Veracity. You mentioned John Gross from Surf Unlimited. He's an old chum of mine. He used to walk up to the beach from his apartment above the shop, check the waves, put his foot in the water to get the water temp, then post his report. He moved to Arizona chasing a piece of a$$. He'd let us thaw out in his garage after a winter session. 30 years ago. I remember waking up on a dirty damp mattress with a big heffer wrapped around me. The smell of stale beer, sex, motorcycle grease, and blood (mine and someone else's). At least a dozen other guys and their women laying about on the cold floor of someone's house who I didn't even know. Get up, look outside. A dozen or so choppers strewn across the front lawn. Out the door I go. "Where you going?" asks the fatty. "Surfing" replies Chavez. She looks at me like I have 3 heads. I fire up the HD and I'm outta there. Back to South Seaville to grab my pick-up and my board. My head hurts from the booze and the fists that hit it last night even though I can't remember what started the fight or why I was even involved. An insult? A women involved? Probably both. On the beach. Chilly. One to two foot slop. The first duck dive removes most of last night's pain and stench. The first ride removes the rest.