Literally weighing in, because the Samoan crashes the scales at well over three and a half bills. Hence the tag “High Tide,” because the ocean level rises anytime he gets in the water. So High Tide's opinion on food commands respect, because he obviously knows what he's talking about. The whole crew is aware that your Pacific Island types know their fish. “Are you talking about yellowtail, ono, opah, mahimahi, shark, or what? It makes a difference, ranking-wise.”

“Everything,” Boone says, “tastes better on a tortilla.”

This is an article of faith with Boone. He's lived his life with it and believes it to be true. You take anything-fish, chicken, beef, cheese, eggs, even peanut butter and jelly-and fold them in the motherly embrace of a warm flour tortilla and all those foods respond to the love by upping their game.

Everything does taste better on a tortilla.

“Outside!” High Tide yells.

Boone looks over his shoulder to see the first wave of what looks to be a tasty set coming in.

“Party wave!” hollers Dave the Love God, and he, High Tide, Johnny, and Hang Twelve get on it, sharing the ride into shore. Boone and Sunny hang back for the second wave, which is a little bigger, a little fuller, and has a better shape.

“Your wave!” Boone yells to her.

“Chivalrous or patronizing, you decide!” Sunny yells back, but she paddles in. Boone gets on the wave right behind her and they ride the shoulder in together, a skillful pas de deux on the white water.

Boone and Sunny walk up onto the beach, because the morning session is over and The Dawn Patrol is coming in. This is because, with the exception of Boone, they all have real j-o-b-s.

So Johnny's already stepping out of the outdoor shower and sitting in the front seat of his car putting on his detective clothes-blue shirt, brown tweed jacket, khaki slacks-when his cell phone goes off. Johnny listens to the call, then says, “A woman took a header off a motel balcony. Another day in paradise.”