They sleep in a seafood restaurant. Curled up on the bamboo floors, exhausted and fried. A crude dinner of octopus popcorn and sugar tea churning in their guts. Lullaby of Indonesian game shows clucking through the darkness. Fitzy’s unshakable optimism is like a life buoy. “Wow, this is such a lovely little spot,” he says before slipping into to an infant slumber. “These people just treat us like family. They won’t even charge us to stay here. And how good was that octo-corn?” Waking up at 4 am again is easy work. Roosters. Prayer calls. Thundering swell and offshore tickle. Yes, it’s on again. No, it’s not. It’s way too big. Gargantutron. Ridonkulous. Triple-lipped Godzilla-smashing-Tokyo waves, with a closeout death-punch-reef-full injunction, slam-bam-no-thank-you-ma’am.
We stare and stare. The tide rises. The tide falls. Hypnotized by the raw ferocity of the ocean. Mindsurfing to our deaths . Sweating. Just sitting there. Staring. And staring. Horrified and in love. Sunrise. Sunset. The local children dangle in the trees waiting for us to slay the dragon again. Waiting to see just how crazy these new gods really are. Not that crazy it seems. They eat ice cream. We eat ice cream, too. The sun goes down. The sun comes up. We’re back in business. Big business. Broken board business. Sunshine and set dodging. Harrison’s on a redemption warpath. He’d spent the night before reviewing his wipeout footage from Day One and was determined to outshine himself. He logs three deep barrels in a row before the beach stops holding its breath. After broken boards, wild wipeouts and tidal tribulations, he could have thrown in the towel. But pushing through is how you reach the level he’s at. And he’s doing it once again. With clips to prove it.