I went to meet one of the “make-trouble guys”, a surfing prodigy with a troubled past named Sheldon Paishon. I turned in to a neighborhood of ramshackle houses, one of which had a bed-sheet hanging in the front door. Paishon looked through the opening and joined me in my car. We drove to the beach where there were big, powerful waves. Paishon didn’t hesitate before joining the dozen surfers already in the water, and within moments he was dominating the field. After half an hour, he snapped his board in half and swam back to the beach, holding a piece of it in one hand.