Desperation Reef

In the lull before the Barrel happy hour, Casey sits at his bar with Mae at his feet, editing and posting his pirate video across all his platforms. He does a more thorough introduction right here at the bar, with his phone up on a tripod. Makes sure his hair is perfect and there’s no food between his teeth. The art directors for his advertising shoots always want that messy Casey Stonebreaker hair and the killer smile. Pecs and buns for sure. He’d rather look brooding and serious, as a daredevil big-wave rider should, but, hey, whatever pays the bills, Casey believes: Basically, he’s a happy dude, so why not smile?

He sends private messages to his friends at Shark Stewards and California Fish and Wildlife. They will make life miserable for the crew of Empress II if they can find her. Pretty big “if,” Casey knows: even Coast Guard cutters and copters can only do so much reconnaissance of a functionally infinite ocean.

The shark-finning clips are gruesome and saddening. All that pain and death of living things so men get their dicks up, Casey thinks. The CF numbers on Empress II are clear, though probably counterfeit. Hits and follows and likes are pouring in.

He also sends video to Craig Lockabie at CFW whose Special Operations Unit makes busts on Southern California’s open ocean, harbors, and marinas. They used to surf against each other in contests up and down the coast.

Craig — BOLO for nine armed, shark-finning pirates down around Desperation Reef. Throw the book at ’em, brah.

Lockabie calls right back, gets the GPU coordinates where Casey spotted Empress II, tells Casey he’ll hit Desperation Reef and the rest of San Clemente Island tomorrow. Casey hears him keyboarding in his suspect descriptions.

“We’ve heard of Empress II and the finning, Casey. You’re our second witness. Appreciate the tip.”

“They’re armed to their teeth,” says Casey, picturing the bullets zipping into the water as his phone sank into approximately a hundred and fifty feet of ocean. He’s still nervy about that. Actually, more like creeped out and jittery. Funny, he thinks now, that his first fear when the shooting started was for innocent, curious Mae.

“I’ve only got one cruiser and two patrol boats,” says Lockabie. “But we’ll do what we can.”

“Good luck, brah.”

“You might want to stay off that water until we round up these people.”

“No chance of that! The Barrel needs its catch of the day.” But even as Casey says this, he feels a tug of dread about being back on the water after having outed these pirates on his socials. His guts feel bunched up. He could borrow a gun from Brock but he hasn’t fired one since he was a boy — a BB gun.

“Casey. I have a serious question now.”

“My man.”

“How are you looking for the Monsters of Mavericks?”

“Top shape and ready. I surfed Todos Santos on that freak south last month. Forty feet but basically blown-out mush-burgers. I’ll do good at Mavericks if the waves show up.”

“And Jen and Brock?”

“Can’t speak for Brock. He’s been pretty busy saving the world. Mom’s ready, though. She’s a monster on that jet ski of hers. And her surfing looks real good.”

“She’s, what, forty?”

“Forty-six. Tons of training though. Great shape.”

A pause.

“Good luck to you all.”

“We will need waves.”

“December’s the month,” says Lockabie.

It’s another evening crush at the Barrel.

His mom is in a red sleeveless dress and white sneakers, greeting guests, checking in at tables, bustling between the kitchen and the bar and the front desk. Beyond the second-floor deck, the Pacific advances to shore in small waves that fizzle to whitewater.

From his bar, Casey can see the life-sized bronze sculpture of his father standing in the lobby, one arm around his sharp-nosed gun surfboard.

Inside the Barrel, the surfboards on the walls — each one with a history and a plaque — shimmer in the lights. The big-screen surfing videos provide nonstop rides, drop-ins, bottom turns, and wipeouts on some of the biggest waves ever ridden.

The videos are paeans to chaos: a yellow helicopter hovers over an impact zone at the Jaws break on Maui, marking a flailing, board-less surfer while a wave towers behind the chopper. Jet skis swing surfers into rising fifty-foot waves at Nazaré in Portugal, then speed for the exits and into the sky. Helmeted, buoyancy-vested men are pitched from four-story heights into mountains of whitewater at Mavericks. Boards spiral and shoot and break into pieces like breadsticks.

Casey likes the photographs better, especially the older ones:

Dewey Weber at Makaha.

Greg Noll at Pipeline.

Margo Oberg at Sunset.

Jeff Clark and Jay Moriarity at Mavericks.

Mark Foo at Sunset.

Laird Hamilton at Jaws.

Mike Parsons at Cortes Bank.