I was sitting under my bridge naked one day, boiling my clothes to rid them of fleas.
( This should be done at least once a week to avoid embarrassing public scratching) When I spied a DVD box floating past me in Bear Creek. After some fishing about with a stick I was able to retrieve it, and found that it was a big wave surfing movie. Riding Giants the cover blared. In my pot a few hardy fleas climbed desperately up an underwear mountain in a vain attempt to escape the boiling agony that awaited them, but I took no notice. My eyes were glued to the back of the box. The picture was that of a man god, riding a wave so insanely large it defied imagination. This I had to see.
Two hours later I emerged from my G St. bunker in a daze, my mind spinning with the images of the film I had just watched. Oh the glory, the raw courage, no pretty girl on earth could deny pleasure to a man who had just ridden a wave the size of Texas. I had to try this. In a frenzy I packed everything useful into my duffle bag………I had nothing useful however so I just said fuck it, left the bag and set out at a run for the nearest trucking yard. After some mucking about I caught a pallet of cabbage for the coast. I had no board, but this was no big deal, so much shit washes up on U.S. beaches I was bound to find something suitable.
I arrived at Half Moon Bay on a cold foggy morning. All appeared calm and quiet in the mist, but in the distance a rumble could be heard, like thunder in hell, there could be no mistaking this sound. The surf was up. I strolled along the beach examining various candidates upon which I would ride to glory. After rejecting a Styrofoam float as being to crunchy, and a dead seal carcass as being to floppy, I finally settled on an old plywood board, warped into a pleasing curve by the sun and surf. Turning left onto a dirt road I walked along a muddy path, around the head of a large cliff and out onto a stone jetty for my first look at the Mount Everest of big wave surfing, Mavericks. Mav’s as the locals call it is the largest big wave break on the North American continent. On cold winter days with giant swells heaving out of the North this place is capable of producing waves over eighty feet, Roughly the size of a seven story building. And this day was no exception. At Mav’s however, the waves, while stupefyingly big are the least of your worries. After rolling along for an astounding two hundred yards, the waves at Mavericks slam with an eye watering impact into a jaggy forest of rocks called the bone yard. Should one be lucky enough to survive all this, his efforts will be in the end wasted for beyond the rocks swim huge packs of man eating White Sharks. The man who first rode this watery disaster was one sick sick motherfucker. His single act of machismo has led to the deaths of legions of would be heroes, following blindly in his shadow hell bent on oneuppance. On a good day the waters of Half Moon bay are awash with their rotting wetsuit clad carcasses. On a bad day the bodies pile up and overflow into the shipping lanes creating a navigational hazard akin to the seaweed of the Sargasso.
Waiting for break in the surf had given me plenty of time to think about all this, but in the end I had come to far to chicken out. The last wave to decimate the rocky bone yard had barely topped fifty feet, I had my lull, it was now or never. With one mighty lunge I flung myself into the arms of fate.

How will it end? Has Cad at last met his mach? I guess you'll just have to wait for the next installment.