Is anybody out there? This was the question. The Extinction of Dave Rastovich was originally The Ark of Dave but by deadline had become a disingenuous failure. The ark was empty.
The lifestyle consumption that indelibly marks your time and fun: surplus to planetary survival. By action, by creed, the surfer—destructive to past ethos and current demands. Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine per cent of us, guilty. The blackboard of surfing virtue, rated by mainstream thinkers of 1970 as the lifestyle signposting the future and the evolutionary act leaving no trail, is now but a rubbed-out slew of chalk dust. Is there a parallel in history of a hedonistic movement being so wantonly unconscious to damaging folly? The irony of surfers—by daily habit the cleanest of humans, also most filthy.