A robust telling of the author’s surfing from Bohemian youth through expatriate life to escapades from New York. Finnegan grew up in northern Los Angeles and the east side of Oahu in the 1950s and 60s before heading to UC Santa Cruz, then dropping out to surfari in Hawaii, the Polynesian islands (where he discovered Tavarua), and Australia. All along, he read and wrote extensively while learning to interview locals, developing an approachable, conversational style and a leftist worldview. In Cape Town, he parlayed a chance post teaching black students into ‘frontline’ journalism, substantially launching his career. Most relatable is four years during the mid 80s in San Francisco among the ‘Doc’ Renneker crowd. But frequent surf-induced delinquency, as well as his partner’s ambitions, induced his move to metropolitan New York to become a full-time writer for the

New Yorker

— relegating surfing to big-wave sojourns in Madeira and smash-and-grab trips around the Tri State area. Finnegan writes lucidly and patiently about wave features, making the book accessible to novices. I disagree with the assertion that surfing paradoxically combines desire to be alone with desire to perform — solace or at least friendship wins out — but enjoy the idea (attributed to Norman Mailer) that exercise without excitement, competition, or danger doesn’t strengthen the body but wears it out. Not because my own experience of exercise is weariness but as I have enjoyed training with a purpose.