Rookie agreed. “That never happens!” he exclaimed happily. “But watch out for sneaker waves.”

“What’s a sneaker wave?”

“That’s a sneaker wave.” He pointed behind me at the sudden wall of water coming our way and quickly paddled out and over the rising swell. Contrary to my usual risk-­averse instinct, I went the other way and paddled in. The wave reared up as it caught me, and it was not just a sneaker but a screamer: the biggest I’d ever ridden in my life, an overhead freight train of water that blew my hair back and roared in my ears. Even now, I can’t believe that I managed to stand up. By the time I realized I was still alive—still standing! still riding that wave! all the way to shore!—a shit-­eating grin had colonized my face. The fact that it took me thirty minutes to paddle back out, and the fact that I got hooked by a fisherman in the process, failed to scrape off that smile. I’d tasted what was possible.