SECOND COMING

In January of 2016, Wade Goodall was not in a good place. As other members of the Vans surf team were soaking up the sun, scoping out mysto spots from the deck of a 40-foot catamaran sailing through the Caribbean, Goodall stayed below deck, laid up in bed in the poorly lit bow of one of the boat’s twin hulls.

Hours earlier we’d been sessioning a turbulent-but-playful Leeward Island wedge, which offered mellow roll-ins that grew into perfect, head-high canvasses. It was an ideal setup for a surfer like Goodall, who launched himself into international surf stardom in the mid-2000s with a furiously creative approach, punctuated with innovative, go-for-broke, highly-technical airs. At the Caribbean wedge, Goodall had been surfing predictably well, driving through full-rail carves and tucking under azure curtains. But for most of the session, Goodall appeared to be surfing with an uncharacteristic caution. The one time that Goodall did take flight actually precipitated his lying horizontal below deck. Toward the end of the session, pumping high across the wave’s face, Goodall built a precarious amount of speed before launching into a monstrous straight air, flying up and then out, hanging in space for what felt like an eternity. When he came down, he landed ahead of the wave’s transition in flat, unforgiving water. His board slapped loudly on the sea surface as Goodall let out a primal roar.

Hours later, when I went below deck to check in on him, Goodall was hunched over a sketchpad, doodling away as a distraction from the pain in his knee.

“Beautiful day, right?” he said, with a sly grin. Those who know Goodall well appreciate his dry sense of humor and knack for timing. He’s not the type to wallow in self-pity, even with a bum knee amid perfect waves.

I asked him about his session.

“I saw some of the biggest sections I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I wanted to hit those things so bad, but I’m not sure my body is quite there,