The morning sun cracked through low marine fog, casting gold across the rippling calm of Mission Bay. It was 6:07 a.m. when Wake Razor cut the motor on his black-and-blue Nautique Ghost 210 and gave a two-finger whistle.
From the beach, Storm Surger waded into the water, one ski slung under his arm. “Buoys look tight today.”
“Course is slick,” Wake Razor replied from behind mirrored shades. “Let’s carve it fast.”
Storm Surger nodded, slipped into the ski, and took the rope. Moments later, the boat surged forward, and Storm was carving hard — rooster tails exploding behind him in tight arcs of fury and finesse.
But just as he reached the final buoy, a red-and-blue flash of sirens burst through the mist. A San Diego Harbor Patrol unit skidded onto the beach, kicking up a storm of sand and startled seagulls.
Two officers jumped out. “Wake Razor! We’ve got a situation!”
Wake Razor idled the boat and shouted back, “What’s going on?”
“A purse snatcher hit the boardwalk and jumped into a skiff. He's headed south, fast — no engine, just oars and guts. We don’t have a water unit nearby. Can you intercept?”
Wake Razor cracked his knuckles. “Get in.”
Storm Surger cruised in from his last turn, water dripping from his neoprene armor. “Change of plans?”
Wake Razor grinned. “You’re up, bro. Target’s hot. Real hot.”
The Nautique roared to life.
Storm Surger gripped the rope tight, still panting from his run, but eyes locked in. The course was gone. Now the whole bay was his battlefield.
They spotted the crook within minutes — a wiry guy in a ratty beanie, frantically paddling a dinghy with a gym bag clutched in his teeth.
“Got visual!” Storm called out.
“Coming in hot,” Wake Razor replied, throttling forward and cutting a hard curve. “Let’s pressure him.”
Storm veered wide, slicing through open water. A massive wall of spray curled behind him as he carved in toward the skiff at a brutal angle.
The thief turned — too late.
“Don’t even think about jumping!” Storm roared.
The guy panicked. He tried to stand, lost balance, and tumbled backward into the bay with a splash and a strangled yell.
Wake Razor circled around, steering the boat close.
Storm Surger coasted to the floating purse, scooping it up mid-drift like it was part of his slalom set. “Bag secured.”
The crook sputtered, clinging to his capsized boat. “Who the hell are you guys?!”
Wake Razor leaned over the side of the boat, offering a smirk as officers from the shoreline waved and cheered.
“We’re just your friendly neighborhood slalom team,” he said. “Next time, steal somewhere without a waterfront.”
As the bay settled back into quiet, and the sirens faded, Storm tossed the dripping purse into the boat and exhaled.
“Back to the course?”
Wake Razor grinned. “Only if you’re not too tired from saving the city.”
Storm cracked his knuckles. “Let’s make it interesting. Loser buys lunch.”
“You’re on.”
The boat’s wake surged forward once more — the heroes of Mission Bay leaving only ripples and rooster tails behind.
