After the Apocalypse

In case the Mayans are right...

Photo: Glaser
JOEL TUDOR

STRATEGY: “It will all come down to how many skills you have. How good you are on a surfboard—that won’t be one of them. As far as physical strength, if it comes down to a clean fight, I’m fine with anyone on that list, with the exception of Kai. He was one of my jiu-jitsu instructors, so he knows everything I’m going to throw at him. I don’t think I have a chance. He just outweighs me. You do the math—greater mass times same knowledge equals he’s gonna get me.

“So I’m not putting myself in the race in terms of survival. If it’s a fight, I’d do fine, but when it comes to feeding myself—I’m a skinny guy, I’d go quick. Vegetarian, picky eater—I’m not gonna last long.”

LIKELY RESULT: While the true survivalists head for the hills, Joel stays near the coast, content to die when death comes for him. He watches as civilization crumbles around him and the team houses are raided and burned by roving gangs from the Westside. Although he does not start fights to the death, he finishes them, killing off scores of mad Australian, European, and Brazilian WQS warriors. As the months wear on, Tudor finds himself alone on the North Shore, or so he thinks.

Winter comes, and with it the first true west swell of the Apocalypse. Tudor, weakened by his irrational vegetarian diet, throws caution to the wind. He paddles out at Pipe on a vintage ’70s Lightning Bolt single-fin. He is at one with the universe, alone with his thoughts. As he pulls into a barrel, he hears a dreadful whistle. Somehow, out of nowhere, Kaiborg is there behind Tudor in the tube. Borg has broken his own rule to avoid the water, and Tudor has now dropped in on his instructor.

Joel knows what must come next. He straightens out and rides to the beach. Kaiborg follows him. They fight to the death, there on the sand, with honor, as men used to before the darkness fell. If only Tudor ate meat, he might have stood a chance.

TIME OF DEATH: 126 DAYS A.A.