me shoreward. And then arrived a friend, Alexander Hume Ford, a
globe trotter by profession, bent ever on the pursuit of sensation.
And he had found it at Waikiki. Heading for Australia, he had
stopped off for a week to find out if there were any thrills in
surf-riding, and he had become wedded to it. He had been at it
every day for a month and could not yet see any symptoms of the
fascination lessening on him. He spoke with authority.

"Get off that board," he said. "Chuck it away at once. Look at the
way you're trying to ride it. If ever the nose of that board hits
bottom, you'll be disembowelled. Here, take my board. It's a man's
size."

I am always humble when confronted by knowledge. Ford knew. He
showed me how properly to mount his board. Then he waited for a
good breaker, gave me a shove at the right moment, and started me
in. Ah, delicious moment when I felt that breaker grip and fling
me.

On I dashed, a hundred and fifty feet, and subsided with the breaker
on the sand. From that moment I was lost. I waded back to Ford
with his board. It was a large one, several inches thick, and
weighed all of seventy-five pounds. He gave me advice, much of it.
He had had no one to teach him, and all that he had laboriously
learned in several weeks he communicated to me in half an hour. I
really learned by proxy. And inside of half an hour I was able to
start myself and ride in. I did it time after time, and Ford
applauded and advised. For instance, he told me to get just so far
forward on the board and no farther. But I must have got some
farther, for as I came charging in to land, that miserable board