A stoke quartet...

Teach a man to fish... (photo via Grant Newby)

Eight hours up the coast to the refuge by the sea. The islands were blocking any swell from lighting up Barbara's Corner. Further up the coast a bit of bounce was showing. My family reunion could not have been held in a prettier picture. It is so blessedly enlightening to move from arid and vapid southern California to the forest- fronted reefs of Alta. My sweet son slept. I crept, down to the shore to slide some on my belly. A surf mat travels well in a car five full and packed to the gills with road trip fodder. The water is clear, alive. A slight chill in July? Thankfully, yes.

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A day or two before my trip north I receive this email from down under:

"Mate ,

great piece of writing on your blog today. Thanks for that , you captured it all there. Here are some fish mongers for you."

He also sends a picture, found above, worthy of a screen background on any soul-sucking interweb wipeout machine.

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A day or two before receiving Mr. Newby's noble email I chat with an artistan surfer of recent acclaim for a project-in-process. We chat about mystery isles in undisclosed oceans, African instruments, and the reasons for the omission of a striking DVD extra from the original film. He is obviously a surfer talking to another surfer, not a minor celebrity talking to a minor fan."Here's my number, give me a call when you can..."

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A day or two before the chat my son is in sixty seven degree water. "Let's Boogie!" he shouts. I lay him on top of the shin high whitewater. He slides towards shore, hands gripping the boogie, face shining a new confidence. A few waves later he goes through the rinse cycle. He comes up gasping...."I liked that wipeout!"

Let's boogie!