to Teahupoo, and I need an assistant. The pays not good, in fact, it doesn’t pay, but the benefits are great. The trip and all expenses are on me. And I choose you for the job.”

I was a little stunned, and after the week I had just gone through, not quite myself. “Don’t most people get a say in the jobs they take these days?”

“Well,” Jake said, a bit stunned himself. “That’s one reaction I didn’t count on. Okay, will you please consider this position Mr. Dormer? We’d love to have you on the team.”

I wasn’t letting him off that easy. “You said assistant. What would I be assisting?”

“Ah, a man who needs more than a paycheck from a job. I like that, too. A higher ideal, a raison d’etre. And this from a part-time waiter. Who would’ve known?”

“There’s no reason to get personal.”

He lost his smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Must be the jet lag.” He squeezed his temples and looked up. “It’s really very simple. . .”

It wasn’t until the following April that we were on a plane heading to Teahupoo. I had to take a week off school and work, but who could blame me for that? Jake had explained that he was helping to scout out boat drivers, places to stay and local stories for films, all in relation to the Gotcha Pro, which would land there in May. He would usually do the job himself but, because of other commitments, he was only spending nine days in the islands and needed an assistant. Plus, this way, with two of us doing the leg work, we would be doing more surfing. It was still pretty vague, but the allure of Tahiti had seduced and blinded me. I was in.

I had spent the rest of that winter and spring working hard at school and surfing as much as I could. Jake was gone most of the time, never giving me much information on where he went.

But if the empty silence of the house had seemed eerie till then, now the vision of Tahiti, adventure and travel, which I had been missing since I had settled down to routine, shone like a welcoming lighthouse in the distance. It gave me direction and with it came calm. The months passed more quickly and I was even able to save a bit of spending money.

Now the payoff had come. I was sitting in first class (for the first time in my life), 30,000 feet above the Pacific, about to land in paradise.

Jake leaned over and pointed to the magazine which lay in my lap. It was open to a center spread of a maxed-out Teahupoo twister, 15-foot face, four-foot back, water being sucked into its vortex from every direction.

“Do you know what the attraction of Teahupoo is?” he asked.

“The attraction?”

“The fascination. Why the entire surfing world sees it as the most beautiful wave on the planet?”

“Beautiful?” I said, startled at the word. “It’s a monster.”

“Exactly. Think of all the great waves in your surfing catalog. G-Land, Pipeline, Cloudbreak. You know what’s wrong with them?”

He waited to answer his own question. I didn’t respond.

“Perfection.”

“Perfection is their problem?”

“Yes, even the waves you grew up surfing—“

“Believe me, there’s nothing perfect about them,” I interrupted with a laugh.

“No, except in your mind. When you think of them, you picture them on their best days. The direction of the well is perfect, no wind, medium tide. They exist in a perfect state and as such, they’re all the same. But not Teahupoo.” He pointed again to the magazine. “When it’s at its best it’s unlike anything else that breaks. It’s a monster, as you put it. Perfection is boring, refined, bland. True beauty is the most dangerous thing in the world.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“And you know the best part,” he said with a wry smile. I could tell he didn’t want me to answer. “It breaks right in the middle of Tahiti, every surfer’s idea of perfect paradise.”

When we arrived in Papeete an elderly Polynesian woman was waiting for us. She drove us the 70 kilometers to Teahupoo’s small peer on Tahiti Iti, the smaller portion of the peanut-shaped island that is Tahiti. From here, we took a ten-minute boat ride to Te Pari Village, a well-kept pension with four bungalows set in the middle of a former coconut grove. Now, the grounds were more like the estate on Magnum P.I., with green grass, ti and ginger plants and a lot of space. Jake had arranged for us each to have our own bungalow; I stayed in the Marquesas-themed one (there was a burned-wood plaque hanging above the door that informed me of this). To my eyes, it was a miniature of Jake’s own house: carved dark-wood tables, ornate wood artifacts and tapas adorning the walls and even a totem pole post bracing the deck overhang. There was no phone and the only electricity came from a generator, turned on from five to ten p.m. every night.

Describing our “work” routine is something I cannot do: as far as I could see, there was none. Jake and I made some scouting expeditions, talked to some local families and took some photos of nearby areas, but it was hardly what I had envisioned. In fact, most of the time I felt our actions were no more than a front for the trip, though I couldn’t figure out why a front was needed. The thing Jake was most interested in was when Teahupoo, that is the left that breaks at Havae Pass, would show its stuff. Each morning we would take the pension’s boat, a twenty-foot tri-hull with a 55 horse power outboard, out to check conditions.

For the first few mornings there was nothing, then on the third morning head-high waves started hitting. The swell was from the south, a good angle for Teahupoo. We surfed it like this for two mornings: it wasn’t exactly fun, but it wasn’t the terrifying enigma that demanded freakish talent to tackle either.

Jake, judging from the tired, almost routine, surfs he put in, didn’t agree with me. I could see he wanted the real Teahupoo to show itself. And on the fifth day he got his wish.

Whether it was the same swell moving more west and increasing or another storm altogether, I can’t say. All I know is the waters turned ominous; the reef took on another face and cautious feelings turned to panic.

I saw why the reef at Havae Pass is so deadly. Unlike most Polynesian waves, the wave they call Teahupoo does not peel off the reef’s corner and into a channel. The wall that is ridden is well up the reef, with a huge plateau of barely submerged coral directly in front. Further, the Teahupoo Basin and channel are deep, providing plenty of water to be pushed around, sucked up, heaved over. And when the swell has more than a little west in it, look out. Fall on the drop or fail to outrun that first major section and there’s no safe place to paddle. You may not get whacked by the wave that bounced you, but you’ll be hung inside to dry for its angry cousin bringing up the rear.

We paddled out in late morning and by afternoon the sets had grown and gave a hint of the monsters they could become. The wind, which had been offshore, stopped and to my surprise made the thick, impossible lips seem even more powerful. The waves were still shy of the range that made magazine covers, but with each set the sobering realization that that’s the direction they were heading pounded home.

Personally, I was looking for an exit. Our boat floated like a liferaft in the channel not 500 yards from me, but I knew I couldn’t paddle to it. For 30 minutes I held my place in the lineup, telling myself I’d catch one last wave, looking for one that swung in from the south. And though my plan of waiting for a south swinger was more procrastination than honest logic, the scene did require a certain amount of rationalization.

With every set there were fewer of us in the water. Before long only four of us remained: two Tahitians, Jake and myself.

Jake, as usual, was a force. Each wave I had seen him take he had pushed his position further inside. To everyone’s horror, he would stroke into an apparent gas chamber of a section, so deep on the sucking wall it was as if he had a death wish. From behind we’d watch the crushing explosion and wait for Jake’s board or body, broken and lifeless, to pop up in the chaotic white aftermath. But each time, Jake would emerge confidant and catlike on the peaceful shoulder.

“I’m getting one to the boat,” I told him as he paddled back out after one of his Houdini-like escapes. He stopped and sat up and I caught a flash of genuine boredom in his face.

“Kevin, it’s about to get interesting out here.”

“Maybe for you. For me, it’s about to get painful out here.”

He looked straight at me and I saw what was coming. “I hate to say this but—“

I cut him off. “Sorry Jake, no way. I’m out.”

Simultaneously, we saw one of the locals make a move for the horizon; another set was rolling in. We started paddling.

I saw the third wave as my last chance for the boat. It was big – a solid eight feet – and drawing enough water to fill half the pools in Beverly Hills, but it looked to have less west in it than anything in the last hour.

I made a strong move shoreward and dug deep. I had learned early in the session that at Teahupoo hesitation was sure death; total commitment from the first stroke was the only chance.

In spite of my efforts, I felt myself being sucked up the face as if I were a marionette being yanked off his stage. I pushed hard into the face as I stood and felt my direction change. After making the drop I turned off the bottom, expecting to see a short section of wall ahead of a beckoning shoulder. To my horror an avalanche of water stood for an infinity in front of me – motionless and waiting to crush me.

Like a lucid dream that takes mere seconds but recounts hours, my mind raced with absurd arguments: Jake’s words came back to me – the beauty of Teahupoo lay in her monstrosity. At the time they had seemed poetic, profound and true. Now I hated those words, accused them of getting me here, in a situation that was, literally and figuratively, way over my head.

I flashed back to the hideous present. My instincts broke in and held off the panic that called for me to jump (or was it my instincts that were screaming jump?). Whatever, I held on as the mountainous sea fell and raged around me. I don’t know if I closed my eyes or the sensation was too engrossing tom remember fully, but the next thing I remember I was flying toward the channel, safely on the shoulder.

Moments later I was on the boat, still shaking, enjoying a cold Hinano. Watching the waves from the boat a fresh shock hit me. The sets were fast becoming the Teahupoo of infamy and fascination. One Tahitian paddled to our boat without taking another wave. Jake and the other local remained.

Soon it became apparent that the Tahitian was in the water for pride alone: Jake was sitting far inside him and took three waves to his one in the next 45 minutes.

Each wave seemed – at least when Jake stroked into it – more unmakeable than the last. But an odd thing would take place as Jake pushed over the ledge. Whether it was the way Jake rode them or a series of weird lucky twists of the waves themselves I can’t say, but Jake flew through each dark, demented wedge of water and emerged calm and unscathed.

Finally, the Tahitian had enough; he paddled to the boat. By this time it was late afternoon and the sun was fading behind us. Its rays hit softly, giving the first hints that the day’s end was now closer than its start. Jake was alone with Teahupoo. I looked at him, sitting with his back straight, looking to the horizon, and suddenly he seemed the loneliest surfer on the planet.

Moments later the largest set of the day began to show itself. Jake scratched over the first wave and paddled hard to get position for the second. It was mountainous, building fast and digging a liquid crater in front of itself.

Jake turned to catch it. One of the Tahitians let out an involuntary “no.” We waited for Jake to pull back but knew he wouldn’t. He got to his feet and for an instant hung in the lip. But he pushed through it, landed a semi-air drop and turned to face the impossible section. The entire ocean seemed pulled up before him and he raised his arms as if in praise. The sun hit him golden and the wave glowed blue. But it couldn’t last. Blue water turned black and Jake was swallowed by shadow. The explosion of the massive section echoed in my mind and with it a shocking truth rang through: Jake had fallen. He would not make the shoulder of this wave.

The next several moments were chaotic – I was so stunned in fact that they remain only as a blur in my memory. Jake had been swept deep inside and taken the third wave on the head in shallow water. The Tahitians were off the boat, racing toward him.

After heroic efforts, they pulled him over the rail and laid him on the long flat seat in the bow. The side of his head was ripped open and his body was a patchwork of deep gashes. Blood was everywhere. I knelt down by his side, unsure what to do. The boat started for the pier.

Jake looked up at me. He was barely conscious but a faint smile crawled across his lips.

“You’re going to be alright, hang in there,” I said, realizing it was a platitude but unable to think of anything else.

“Maybe,” he said weakly. “But I know one thing. I’ll remember that wave forever. It wasn’t perfect. It was beautiful.” Those were the last words Jake ever spoke.

The other surfers present that day claimed it was Jake’s blatant lack of respect for the power of the ocean – the way he pushed deeper and deeper – that killed him. But I know that’s not true; it was exactly the opposite. Jake respected the ocean too much; he saw in it a perfection beyond symmetry, right angles and smooth lines. And he pushed the ocean until she had no choice but to show him that side of her.

As for me, I don’t know why Jake took me along for that final ride – as friend, witness, student – but I do know he helped me become better at all three. ‹

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