"Tomorrow she'd be out straddling her old foam board at dawn. Only she and hardened zealots would be surfing that early. Waves that might have appeared the same to those who had never surfed would swell up and pass by. Then, as though by some commonly understood alert, the few in the water would position themselves deftly, putting their boards in the way of one particular swell, which, from afar, would seem not different to most people from the twenty or so before. But this wave would be different, it would shoot them a glance from across the waters. It would grow larger and larger, sucking in its cheeks, and, unable to contain itself, finally it would break, thundering with a passion so ruthless that nothing in its way prevailed. To ride such a stampede you had to be alive with balance, for the speed welled up beneath your feet, blooming faster and faster, as the green glass smashed into foam, throwing you into its tangoed embrace forever and ever. If you lasted and kept on your feet, the wave unrolled and unrolled until finally it exhausted itself, spent upon the wet shore, softly uncurled like a baby's smile. All waves are the same, pulled by the moon, spent at the end. But no two are alike even more."