Photo lairdhamilton.com
Think of a 70-foot wave. It rises out of the water like a possessed mountain. If you close your eyes to it, your mind still sees it because of the ferocious sound. It curls, creating a perfect temporary barrel that plunges towards the shore with the weight of the ocean behind it.
There’s a tiny dot on top of this giant wave. It glides gracefully over the top and down into the barrel, a little white trail following it.
That dot is Laird Hamilton.
Photo hckygyg
Over five years ago, in a soccer stadium in Berlin, a moment happened that Italians are still talking about. Fabio Grosso ended the country’s 25-year losing streak by scoring Italy’s golden goal during overtime penalty kicks in the 2006 World Cup final against France.
The crowd erupted. Grosso ran around the field like a maniac. The Azzurri players embraced each other like soldiers seeing their families for the first time after a long, bloody war. They cried. There were lots and lots of tears. They kissed. They hugged. They shouted and ran. They cried some more. They are Italians, after all.
When I was six, I lived in a hospital wing for asthmatic kids. An interesting bunch, we were. A cast of sickly, forced social recluses joined together by the common bond of faulty lungs.
My first night there was the most terrifying of my life. My roommates fell asleep soon after the lights went out, and I sat up in bed clutching my teddy bear and listening to the steady hum of the demonic red EXIT sign. I wanted to get the hell out of there. My stomach had other plans, so instead of escaping I ran to the restroom to vomit.