Tales of the Boogieman
In the years before I surfed Waimea, my favorite stories were always those of the biggest days on the north shore. I’d sit quietly and digest the exploits and adventures told around dying barbeques with the last helpings of Pisco and the last swigs of Tequila. I’d listen with full attention and curiosity, thirsty for any knowledge that might save my life in the winters ahead.
The stories I learned... the days over twenty feet, the days along the outer reefs, always included mention of the boogie man. He was a fixture. He was a mystery to be named and respected with any tale told. It seemed he was always there, either waiting tensly in the parking lot or floating alone, outside in a giant sea.
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