In 1984 I had Stiff Little Fingers songs swirling in my head, star-spangled Quiksilver boardshorts dangling from my hips, a shelf full of trophies, a head full of ASP pro tour ambitions, a galloping crush on a wiry blond who reduced me to stutters, recently divorced parents, a mild Pong addiction, a black Peugeot roadbike that felt winged, and the “pride and confidence” of the Western Surfing Association resting on my shoulders –