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and flipped onto his board and dug hard with the outwash. Al thought he could pick a better spot away from the peak and walked down the beach to the south and into the water. It was mild, no more of a shock than bath water. This was good. The sun behind was also encouraging. He clambered on and set to working his arms while keeping his feet pinned on the tail of the board. The first couple of waves he tried pushing the front of the board down before they broke and got pushed back a little before popping up on the other side and settling quickly as he could while keeping the nose of the board above water. Then he paddled hard, but seemed to get nowhere. He looked up and saw the waves looming larger than life. The next one broke over the top of him. He hung on as the water sucked him off the board and pushed him end over end. When he came back up, sputtering, the board was at the end of the tether and still pulling away from him. He found it, climbed back on and turned it out to sea just in time to get caught by the white water of the next wave. He dove out of reach; but the next time, up for breath out of the water, he looked around and was five feet from the sand.
    He let the next wave wash him back up on the beach. A few freshly arrived tourists were sitting in the sand over by the fringe of the dune grass. He looked back out to the water and saw Ricky still paddling, patiently getting further ahead, and gaining on the edge of the impact zone, the white water washing over him as he dove under it.
    This was as trying as anything, maybe as tough as running the half-marathon in Vero Beach the summer before last. But Ricky being out there on his own bothered him. He would have to figure out a way to beat the waves. He watched the pattern of the sets, trying to conjure a solution. There was about a twelve-second interval between the swells, five, maybe six minutes between sets. If he timed his entrance into the water at the end of the largest wave of a set, and was quicker getting through the initial couple of near-shore breakers, there was a short lull that could possibly see him out to the edge of the impact zone.
    After resting in the sand cross-legged for a few more minutes, he tried again. This time, paddling as hard as he could, his arms feeling like they were set in concrete, he came to the edge of a rising swell and settled over the back of it, out of the white water and into the translucent deeps. There was Ricky, paddling over to him.
    You made it.
    Yeah, finally. I didn't think I would.
    I tried catching a couple.
    Did you get them?
    Almost.
    Watch how these guys do it, Ricky. You got to be in the right place.
    I'm getting the hang of it.
    There were about five or six other surfers in a little knot that spread itself out to the north of them, just off the peak. The waves were breaking to the left. Al let the swells lift under him and drop him off their backs. At the top he could look down into the water. There were some manta rays playing underneath them. The beach was about a half mile away. Then he looked back and saw the first set wave building behind him, looking like it would topple over before it reached him.
    Come on, Dad. Catch this one.
    The other surfers were letting it go. Al paddled hard as it lifted him and looked over at Ricky, doing the same. For about a millisecond he seemed poised at the top of it before he was barreling down the impossibly steep shoulder, hanging onto the board in a freefall. Ricky had popped to his feet and had somehow managed to twist to the left the way you were supposed to. At the bottom, Al was still, somehow, on his belly on the board. He tried popping up once the white water had begun to lap at his tail. But the attempt was off balance, and he went careening into the wash. When he came back up to breathe, he was caught in the zone and spun by the next two waves. This time he knew enough to relax. The foam still sputtering in a white valley around him, he began the long, slow