Thirty-seven-year-old big-wave champion Darryl â€œFleaâ€ Virostko and I stood on a cliff above the grey North Pacific. The wind howled. The surf spot weâ€™d come to check folded in upon itself far below us. Flea unburied his golf bag from the bed of his battered Toyota Tundra. Just couple of years old, it belched white smoke from the exhaust pipe, bled steering fluid, and ran unevenly on seven of its eight cylinders.