- Advertisement -
It’s an unseasonably warm November afternoon in California’s Central Valley, and Michael B. Schwab snaps his surfboard through rhythmic turns on a turquoise wall of water that glows electric in the sunlight. He disappears, for what seems like an eternity, engulfed by a hollow six-foot barrel before being spit out into a glistening spray. He throws his arms up triumphantly, then paddles toward a Jet Ski and gets towed out for another ride.
We are more than 100 miles from the…
