Time magazine article about me and XP.
This computer-packed room is the heart of Surfcast, Bobby’s
surf-forecasting service, which provides daily predictions by fax to
subscribers all over the world, maintains a Web site, and has a 900
number for surf information. Four employees work out of offices in
Moonlight Bay, networked with this room, but Bobby himself does the
final data analysis and surf predictions.
Along the shores of the world’s oceans, approximately six million
surfers regularly ride the waves, and about five and a half million of
these are content with waves that have faces-measured from through to
crest-of six or eight feet. Ocean swells hide their power below the
surface, extending down as much as one thousand feet, and they are not
waves until they shoal up and break to the shore; consequently, there
was no way, until the late 1980s, to -foot humpers predict with any
reliability even where and when six could be found. Surf junkies could
spend days at the beach, waiting through surf that was mushy or soft or
even flat, while a few hundred miles up or down the coast, plunging
breakers were macking to shore, corduroy to the horizon. A significant
percentage of those five and a half million boardheads would rather pay
Bobby a few bucks to learn where the action will or won’t be than rely
strictly on the goodwill of Kahuna, the god of all surf.
A few bucks. The 900 number alone draws eight hundred thousand calls
each year, at two dollars a pop. Ironically, Bobby the slacker and
surf rebel has probably become the wealthiest person in Moonlight
Bay-although no one realizes this and although he ives away most of
it.
“Here,” he said, dropping into a chair in front of one of the
computers.
“Before You rush off to save the world and get your brains blown out,
think about this.” As Orson cocked his head to watch the screen, Bobby
hammered the keyboard, calling up new data.
Most of the remaining half million of those six million surfers sit out
waves above, say, fifteen feet, and probably fewer than ten thousand
can ride twenty-footers, but although these more awesomely skilled and
ballsy types are fewer in number, a higher percentage of them want
Bobby’s forecasts. They live and die for the ride; to miss a session
of epic monsters, especially in their neighborhood, would be nothing
less than Shakespearean tragedy with sand.
“Sunday,” Bobby said, still tapping the keyboard.
“This Sunday?”
“Two nights from now, You’ll want to be here. Rather than be dead, I
mean.”
“Big surf coming?”
“It’s gonna be sacred.”
Perhaps three hundred or four hundred surfers on the planet have the
experience, talent, and c(jones to mount waves above twenty feet, and a
handful of them pay Bobby well to track truly giant surf, even though
it is treacherous and likely to kill them. A few of these maniacs are
wealthy men who will fly anywhere in the world to challenge storm
waves, thirty- and even forty-foot belie moths, into which they are
frequently towed by a helper on a jet Ski, because catching such huge
monoliths in the usual fashion is ssible. Worldwide, You can find well
difficult and often impo formed, ride-worthy waves thirty feet and
higher no more than and often they come to shore in exotic places.
thirty days a year, Using maps, satellite photos, and weather data from
numerous sources, Bobby can provide two- or three-day warnings, and his
predictions are so trustworthy that these most demanding of all clients
have never complained.
“There.” Bobby pointed to a wave profile on the computer. Orson took
a closer look at the screen as Bobby said, “Moonlight Bay, point-break
surf. It’s going to be classic Sunday afternoon, evening, all the way
until Monday dawn-fully pumping mackers.”
I blinked at the video display. “Am I seeing twelve-footers?”
“Ten to twelve feet, with a possibility of some sets as high as
fourteen. They’re hitting Hawaii soon . . . then us.”
“That’ll be live.”
“Entirely live. Coming off a big, slow-moving storm north of Tahiti.
There’s going to be an offshore wind, too, so these monsters are going
to give You more dry, insanely hollow barrels than You’ve seen in your