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Show with tacos and pizza, two keys required to launch. These are what she took to bed with her at night, as well as what she carried when she entered the sea. You cannot trust the ocean, my father said. There are rules of the sea. Standing in the shallow waters of Waimea one morning early in the fall of 1979, he taught me the first and most important rule. Never turn your back on the water. And he showed me by standing in the knee-deep ocean, just at the point where the bottom makes its first drop and the waves tumble over one another before scrambling up the shore, his white undershirt flecked with sand and clinging to his chest. I stood beside him, fighting to hold firm against the surf, as my feet sank deeper into the sand with each wave. The ocean can change dramatically, he went on to say, and without warning. See that wave, that one not more than a bump on the horizon? It could become ten feet tall in seconds. He showed me how to stand, with your body sideways to the surf, your eyes never leaving the waves as they approached. Never show it your back. And I didn't. I learned to grant the ocean respect, and always watch. Even in the most serene conditions, I scanned the horizon and turned only when catching a wave into shore. What happened when you failed to respect the water was evident every day at the beach. I would sit with my father on the sand and watch as those who were inexperienced, often tourists with impossibly pale skin, tried to hop waves like they might puddles, turning to friends on the beach to wave, leaving their backs so vulnerable 116 |