You must be willing to listen. Imagine this: You are underwater... again. This place has that effect on you. It calls you. You are off the reef pass off the sleepy village of Teahupoo, Tahiti. You float on the edge of the channel of the heaviest wave on earth. But today she is playful. The surf has dropped. It is another kind of contest all together in what you are now convinced is the most beautiful place on earth.

Beneath your feet is the drop off. You can feel the abyss between your toes. In front of you the reef spreads out like the center of the world. And you think to yourself, maybe it is.

You have one great lungful of air, but it is enough. You look up, through the mirrored surface, and see the great white citadels that sail by like clipperships on the trades.

30 seconds left now.

You feel the water sway and surge and you know a wave approaches. You risk it and against regulations you swim closer to the reef, just over the edge now. You have 20 seconds left. You stop and relax and wait and watch.

The first wave rises in a triangle, a muscular thing. It draws you up slightly, letting you feel its energy. The reef begins to windchime, a soft song of broken shells and sand dredging and dragging on the bottom. A delicate sound, an odd tine considering the violence that is to come. The wave stands and pitches toward shore. And it is in that breathless moment, that silent moment, that you hear the humming. Ten seconds left.

Here comes the shadow of a board racing across the reef, and then the apparition...above and to the right of you, floating between the reef and the sky is a surfer, deep inside a spinning, blown glass sphere. An alien visitation.

But you have to be willing to listen if you are going to get it. Listen the humming of the fins of the surfboard, to the muffled hiss of the breaking wave, to the clicking series of percussions as the lip penetrates the surface.

The humming continues. Almost machine like.

So mesmerized you hold out a hand to touch the rail of the surfer as he passes. You are not close enough, but you swear you can feel the heat of it.

Five seconds, Lungs burning. Still you listen. The humming of the fins fade as the surfer disappears into a heaving cloud, his contrail weaving, threading, surviving. You listen until it is no more. Then you bolt for the surface.

You fill your lungs with air.

Then comes a different kind of noise. It hurts at first. From the boats, from the loudspeaker, from your world. The screaming. The cheering. In the closing moments, on this spectacular afternoon, Brazilian Bruno Santos has just defeated Tahitian Manoa Drollet to become the 8th champion of the Billabong Pro Tahiti. Heat horns are blazing, boat sirens are sounding, beer pop-tops are cracking.

A grinning GT on the Media Boat beckons, he is waving a cold beer for you. You smile and begin swimming for it and it is suddenly quiet again except for the bubbles streaming past your ears.

Strangely, you remember what Rabbit Bartholomew said to you earlier. That thing about how Bruno had the “shine”. That halo that often surrounds champions of the day before they have even won.

You remember asking Bruno about it right before the final. He answered in his thick Brasilian accent: You must be willing to listen to her, the ocean, you must listen to her and she will tell you what to do. You must listen to her, or she will drown you out with her own song.