When Surfing Isn’t Enough
unny Garcia scares me. Always has. For one reason or another, when I was a young surfer in the early 1990s, I picked Sunny out of the constellation of hard-ass Hawaiians I could have feared to be the surfing boogeyman. Of course, I had nothing to fear from Sunny, or Johnny Boy Gomes, or Marvin Foster, or any of their contemporaries from where I lived, thousands of miles away on the Central Coast of California, with plenty of deranged beardos yelling at unfamiliar faces over wonky reefbreaks I should have been afraid of instead. But, nope, it was
