Tubular Belle

"I'm sure he says that to all the girls," said Michelle, rolling her eyes.

Clearly these two had bonded during their whirl in the curl. They retired for lunch and some refreshments—Kelly sucking down a couple of Kahl�a coladas (the standard surfer's drink) while Michelle indulged in the unholy union of Bud Light and iced tea. They flirted like mad, talking about the usual twenty-something stuff, like their favorite place to stay while in Bali.

Finally, he popped the question. "So you wanna go beach cruising?" he asked.

"What's that?"

"You know, cruising the beach."

"Oh, you mean you want me to watch you surf?"

Exactly, which is how Michelle wound up at Pipeline later that evening, along with a small army of chaperones. Yet another Technicolor sunset was lighting the sky, and the water was crowded with soul surfers trying to squeeze in a final ride. Kelly was among them, distinguishable by the ferocity with which he tore into the waves. A friend of one of the photo assistants had rolled his own in the parking lot, and now he sparked it, giving the scene a certain whiff of authenticity. Eyes on the pounding surf, Michelle said, "I crashed in the middle of a wave like that one. When I was underwater and I opened my eyes, it was like being in the middle of a washing machine. There were bubbles everywhere and I was being tossed around and around and around and then suddenly...."

It was a long story, but a good one, and in the telling it was hard not to notice that Michelle sounded like just another surfer whose heart belongs to the ocean.