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An unforgiving wall of churning foam that leaves his sail tattered, mast snapped, boom toasted and leg introduced rudely to the Micronesian reef soon engulfs him too. Keith is all style and grace, surfy and smooth, painting each wave like a canvas while unleashing torrents of spray. Kevin’s absolutely ripping, laying down bottom turns that drop the tip of the mast precariously into the wave face, taunting suicide and launching massive aerials into the pit with the calm reassurance of someone out for a Sunday stroll. Experience wins out over youthful indiscretion, as he and Keith remain the only two who escape unscathed.