I mentioned the options: “You can hit them, hold them underwater, or knock their fins off.”

He nodded. He prefers to knock their fins off. There is a technique to it. First you flip over the other man’s board and brace it, sometimes by holding it under your arm; then you smash through the fins hard with your fist, striking beyond them in your mind, as in karate. It is only if the punk later persists, or challenges you directly, that you have to resort to more drastic measures. At least that’s the way it was before, when scores were settled fast. In recent years the struggle for dominance has become more drawn out, with threats of lawsuits and criminal charges. Bradshaw has been visited by the police several times.

It goes like “There’s been another complaint, Ken. Did you hit this guy?”

“No. I knocked his fins off.”

Or like “Did you really bite his board, Ken?”

“Why, did you see teeth marks?”

“Well, it could have been a mouth, Ken. Hard to believe it was a mouth. Was it really a mouth, Ken?”

“I was trying to make my point without getting in trouble.”

Trouble? Ken, like which kind? This is a man who rides waves so heavy they shake the earth when they break. Who has sacrificed comfort and wealth to do it. Who has willingly suffered the derision of conventional minds for the choices he has made. Who recently married for the first time, and to a much younger woman. Who may give her children. Who knows that she may break his heart. Who accepts that we are all alone when we die. Who rides with a single-mindedness that no one can equal—crouched low on his board in a predatory stance, left foot forward, body coiled, intently assessing the contours ahead, swerving and carving through the salt water. And for what? To do it again without repetition. And why? Because he is an athlete. Because every wave is different.

Last winter was an El Niño winter, and conditions on Oahu were extreme. Most of the inside breaks were trashed. The crowds of pretenders stayed away. Bradshaw reveled in it, taking on giant waves at the outside breaks over volcanic reefs a mile or more offshore. These were huge ocean swells that rolled in from distant storms and reared up to twice their height over the shallows, forming vertical faces that stood 50 feet high before curling and lunging forward with unfathomable force. Fifty-foot waves are five times higher than the highest waves that most surfers ever ride. Bradshaw rode them in obscurity, with no expectation of gain, absorbing the hits and hold-downs, spitting up blood, and continuing on for hours. His subsequent tumble down the stairs seems minor by comparison, though it broke two of his bones. We spoke about it the next day. He described his loss of balance, one foot missing a step and the other stepping into air, and the perception of inevitability that followed. He said that because he is accustomed to falling from heights the tumble seemed to happen in slow motion. He curled to protect his head, rolled in flight, and bounced once hard on landing. I sympathized with him for his injuries, but expressed greater concern for the stairs.

I. Outside Log Cabins

He set the record for the largest wave ever surfed on January 28, 1998, when he was 45 years old and his career as a professional surfer was nearly over. It was during another El Niño winter. Forecasters had predicted giant waves for that day on the North Shore. The California beachwear company Quiksilver had reacted by announcing that it would hold its premier big-wave contest on Waimea Bay. The dividing line between big and small waves is not clear-cut but seems to lie around 15 feet. Small-wave surfing is by far the dominant form of the sport—the place where most of the competitive action lies, and, for the industry, where the money is. Big-wave surfing, by contrast, is small. It can be done only when the ocean cooperates, and is attempted by just a few hundred people worldwide. Nonetheless the big-wave contest at Waimea is perhaps the most famous surfing event anywhere. It is an “invitational” that assembles 28 selected surfers to vie on-camera for a $55,000 first prize. It requires swells of 20 feet or greater (producing wave faces of 40 feet or more), so it is not held every winter. Quiksilver promotes it as something of a spiritual event, named after itself, as in “The Quiksilver,” and in memory of Eddie Aikau, a Hawaiian waterman who drowned in 1978. Bradshaw knew and admired Aikau, and has surfed in the contest many times, but he dislikes the event, and he hates the hype. He told me that the contest is actually just about selling beachwear to landlocked dreamers in Iowa. He said that Quiksilver is just another unnecessary brand that came along uninvited, and that it benefited no one but itself by glomming on to big-wave riding and Eddie Aikau’s name. I asked if Quiksilver didn’t also benefit the surfers whom it sponsors or who compete in the contests it holds. Bradshaw has had both experiences with the company. He said, “Dude, sponsorship is hard on the soul if you think how it goes. And, dude, the surfers who come when Quiksilver calls are like monkeys on a string.”