THERE'S A PARTY at the Moose Mansion. Rockhold and Ratboy are grilling fish, and they've invited Beachley, Mehlberg, and Bevilacqua over. A stack of salmon fillets from the day's catch rise up on the Formica beside the halibut steaks contributed from Endicott's personal stash. The TV is on, Reed and Russell are playing foosball, and Ford Archbold lies cocooned on the floor in a shimmering silver board bag. A big ling cod is curled in a plastic tub by the front door. A commercial comes on starring Andy Irons, the world-champion surfer. It's a fast-food ad, and he's talking to an infant he calls "the Big Kahuna."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," someone says.

One of the surfers flips to a channel showing mild pornography. The guests arrive. If anyone thinks a good way to accommodate female dinner guests is to turn off the porn, they don't say so. Rockhold piles the buttery fish steaks on a plate beside a pot of instant mashed potatoes and a pan of grilled vegetables. Everyone lines up with a plate, and we sit around the TV and eat. People are tired and planning to get up early and surf.

Afterwards, Fletcher, Smith, Rockhold, and I head over to the bar at Glacier Bear Lodge. It's ladies' night, though not many have shown up. Fishermen are shooting pool. A few drunks are on the dance floor. CNN flickers from a wide-screen.

Fletcher is silent, nursing a Sprite. I ask him what he did today.

"Surfed a bit. Laid around. Looked at the wall."

Then a guy sits down beside him and introduces himself. He's a local, a surfer, a commercial fisherman, and a helicopter pilot. He's flown up and down the coast in a seaplane. He's seen a lot of waves. Fletcher perks up. The guy knows of a volcanic island that he thinks could hold a 20-foot swell. A gentle slope of volcanic debris forms the island's beach, which translates to backdoor barrels, never before surfed. Fletcher emerges from his hood, eyes flashing. He leans over and slaps Smith on the hand. "Listen to what this guy's saying."

Smith moves closer while the guy talks. He needs no convincing. "Let's do it," he says.

"Let him finish," says Fletcher.

Smith's mind is racing with logistical details. He wants to know what kind of boat, what kind of plane, what time of year, how far away. If Alaska is surfing's last frontier, Yakutat is just the gateway. Who knows what else is out there?

"Let him finish," Fletcher repeats. The Budweiser sign is blinking overhead. Fletcher leans in intently, but his eyes are serene and distant, his mind 3,000 miles to the southwest, where a tropical storm is whipping up a swell and pumping it north, until one fine day it will collide with this jagged volcanic shore. He can see it already.

"Now," he says, turning to the Alaskan. "Tell us about that island."