Chapter 10
Deep Surf’s exhibit at Surf Expo encompassed almost an entire city block. As the dominant brand of the world’s surf culture, everyone wanted access to their “compound” within the San Diego Convention Center, but entry was by invitation only. The sole entrance was staffed by beautiful, tanned women wearing Deep Surf’s latest sexy apparel. Attractive as they were, these top models were more like bodyguards who, if required, could protect the President. As Deep Surf only sold to exclusive top-tier surf retailers, “no one need apply” was the message to other low-end surf shops. Theirs was the largest exhibit of all the attending companies and it was located in the center of the immense hall; a building within a building, with dozens of product viewing booths, a complete lunch through dinner restaurant, a bar, and a circular stage rotating continuously while swimsuit models adorned the edges.
At four o’clock and on schedule, with the entire Deep Surf expo space jammed with VIPs and chosen retailers, the models all moved to center stage to form a tight circle. As lights dimmed, spotlights blazed on and off from amongst the cluster of beauties, and a dozen of the greatest surfers of the day rose up from beneath the stage.
To thunderous applause the women parted to reveal twelve elite athletes. Drake Powers stepped forward. Instantly, a deafening roar welcomed Drake and the other men and women surfers sponsored by Deep Surf.
A rich, authoritative voice came over the loudspeakers and introduced each, one by one, highlighting their past year’s pro circuit accomplishments. Saving Drake for his final introduction, the announcer paused long enough to allow Drake to raise his fists and welcome his ovation for more than a full minute. Turning side to side and opening his hands, palms forward to the audience, Drake gestured for silence. When all was finally still, Drake beckoned for Shawn to join him onstage as the surfers and the ponytailed Deep Surf executives moved to the rear, leaving only he and Shawn to share spotlight. Drake reached down to grab Shawn’s hand and together they raised four fists, eliciting another round of raucous appreciation. But this time it took twice as long to quiet the crowd.
Then as they had rehearsed, Shawn moved to the right, while Drake took five energetic steps to the left, and the audience waited for what would happen next; then, from the darkness high above, an immense hollow sphere of glass appeared. Cables slowly lowered the orb until it gently came to a rest twelve feet above the platform.
Shawn and Drake stood on either side and it was Shawn who raised his right hand in the direction of the globe and then, in the eerie silence, he invited all to peer closely at the transparent ball of glass.
“Please behold within,” Shawn proclaimed, “the greatest surfer we have ever known, the fantastic Mr. Drake Par Tee Powers!”
Shawn whispered to Drake, “Once again, you are the show Brah!” With that, he picked up a remote and pressed its one button.
An ocean eddy of churning, homeless particles erupted within the clear glass chamber, emanating a blinding kaleidoscope of color. As seconds passed, the speed of the mirage of lights rapidly increased. The exterior surface began to glow from the friction caused by untold billions of electrons crashing into the interior walls. Bit by bit, from the bowels of rich rainbow hues, the particles solidified and the silhouette of a man, but not just any man, took shape, wrapped in the aqua shades of the sea. As Shawn had cautiously anticipated, an incredibly loud crack resonated throughout the hall as the illusion became a reality and countless particles locked themselves into correct position. Frightened gasps came from the audience following the explosion and then all became silent.
Clearly visible inside the sphere was a spectacular life-like hologram of Drake — inverted and hovering within a wave’s perfect barrel, midway through the execution of his signature Power Pipe Roll. His neck arching and his eyes spotting his landing, Drake even sported a realistic injury on his back where a wide rash of skin was missing. The hologram reproduced the rivulets of fresh blood dripping from his shoulder, each drop suspended in mid-air. This wasn’t just any wave Drake floated within; this was the very wave Drake had ridden a few days back when he collided with the reef — the very wave Shawn had captured by Shawn with the newest version of the Sentient prototype camera.
“Fellow Surf Rats,” announced Shawn, “most noble funders of our watery addictions, and yes, even the illustrious monks of surf magazines who record our history to stoke on in the future — we present the magnificent Drake’ster, in all his glory (pointing first at the real Drake, then fake Drake in the globe) performing his one and only flagship maneuver!”
No one in the crowd looked away from the hologram or paid any attention to Shawn as he spoke. Mouths open, eyes wide in wonderment, the audience seemed to question in unison how there could be two Drakes. A few of the spectators weakly brought their hands together to clap, and all stood stone-faced, completely mystified.
Shawn, keeping his focus on the hologram, not realizing he spoke to a frozen audience, continued, “If you look carefully at Drake within the tube, you’ll note the gnarly gash upon his back. Because of this, we’d like to present Drake with an honorary Hanalei Bay EMT can-you-tell-me-where-the-reef-is first aid kit! Otherwise known as the if-you-can’t-save-my-ass, can-you-patch-me-up kit.”
A Deep Surf marketing model handed Drake a small plastic lunch box covered with cut-out images of Drake’s face. Decals exclaiming ‘Ouch, Oops, and Look Out for ‘da reef!’ covered the outside of the box.
The good-humored joke broke the audience’s trance when everyone finally got the gag and laughter filled the hall — that is, all but for a handful of Deep Surf executives, who leered at Shawn, pissed at the ad-lib and hardly believing Shawn would go off-script.
After another pause, Shawn went on, “Upon this very special occasion of the unveiling of Drake’s cool-as-hell hologram, the Drakemeister is also here to announce a record-breaking attempt to execute his own 360 Power Roll in four days’ time on the North Shore of Oahu when, from all forecast indicators, the waves will peak at seventy to eighty feet, opening up a Holland Tunnel tube glazed with energy!”
Howls exploded, the floor shook, and virtual cell phone flames glowed, as the crowd went crazy.
From up front near the stage, a chumpy surf photographer Shawn despised, Mr. Surf Paparazzi himself from We Surf Magazine, called out from the floor, “Drake, how the hell will you keep up the momentum to cycle three times round in such a magnificent wave? You barely make the double as we can see from your battle scars in the hologram.”
Drake shuffled forward. “Brahs and Brah’ettes, fellow dweebs and tube-chasers, this, my un-enlightened friends, is why I will require an eighty foot wave!”
Another burst of applause lit the building.
Another surf blogster yelled, “We love you Drake! But if you unstick from the ceiling on a monster, you’re toast. Are you willing to take the risk? Eighty divided by two is forty feet. So once the wave folds in half, it’s a four-story drop to a reef encrusted with sea urchins just below the surface.”
Drake reached out to his adoring public. “Please, no worry my doubting compadres! What I can see in my mind’s eye, I can do! This I will do for you my loyal fans — or I’ll die trying!”
The cheers became a roar from not just within, but across the expo hall, as the torrent of text messages reached the outer surf world. And with another click from Shawn, the hologram flashed to darkness.