King of the Waves

At Terra Marr, a left breaking off a small point, a reef left so you know it was consistent, and steady and consequently drew a crowd, which on this rather gray and blustery day included a fellow on a stand-up board who perambulated the far outside like a seagull flapping and hovering over some choice rubbish bin, waiting for a tasty morsel.

He was easily three hundred pounds, and wore a regal purple rashguard over his large, firm belly. He had a head of dirty gray curls, and a large white mustache which, due to the length of his upper lip, was exceptionally wide and thick, and was tinged at the tips with a dull yellow. When the set waves came, he dropped in far outside of every other surfer, and came barelling down the line, shouting everyone else off his wave with curses and insults. He pumped the wave like a madman, with godlike wrath and lust, as if slaking himself on some helpless concubine, and if some unfortunate outpaddling surfer did not clear his path soon enough he would drive right for them on his massive board. Isolated as he was by the overhang of the wave, he seemed like a creature from a fresco, a god some minor mythology; and as he came hurtling along, the sound in my mind a heavy growling, like a bowling ball hurtling toward a clutch of hapless pins.