The curl disappeared, subsumed in a single endless break as the wave lost its shape and collapsed atop him.
It was dark and wet and his board was gone. Dimly, he pressed at the inflate switch on his suit side, knowing it would only allow the wave to pound him repeatedly against the surface or the sandy bottom. But at least this way they might locate his body.
I'm sorry, Kirsi. Good-bye.
Then he was up again, bobbing in the air, his arms and legs unable to move for the air that enveloped them. Too soon, it was too soon. He twisted, turning on his belly-balloon.
Two men were coming toward him. That surprised him. The second, bigger surprise was that they were not swimming. They were wading. Dazed, Acorizal tried to focus burning eyes. There was a hissing sound. One of the men was deflating his suit. He tried to yell at the man, but his mouth wasn't working any better than his brain. He thought he could hear people yelling.
Then the air had drained from the suit and he was in the water once more. Only there was no supportive salt water this time but instead the arms of the two men holding him up. They had to. He didn't have the strength to stand.
"What... ?" Tongue and jaw wouldn't work together. "What... ?"
One of the men, young and tall, was looking at him with a mixture of wonder and admiration. "You don't know?"
"Don't know...anything," Acorizal mumbled, coughing.
"This is Scratch Bay. This is where the waves die, rider." The man pronounced the last word with emphasis. "You rode your wave all the way in. All the way."
"How... how big when I went over?"
"Oh, that? We all thought that was a last-minute flair to impress the judges. It wasn't?"
"Judges can go to hell. No.. .flair. How big?"
"About ten feet," said the other man, who had Acorizal's right arm across his shoulders. "You just rolled over." He gestured forward with a nod of his his head "Your board's safe, up on the beach."
"Ten feet." Acorizal's mouth twisted.
A familiar face was waiting to greet him as they stumbled into the shallows. It peered concernedly into Acorizal's as the rider was laid out on a suspension mattress on the beach. Cheers filled the air, drunken parodies of true speech to Acorizal's mind. They were mixed with the admonitions of officials who kept the near-hysterical crowd at bay.
"Hello, Joao," said Janwin as he checked his friend's heartbeat. "How are you?"
Acorizal squinted through the salt at his friend. "Chewed up," he gasped softly. "Chewed up and spit out like an old wad of gum." He saw that a bandage was draped across the surgeon's head and suspension straps supported his plastisealed left arm, and he framed a question with his eyes.
"Oh, this?" Janwin smiled, moved his sealed arm. "I went into mine, tried to swim out. Too late to use my pack. Tore the shoulder ligaments. I'm afraid my riding's over for this year. What the hell happened to your pack?"
"Vaxial," Acorizal explained. He spent a few moments choking before he could continue. "It was trying to eat me. I hope it suffocates. How long was I up? I can't see too well."
"Eight hours and five minutes. The last hour spent glued to your board, I'm told. You lost a stabilizer. They're fixing it now."
"That's nice."
"First complete ride in twelve years," Janwin continued admiringly. "Except for Nuotuan in 'twenty-four, and she was dead by the time they got to her. You're not dead."
"No, I'm not."
Janwin hesitated. "I guess I ought to let you rest, but I have to know." He leaned closer, away from the probing reporters. "How was it?"
But Acorizal was already unconscious.
He got points for riding the tube. He got points for fighting off the Vaxials. He got points for style and points for length. Brookings had more cumulative time but fewer style points. On the basis of the one ride Acorizal was declared winner. They told him about it two days later, when he regained consciousness.
One of the honorary judges, a media star from Terra, was present to hand over the trophy and prize money. Media reporters flocked around the man who'd never swum more than a hundred yards at any one time in his life. The man was very tall and handsome and not a very bad actor. His voice was rich and deep, well suited to making presentations.
But they couldn't find Acorizal. He wasn't in his hotel room and he wasn't anywhere to be found in Scratch Bay Towne. They searched for him on the beach, expecting to find him bathing in the rapturous stares of his admirers, but he wasn't there either.
Who they finally found was Janwin, sitting at the board works helping a younger rider align his newly fitted stabilizers.
"I'm busy and I'm due back at the hospital tonight," the surgeon told the anxious cluster of reporters and officials.
"Just tell us, do you know where he is?"
"Yeah, I know where he is."
The media star looked very distressed. "I'm on contract here." He checked his bejeweled chronometer.
"I'll give this another ten minutes, and then I've got to catch the shuttle out to my ship."
"Then you'll have to miss him," said Janwin.
"Where the hell is he?" wondered one of the more irritated honorary officials, a man with much money and little else.
Janwin shook his head. "Where do you think he'd be?" He pointed northwestward. "He took a skimmer and follow crew with him."
"Crazy," muttered the official. "Doesn't he want his trophy and money?"
"I expect he does," said the surgeon thoughtfully. "But he told me he has to go home tomorrow. I'm sure he'll be grateful to accept the prize and cash.
"But first he has to catch another wave..."
End
Alan Dean Foster, Surfeit
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