Surfing the Cosmos

During a lull, Locke looked up at the January sun, partially hidden by one of the few puffy clouds in the sky. As busy as he was, Locke didn't get a chance to surf as much as he had even in the Academy. The shoreline of Hanalei Bay stretched around him. He had surfed the Suraya Bay on Risa, the Opal Sea on Betazed, but even the beaches where he grew up in Malibu and Santa Monica could not compare to the North Shore of Kauai in winter. The conditions were perfect, three- to five-meter swells, and while the water was chilly, it was not cold, at least not with the wetsuit he had on. He'd been out here an hour or so in the mid-morning surf, having caught a few nice rides. Normally this place would have been crawling with other surfers, but Locke had the waves all to himself this morning. Never a religious man, Donovan felt his most spiritual connection with the universe while on a board inside a sweet barrel. “I guess I am a disciple of Poseidon,” he chuckled to himself. “Or even better, Kanaloa.”

It was hard to see the distant beach from where he sat on his board, but he imagined Ginny was there sunning herself while she waited for him. He looked back and saw some lines coming his way, so he moved into position, deciding to take the third wave, as it looked to be about a meter higher than the first two. He paddled gently, turning the nose of his board toward the shoreline. The first wave passed and he picked up speed. The second wave almost caught him and he eased up, letting the lip pass before paddling furiously again. He felt the board lift with the third wave and got to his feet, exhilarated. He slid down the face, executed a bottom turn and rode back up. The wave was starting to curl, Locke snapped at the lip, catching a little air as he strove to cut back and stay with the tube.

At that moment, just when it couldn't get any better, the telltale of an incoming message sounded over the roar of the surf, “WITKO TO LOCKE.” Locke closed his eyes in frustration, he had almost hit the zone.

“Computer, freeze program.” The wave stopped as if it had suddenly turned to ice, held in place, as was everything else, by the simulator forcefields. Lock was too sure-footed to lose his balance with the sudden lack of apparent motion. “This is Locke. Go ahead.”

Witko's voice crackled over the holodeck intercom, "Sir, we are being hailed by Deepspace K-7, Commander Makza.”

“Bogus schwag,” Locke muttered, recalling the lingo of his youth. “Can you put him through down here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Computer, arch,” The arch materialized surprisingly close by, and Locke stepped across the “water” to the small view screen. Makza was already on the pick-up.

“Greetings, Lieutenant Commander Locke. I will get right to the point. We are diverting all available ships to the Ker'rat System to halt an incursion by the Klingons. As the Red Cloud is in the vicinity, you are among the ships ordered to respond. Be careful, Commander. I feel this could be a trap. But we are forced to spring it. That is all. Good luck, Commander.”

“Understood, Locke out.” Locke sighed, looking at the now blank screen then at the wave held in suspension by the holodeck. “Computer, end program.” The sun, the waves, and the shore dissolved into a five-meter cube as Donovan Lock picked up his board and stepped out into the corridor.

(photo found on Jamie Sterling's Professional Surf Guide.)