I was hurrying down an endless corridor in San Francisco’s international airport, in a swirl of shapeless people and with a storm raging around, when I was suddenly brought to a stop.

For lining my route were blown-up photos of bronzed surfers in tints and monochromes, old-fashioned athletes wearing shapely bathing costumes, not the youths of today, snug in their thick rubber wet suits. A sign told me this was a special exhibit celebrating the history of surfing in California. I paused to look and to read, a lone peruser in that airport rush of cell phones and baseball caps.

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