Desperation Reef

Casey’s take on all this is he’s got a billion followers and fans who like and respect him and his family, and he’s not going to let the rumor mill distract him. It’s hard to put their wishes for bad karma out of his mind, but Casey does. Sure, they sneak in once in a while but Casey turns his heroic chin the other way, just like the good book says.

Now, after changing his swim trunks once again, the makeup guy dabs Casey’s crow’s-feet. Then, with a wide paintbrush, retouches Casey’s chest and arms with a body oil that gives him a slightly amphibious glimmer.

Well, Casey thinks, T&A has a circulation of 842,000 in print alone, so whatever floats their boat.

Mae lies in the corner of the studio, head resting on her feet, almost hidden behind the black backdrop, keeping an eye on Casey. After the pirates, Casey takes Mae everywhere he goes. It’s hot in here and she pants softly.

The magazine writer sits on a director’s stool with a small tape recorder on the floor halfway between him and his subject. He’s a hearty, middle-aged Australian, bearded and loud-voiced. Ian Keneally.

Casey has never done an interview and photo shoot simultaneously, and it’s hard for him to field questions and take the photog’s orders.

“Chin down and eyes up, Casey,” she says. She’s a thirty-something blonde who looks like a surfer herself. She’s got a camera in one hand, another around her neck, and two more on a folding table beside her. “Get that intense, matter-of-fact look.”

He gives it his best but Casey’s no model or actor, and he doesn’t know if he looks intense or just silly.

kerchack kerchack, kerchack kerchack

“Now wet your lips, then part them and pucker just a little. Like you’re about to say ‘surf’s up!’”

“Okay.”

kerchack kerchack

“Mr. Stonebreaker,” says the writer, “can you remember the first wave you caught?”

“Yeah, sure! I was five and Mom took me out at Old Man’s at San Onofre. Seven tries. Put me on a long board. This cherry eight-six Hobie—”

“Again, Casey,” says the photographer. “Part your lips and go ahead, just say it like a surfer would, say, ‘surf’s up!’”

Casey does as he’s told, which isn’t difficult. He’s spoken fluent surf since he was six — the slurred vowels and schwas, and his slack sibilants combining for cool nonchalance. The exuberance and the slang. It’s the only language he knows, having grown up with Jen, Jen’s surfer mom, Eve, and the Stonebreakers.

kerchack kerchack

“Nice, Casey, now look up and to your left, like you’re seeing a jet high in the sky. Don’t squint! Look amazed.”

Casey tries amazed. Tries not to squint against the ferocious lights.

kerchack

“So you’re at Old Man’s on the longboard, then what?” asks the writer with a terse glance at the photographer as she changes cameras.

“Mom had me lay flat and stand up a few times. Then she pushed me into a wave and told me to stand up when I felt it take me. I fell six times. Hit the board twice. Gnarly. Then on the seventh try I stood up for, like, twenty feet. Awesome and a half. I was stoked. Forever. It was like—”

“Terrific, Casey! Now turn away from me and face the screen. Put your hands on your hips, you know, like you’re standing on the beach, looking out at the waves. Relax your waist, and cock one hip.”

“Which one?”

“Up to you, Case!”

Casey strikes this pose.

kerchack kerchack kerchack

“Mr. Stonebreaker!” calls out the writer. “What was your first big wave? I mean, over ten feet!”

“Hanalei Bay on Kauai. I was thirteen. It was fifteen feet, totally double-overhead. Victory at sea to a kid! I fell on the takeoff and it held me under, like, bad. Mom and Brock were there. Saw stars when I finally made it up.”

“Were you terrified?”

“No way. I couldn’t wait to go again. Got my breath, paddled hard through the incoming. Finally caught one and rode it. Massive. Mom and Brock watched. Kicked out and landed good. Epic. Life changer. Never forget. Ever.”

“I’m impressed you could ride Hanalei that young,” says the writer. “And Mavericks at nineteen. And Cortes Bank at twenty-one.”

“Dad did.”

“It just seems like one day you’re in Laguna riding five feet at Brooks, next day you’re surfing fifteen feet in Hawaii.”

“Mom took us all over the world for big waves,” says Casey. “Spent every penny for big waves. Summers and holidays mostly. Especially Christmas break, because that’s when the big swells hit. Brock and me haven’t had Christmas at home the last five years.”

“Casey!” shouts out the photographer, stepping in closer. “Now, keep watching those imaginary waves up there on the screen, but loosen the ties on those cool trunks of yours.”

Over his shoulder, Casey thanks her for the compliment on his trunks, made by his struggling beachwear line, CaseyWear.