His name is Nick and he’s 50. He’s sporting long thin hair, a pierced ear, a nose slathered in white zinc oxide, and a black wetsuit. He’s bobbing up and down in the icy waves, clinging to the front of my beginner’s surfboard—which has me sprawled across it, my face less than two feet away from his. He’s attempting to give me a surfing lesson off the beaches of the Outer Banks, and I’m a slow learner.
A wave catches him head-on and he spews out saltwater. “This is why I’m crazy,” he spits. “They say swallowing saltwater makes you insane. You hear of those folk stranded at sea, drinking saltwater out of desperation, going crazy? Imagining all kinds of things out there that aren’t real?”