Steve O’Reilly squinted against the oblique rays of the rising sun and hoisted his board shorts over his skinny ass to his growing waistline. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, filtering through the briny mists that blew in from the surf a few hundred yards off shore. Six forty-five and “dawn patrol” was already out, catching the glassy waves before the wind kicked up. These were the local men and women—schoolteachers, firemen, shop owners, and waiters who wanted to catch some rides before they had to be at their jobs. They probably also wanted to avoid the more aggressive crowd that rose later, who at this hour were still replenishing the energy depleted by their late partying. These were the characters of legend, the glittering barracuda that lived on the edge, both day and night.
And these were the people O’Reilly sought. In their so-low trunks, tattoos, and tiny thong bikinis, they were the photogenic icons that reminded him of the days when he was a sports announcer for a prestigious San Diego TV station. Before he had the thing with Alicia, that is. The producer tolerated a lot, including an indulgence in raves and Ecstasy. But not an affair with his younger wife.
That was seven years ago, when O’Reilly was a mere thirty-five, and he’d been on a slow but steady slide ever since. Going the same direction as his gut and thinning hair: down, down.
But life was going to change with this gig. This sport was hot, daring, and glamorous like no other professional sport. It was just coming into its own with a growing media response. Sponsors were beginning to offer huge money, and were fresh with altruism, social and environmental platitudes. Plus, his old fraternity buddy, Marty Barstow, had been a lifeguard and semi-famous surfer here some years ago. Marty still had contacts, still knew whose palms to cross for the permits and “help” required for surf contests. This was going to be big, and he wasn’t just talking wave size. There were millions to be made, and compared to sports that took place in arenas, not as expensive to pull off.
O’Reilly checked his watch. In about a half hour, the aspiring pros would be rolling out of bed and into the water. Of course, the media representative he was meeting was late, even when O’Reilly had carefully explained to the doofus how to find Himalayas.
Gordon never had been known for punctuality, and he was supposed to be here at seven. It was hard to know which break was named what, and Mainlanders seemed to only remember Pipeline or Sunset. Still, O’Reilly had explained all this, told him where to park and the whole deal.
Maybe a little of what was bugging O’Reilly this morning was that Barstow had called yesterday from California, when he was supposed to be on a flight here. Marty said he was hot to make this happen, but he maintained he couldn’t come until this afternoon. O’Reilly brooded on this transgression. One of Barstow’s jobs was to line up sponsors, and it was a critical role.
So what if he had some big shopping center contract to sign off on, he’s still gotta show me this deal is important to him. O’Reilly hadn’t seen much of Marty in the last ten years, but had heard his old friend was doing well and had all kinds of contacts on the West Coast and Hawai‛i. And he was certain Barstow’s competitive nature wouldn’t have changed, but he wondered if he should have spent some time with the guy before asking him to come on board. Just to make sure they still saw eye to eye.
It didn’t help O’Reilly’s mood that the number one seeded kid for the Sunset Triple Pro, Nahoa some-weird-Hawaiian-last-name, didn’t show up for their quasi-appointment last night, either. O’Reilly had planned to invite him to the meeting this morning, have him meet Gordon, but Nahoa obviously couldn’t be bothered. What was on these people’s minds, anyway? The surfer, who was built like a Roman god, would make quite an impression on TV. O’Reilly planned to use him as a liaison to the surfer community—the Hawaiian “voice,” so to speak. He knew the kid could talk, deal with the media. He’d seen him do it.
But the goof was apparently too provincial to realize how this would help him get endorsements. Big ones, like the credit card and cell phone companies, who could offer seven figures.
To make matters worse, the Hawaiian’s girlfriend, a six-foot blonde with a Frappuccino tan and eyes the deep blue of Hanauma Bay, wouldn’t even give O’Reilly a hint as to where her squeeze was. Or a smile to go with the hint. That hurt.
O’Reilly took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the positive. Here he was, on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and a big swell was on the way. It was January, when winter storms pounded Hawai‛i’s North Shore and ushered in waves that approached fifty, sometimes sixty feet. It was pretty damn hard to measure walls of water the size of a condominium, traveling at the speed of an F-16. Perfect for the Tow-In Contest he and Barstow had planned.
Even better, surfer Ken Matsumoto’s death had amped up the media attention for these events. It was crazy how more people than ever clamored for places in the lineups for the big meets. Yup, the money was increasing, the surf was rising, he had the media contract in hand, and that dweeb from KZXM TV was finally stumbling down the beach in his Ferragamos.