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90 Footer Fitz

Fitz was a grown man. You would have thought that meant he'd be married and settled by now, but he wasn't.

Bill watched his lifelong friend scratch his head and scrub his teeth while scanning the horizon. Fitz lived his life for the next great swell, or rather, for the Mother Wave, the monster of rouges. Having scored his first 90 footer the week before, he was now on the hunt to find himself a Benji.

Bill thought Fitz was nuts - the risks he took, but he loved him like a brother and wherever Fitz went, Bill followed.

Of course, Fitz hadn't always been suicidal looking for the tallest wave to die beneath. The professional surfer had loved once, loved hard and lost.

"Waves come, and waves go, my friend," he smiled in explanation. "There's no holding on."

Bill lit his morning dubby and held his face to the sun, exhaling long. A woman shuffled out of Fitz's van. "Hey," she yawned.

Looking at her bed head and beard burn with one eye brow raised, Bill handed her the joint. "Careful, Tiger."

"Aw, Billie," she inhaled. The sea breeze blew grains of sand against his legs as he waited for her to finish the thought. "Every morning we set our sights on the horizon only to ride the same waves we did yesterday."

Shrugging with a sideways smile, the lovely lanky Lanna shoved her hands into her pockets and strode down the beach towards Mamacita's Hot Chili Boards Burrito Wagon.

Story by:

Ruth Newell

10 September 2012

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