From the Screenplay by

W. Peter Iliff

FADE IN:

We are in the belly of a wave.

Light refracts in a constant collision of water.

SLOW MOTION, the hallucinatory prisms, like liquid

diamonds taking flight, dreamlike...

EXT. OCEAN - DUSK

Backlit against a flaming sun a solitary SURFER glides

across the green glassy peak. TIME IS STRETCHED until his

movements gain a grace and fluidity not of this world.

Total Zen concentration. Body weight centered, eyes

forward and on the next section.

EXT. URBAN STREET - DUSK

SLOW MOTION ON a black sedan.

Creeping along store fronts. Past a Winchell's.

PEOPLE splash steps down rain-washed sidewalks in DREAM

MOTION. The sedan turns past the FIRST VIRGINIA BANK and

into an alley.

INT. BLACK SEDAN

TWO MEN and ONE WOMAN in SUSPENDED TIME put on overcoats

and hats. Under their hats strips of Scotch tape stretch

taut from the base of their nose to their forehead,

hideously distorting their features. Makes them look like

human PIGS.

EXT. OCEAN

SILVERY in this light, almost metallic, as if from some

future-scape. The lone surfer SHREDS a long, endless

right wall.

ACCELERATING INTO REAL TIME -- as he stares into the pit,

digs in, drops into the sweet spot on the wave, hunkers

down.

His moves becoming aggressive, frenzied--

INT. BLACK SEDAN

An M-16 clip is SMACKED into place and cocked with a

CACHACK! Ammo clips are SNICK-SNICKED into handgun butts

and a long clip is SSSNICKED into an UZI.

Watches are checked. The PIG NOSE people nod to each

other.

EXT. BANK

Pig Nose #1, steals into position near the glass doors,

slams his back to the wall, weapon to cheek, breath fast.

EXT. OCEAN

FAST NOW -- the surfboard rips a brutal gash in the face

of the wave. The surfer TRIMS down the line, pivoting the

board and going straight down, CARVING the bottom. He

slashes viciously back toward the lip and--

In a radical INVERTED AIR ATTACK sails SIX feet above the

wave in an explosion of water--

INT. BANK

--BAAAAAAMMM!

Glass doors explode OPEN and Pig Nose #1 SPINS inside. He

fires a burst into the ceiling. BRRAAMM!!

PIG NOSE #1

EVERYBODY on the floor!

PEOPLE drop.

VERY FAST HERE--

Two bandits handle BANK EMPLOYEES and customers--

Another PIG NOSE watches the door--

Pig Nose #1 moves behind counter, Uzi and canvas sack in

hand.

INT. SURVEILLANCE VAN

Dark. Monitors SHOW SLOW SCANS of the bank INTERIOR.

Two MEN wear headphones and black windbreakers with FBI

stenciled on the back. One watches with binoculars.

BINOCULARS

Bingo. We're on. Let's go.

Where's the big college

quarterback?! Are you with us,

Utah?

EXT. BANK WALL

A MAN in his twenties. His head spins revealing rain-

slicked hair and face, eyes wide, bright. An edgy

handsomeness to him.

He pops a stick of Wrigley's in his mouth, rests a shotgun

on one leg and leans against the wall. He wears a

headset... through which we hear the FBI guy yelling for

him.

This is JOHNNY UTAH.

BINOCULARS (FILTERED)

Utah, where the hell are ya!?

Utah takes his headset off...

INT. BANK

Pig Nose #1 LEAPS over the counter, holds a canvas sack

filled with booty from tellers' drawers.

PIG NOSE #1

Fuckin' shake it!

Pig Nose #2 nods with his snubby nose, hurries toward the

exit.

EXT. FIRST VIRGINIA BANK

The bandits burst through the doors and sprint to the

alley where they jump into the SEDAN. THE DRIVER, the

WOMAN PIG NOSE, punches it and the TIRES WHIRRR on the

slick pavement.

The sedan launches down the alley.

Utah running. Like a freight train. Splashing through a

cross-alley. He doesn't break stride as he slams his

shoulder into a large, steel GARBAGE DUMPSTER.

DRIVING it like a football training sled into the ALLEY

where--

THE SEDAN LOCKS 'EM UP seconds too late as it SKIDS and

SLAMS into it, CRUNCHING into the brick wall and--

Still alive -- GRINDS into reverse back down the alley,

HEADLIGHTS SMASHED, it guns it backward as--

UTAH leaps over the dumpster and sprints after the car.

He has a brick in his right hand. He cocks it back.

Johnny HEAVES the brick thirty yards and--

SMASH! The brick EXPLODES into the windshield,

SPIDERWEBBING the glass.

Lady Pignose flinches from the glass fragments thrown into

her face.

LADY PIGNOSE

Son of a bitch!

The car slews backward onto the street, slamming a parked

car. Lady Pignose slams the thing into DRIVE, cuts the

wheel hard, and punches it, skidding on wet pavement.

UTAH hurtles from the alley. He leaps, somehow TACKLES

the DRIVER'S door handle and is dragged along the street.

He pulls himself up, reaches inside the window, and whips

the steering wheel hard right.

The SEDAN fishtails into a parked Toyota. Utah bounces

forward, slamming into the asphalt. Glass shards and

crushed steel are strewn everywhere, as radiator steam

whistles hot.

Pig Nose #2, riding shotgun, is trapped. Can't get his

crushed door open. The DRIVER pushes open her door.

Gropes for her pistol. Utah springs -- no respect for a

lady. He slams the door, pins her arm and slams again and

again until the gun drops. Utah kicks it away as the

woman collapses in pain.

Pig Nose #1 bails out and runs across parking lot. Utah

leaps up onto the crushed hood and draws down with the

shotgun.

UTAH

Halt. FBI!

Pig Nose #1 spins. We sense reckless anger. He raises

the UZI. Utah squeezes the trigger.

No death. No blood.

Just buzzers and flashing bulbs.

Pig Nose's flak vest lights up like a pinball machine.

Utah's laser weapon hit the "kill zone". Pig Nose rips

the tape off his face and the FBI CADET shakes his head in

disgust.

OBSERVERS step forward. Bank customers. Bank tellers.

All FBI personnel. MEDICAL STAFF offer the woman driver

assistance. Pig Nose #1 heads for Johnny, but is subdued

by other agents.

PIG NOSE #1 (FBI CADET)

I wanna say just two words to you,

asshole, SIMU-LATION!!! Johnny-

fuckin' Utah. Guys like you will do

anything to win!

Utah stares back in defiance.

The SURVEILLANCE van pulls up nearby.

BINOCULARS runs out and pinches two fingers together,

right in Johnny's face.

BINOCULARS

This far, Utah! You're this far

from being the most overqualified

guy Burger King ever had. Get me?!

UTAH

Yes sir. Sir?

BINOCULARS

What?

Johnny gestures to the car.

UTAH

I did stop the perpetrators.

Utah turns to go. As he passes he casually raises his

laser-shotgun and re-triggers Pig Nose's flak vest.

LIGHTS AND BUZZERS.

Pig Nose explodes. More agents restrain him.

Screams and shoving matches and pissed off guys.

Utah walks off, down the simulated street, past a sign

which bears the FBI SEAL and reads "Combat Village,

Quantico, Virginia."

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. PACIFIC OCEAN - DAY

Red sky. A luminous Pacific. Five foot faces. Nice

curl. A lineup of SURFERS wait outside the break.

Silhouetted, bobbing like a pack of sea mammals.

INT./ EXT. TAXI

A flood of orange through the windshield as the cab crawls

down Ocean Park to the sea. CAMERA HANDHELD from the back

seat.

The driver turns to us.

DRIVER

Anywhere? You don't care?

UTAH (V.O.)

Anywhere. I've just never seen the

ocean before.

CUT TO:

EXT. VENICE BEACH

JOHNNY UTAH trudging across the sand, holding his shoes.

Garment bag and a big duffel over his shoulder.

He looks silly in his dark suit, tie loosened, wearing a

turned around baseball cap.

He wiggles his toes in the sand, looks around like a kid.

A pack of BOUNCING BEAUTIES jog through frame.

Utah grins, reaches up and turns his cap around.

It reads "I Love L.A."

CUT TO:

EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING

Looking down the face of the concrete monolith at Wilshire

and Veteran. Ant-like, Johnny Utah's tiny figure moves

toward the entrance.

VOICE (OVER)

Day One in LA, special agent Utah.

You may have been top two percent of

your class at Quantico but you have

exactly zero hours in the field

here. You know nothing...

INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - FBI BULLPEN

Supervising Agent BEN HARP leads Utah across the bullpen.

Rows of desks. Agents sitting at computer terminals.

Data hell. Looks like he got a job at Xerox.

HARP

You know less than nothing. If you

even knew that you knew nothing, at

least that would be something, but

you don't.

UTAH

Yes, sir.

Utah is wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase. Harp is

mid-thirties, confident of stride, tanned of skin, perfect

of hair. GQ. Aggressive.

HARP

Eating solid breakfasts, Utah?

UTAH

Sir?

HARP

All the food groups? Avoiding

sugar? Caffeine? I see to it that

my people maintain cardiovascular

fitness. We stay off hard liquor,

cigarettes...

UTAH

(poker face)

I take the skin off chicken.

Harp glances at him, eyes narrowing. They reach a

glassed-in compound of small offices. Harp swings the

door open and the other agents look up as Utah enters.

HARP

This is us. Bank Robbery. And

you're in the bank-robbery capital

of the world--

UTAH

1322 last year in LA county. Up 26

percent from the year before.

HARP

That's right. And we nailed over a

thousand of them. We did it by

crunching data. Good crime-scene

work, good lab work, good data-base

analysis. Nobody had to tackle a

car once. You getting the signal,

special agent?

UTAH

Zero distortion, sir.

He picks up a donut from someone's desk, a succulent

glazed jelly.

UTAH

I love these things.

He looks right at Harp. Takes a big fuck-you bite.

HARP

You're a real blue-flame special,

aren't you, Utah? I don't know why

they sent you to LA. Must be an

asshole shortage.

UTAH

Not so far.

CUT TO:

UNDERWATER

A blue field with a pulsing network of rippling lines.

VOOM! A figure rockets down INTO FRAME in a curtain of

bubbles. A gawky AGENT, in less than stylish FBI trunks,

flails around blindfolded looking for bricks at the bottom

of a pool.

INT. GYMNASIUM POOL - DAY

The pool casts wavy distortions upon TWO DOZEN MEN, all

grumbling as they stand in line, wearing T-shirts with FBI

logos, sweats and sneakers. We hear a splash, and the men

shuffle forward.

PAPPAS (V.O.)

The dolls love this baby. It brings

them luck when they rub it -- right

between their buttons.

CLOSE ON tape measure wrapped around a generous belly.

PULL BACK to reveal VETERAN AGENT COREY measuring the

ample waist of ANGELO PAPPAS. This 54 year old silver

haired Greek stands rubbing his belly like a Zulu chief.

COREY

Angelo, we need a bigger tape.

PAPPAS

Just read the goddamn number.

COREY

Still a 46. Maybe we can cinch it

down, wear a girdle--

PAPPAS

Screw you and this holistic fitness

crap! At least my arms don't flap

in the wind.

Corey secretly squeezes his bicep as...

A whistle blows. A broad shouldered MAN wearing an FBI

cap barks at the Greek.

BIG SHOULDERS

Okay, Pappas, let's put on the

blindfold. Wanna see you retrieve

at least two bricks from the bottom.

JOHNNY UTAH enters the pool area in the distance. Says

something to one of the agents. Is pointed toward us as--

Corey ties the blindfold and guides Pappas to the edge of

the pool.

PAPPAS

I've been in the field 33 years,

fired my piece 23 times in the line

of duty, and I got no idea what a

blind man fetching bricks has gotta

do with being a Special Agent!

Johnny has walked up. Pappas, blindfolded, turns directly

to Utah as he continues, thinking it's Corey.

PAPPAS

Added to which indignity, I got

three months left to retirement and

they saddle me with some blue-flamer

fresh out of Quantico for a partner.

Some quarterback punk, Johnny Unitas

or something.

UTAH

The shit they pull, huh?

Pappas snorts agreement and cannonballs into the pool.

Huge backblast of water. The other agents hoot and

holler.

Corey swears and wipes off his clipboard.

Johnny steps to the edge, looks down.

We see the blindfolded Pappas groveling along the bottom.

The other agents cheer as Pappas heads for the surface.

COREY

Here he comes. Hold up a fish,

he'll take it right outta your hand.

Pappas surfaces in an explosion of spray as he sputters

for breath. He grabs the edge and angrily slaps two

bricks on the tiles. He rips off the blindfold looks up

and frowns.

A HAND ENTERS FRAME to help him up. Pappas takes it and

Johnny hauls him on deck.

COREY

Hey Shamu, this is your guy.

Pappas eyes the new agent warily. Extends his hand.

PAPPAS

Pappas. Angelo Pappas.

UTAH

Punk. Quarterback Punk.

PAPPAS

(grinning)

Welcome to Sea World, kid.

INT. SEDAN - DAY

SERIES OF TIGHT SHOTS

ECU sweep hand of a dive watch clicks through the

seconds.

Magnum shells are fed into a pump shotgun.

Velcro straps of Second Chance body armor are fastened.

White gloves are pulled snug over strong hands.

A silk tie is straightened. A shotgun slide is cocked.

The sweep hand approaches the twelve.

A LATEX MASK is pulled over the back of a man's head.

VOICE

The little hand says...

The mask turns into FULL CLOSE-UP. It is RONALD REAGAN.

REAGAN

... let's rock and roll.

INT. BANK OF AMERICA

Business as usual. The scene so normal you know something

is about to happen. An exiting MAN stuffs bucks into his

wallet, reaching for the door which--

SLAMS INWARD. He is hit by a wall of EX-PRESIDENTS.

REAGAN charges in with his buddies RICHARD M. NIXON,

LYNDON BAINES JOHNSON and JOHN F. KENNEDY.

Reagan throws the poor guy skidding across the floor.

Nixon buttstrokes a guard, hard in the nuts, with his 12

gauge.

The other guard goes for his holster -- finds himself

facing three shotguns and one very large handgun.

Reagan sights down the pistol.

REAGAN

Use a gun, go to heaven.

The guard freezes. White and sweaty.

Tricky Dick slips up to him and collects the pistol.

Kennedy covers the stunned customers.

Johnson backs up against the door jam, watching the

street, and the sedan idling at the curb.

REAGAN

EVERYBODY FREEZE!! That's right.

ALL TELLERS step back from the

counter! Hands on heads! MOVE!!

Nixon and Reagan move quickly to the counter as the

tellers comply.

REAGAN

Everybody else on the floor! Do it!

On the floor, let's go.

NIXON

SUCK LINOLEUM, BITCH!! You got

earwax?!

Nixon grabs a stunned woman by the arm and hurls her to

the floor.

She lands hard. Everyone is on the deck by now.

The Presidents move fast.

Reagan leaps onto the counter. Stands up where he can see

all.

Nixon hurdles to tellers' side and they start moving down

the line together. Reagan controlling the room as Nixon

quickly empties the tellers' cash drawers into the sack.

His hands move like lightning.

REAGAN

Just stay cool. Everybody stay

cool. Heads down. Eyes down. The

money's insured--

TIGHT ON -- MONEY flying into the sack.

REAGAN

-- it's not worth dying for.

Another 45 seconds of your time.

That's all. Then -- Whoa, Tricky

Dick!

Nixon pulls a pack of twenties back out of the bag and

tosses it to the BANK MANAGER. Who reflexively catches

it.

Then drops it like a hot-potato just before--

It EXPLODES into a cloud of blue ink. The manager is dyed

blue.

Burnt money showers on the terrified customers.

LBJ looks at his watch and WHISTLES.

The bandits sprint for the front doors.

Kennedy exits first, followed by Reagan.

LBJ pauses under the surveillance camera, drops his

trousers and MOONS. Thank you is written across his white

butt.

BLACK AND WHITE VIDEO MONITOR--

High angle, distorted wide shot. LBJ hoists his pants and

splits, followed out by Nixon, who exits backward with the

famous double peace-sign held high overhead.

IMAGE FREEZES. Victorious Nixon, grainy... something from

a time warp. The image SUDDENLY GOES INTO HIGH-SPEED

REVERSE. The bank robbery sequence zips backward.

PAPPAS (V.O.)

Twenty-seven banks in three years.

In and out in 90 seconds. Nobody

ever gets shot. We're talking solid

professionals.

WE ARE IN--

INT. BANK CRIME SCENE - LATER

UTAH & PAPPAS are watching a monitor in the glassed-in

office. The robbery REPLAYS on grainy BLACK & WHITE

videotape.

The bandits barge in, raise shotguns and order everybody

to the floor.

UTAH

Good move.

PAPPAS

Yeah, they control the room well.

Stick strictly to the cash drawers.

VIDEO TAPE -- Utah is reverse-scanning. The bandits walk

BACKWARD into the bank. The explosion of blue ink is

sucked back into the pack of money, then leaps back into

President Nixon's hand.

UTAH

They don't go for the vault?

PAPPAS

Never go for the vault. They never

get greedy.

UTAH

Smart. You burn time in the vault.

PAPPAS

Reagan usually drives. Stolen

switch car, they leave it running at

the curb, looks parked from a

distance. When they run, they dump

the vehicle and vanish. And I mean

vanish.

Utah stops the video, now FAST-FORWARDING it, stopping

where President Nixon separates the exploding "dye pack"

planted with the money, before he tosses it aside.

UTAH

Surgical. Look at them separate the

dye packs. Dick and Ronny know

their jobs.

PAPPAS

The Ex-Presidents are the best I've

seen, kid.

Outside the windowed partition POLICE OFFICERS interview

frightened customers.

Hotshot agents MUNOZ and COLE enter from the main floor of

the bank. Think they're very slick.

MUNOZ

Anytime you two are finished jerking

off watching MTV I need to get a

look at that tape.

COLE

(sloppy grin)

Hey, Pappas, you tell the kid your

theory on the Presidents?

PAPPAS

Just take the tape, Cole.

Now Munoz starts to smile.

MUNOZ

Hang ten, Pappas, like totally

rad...

(to Utah)

I gotta tell ya, the department

loves it.

UTAH

What's he talking about, Angelo?

Harp raps glass. Cole and Munoz look sharp.

Harp enters addressing Pappas and Utah.

HARP

They found the drop car up on

Mulholland. I want you two to go

work it.

PAPPAS

What? Now I'm working the drop car?

Who's handling the scene here?

HARP

Cole and Munoz. I'm uh... letting

them run with the ball for a while.

Cole and Munoz gloat.

PAPPAS

Cole and Munoz? I been on this case

for two years.

HARP

(zeroing in on

Pappas)

That's the point, isn't it?

PAPPAS

Yeah, I get it. Time to play let's

dick the old guys, huh, Harp?

HARP

Supervising Special Agent, Harp.

Now I want you to go work the drop

car, okay, Angelo? Okay?

The Greek rises like a proud bull.

PAPPAS

Sure. No problem. How about your

office? Your office need vacuuming?

We could do that too.

Pappas and Utah move toward the door. It's a tight

squeeze as they pass Cole and Munoz. Especially Pappas.

PAPPAS

Excuse me.

Read as fuck you.

EXT. MULHOLLAND SCENIC TURNOUT - NIGHT

The diamond field of LA glitters below. The small parking

area off Mulholland is filled with squad cars. Red and

blue disco.

A flock of UNIFORMS milling about a non-descript CHEVY.

INT. SEDAN FRONT SEAT

FLASHLIGHT BEAM prowls the interior, stopping on a small

printed card, folded like a pup tent, left upon the bench

seat. It reads "Sanitized For Your Protection."

PAPPAS

Cute huh? They love to fuck with

us.

UTAH & PAPPAS pull their heads out of the sedan. Forensic

expert, HALSEY, stands behind them.

PAPPAS

Don't tell me, let me guess. The

switch-car was stolen this morning...

(Halsey is nodding

his head)

They vacuumed and 409'd the

interior, did the windows, emptied

the ashtrays...

HALSEY

Yeah, the usual drill.

Utah pulls on a rubber glove and lifts the card off the

seat. Studies it. Talks to Halsey like Halsey's the one

that just out of Quantico, not Utah.

UTAH

Could've taken their gloves off

before setting that card. Laser it

for prints. Maybe held it to his

teeth -- check the edges for saliva.

(a beat)

Today was a scorcher. This Chevy

doesn't have air conditioning...

HALSEY

Sweat secretions in the seatbacks?

PAPPAS

You through, Mr. Wizard? Let me

know if you find Jimmy Hoffa under

the seat while you're at it.

(looks at his watch)

Hell, it's only 7:30. The night's

still young... you can solve this

case and start on another one.

UTAH

Well, what're your ideas on these

guys?

PAPPAS

Forget about it, kid. They're

ghosts. Let the goddamn yuppie

Mormon affirmative action assholes

handle it. See I'm almost 55... so

I must be senile, right? They

better get me out before I start

pissing myself in public. Drooling.

It would look bad for the Bureau,

right?

UTAH

So you're gonna coast to retirement,

when you could nail these guys and

go out with come dignity.

PAPPAS

You watch your fucking mouth!

(pounds his chest)

Mr. Hoover himself pinned the Seal

of Honor right here!

The two men glare at each other. Utah looks away.

UTAH

Sorry.

PAPPAS

Yeah. That was thirty years ago

anyway.

(stares out at the

bright horizon)

L.A.'s changed a lot since then.

The air got dirty and the sex got

clean.

(after a beat)

So you want to nail the Ex-

Presidents? Be a big hero?

UTAH

Yeah. What's your theory?

PAPPAS

The fucking punks are surfers.

CUT TO:

GRAINY BLACK & WHITE VIDEO WITH TIME CODE

Ex-Presidents charge into bank, raise shotguns.

Image STOPS, then FAST-FORWARDS to the end.

WE ARE IN--

INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - BULLPEN - NIGHT

Dark, lit by the TV at the far end of the bullpen. PAPPAS

and UTAH sit in front of the flickering Sony in the big

empty room. Angelo punches a button on the VCR.

ON THE SCREEN--

LBJ turns his back to the fish-eye lens, drops trousers

and moons the camera. Thank you.

Angelo FREEZES on LBJ'S butt.

PAPPAS

I'm tellin' ya, kid, it's in our

face. Lookit the tan on this guy.

The young agent looks forward.

Stares at the white inscribed butt bracketed by deep

bronze tan lines.

UTAH

Oh well he must be a surfer.

PAPPAS

Shutup, you might learn somethin'

you're not careful... So last year

Nixon scuffs a counter going over.

There was a soil sample. Non-

specific mud traces of asphalt,

oils, blah, blah... sand and...

carnuba wax. So I became a wax

expert. There's 80 some uses for

this stuff, something like five

hundred products.

He tosses Utah a ream of computer printout. Utah scans

lists of brand names.

UTAH

Candle wax. Car wax. Mustache wax?

Could be anything. Guy's waxing his

mustache at the beach. Gets sand in

it. Wipes it off with a shoe. Shoe

scuffs the counter.

PAPPAS

The lab made three possible matches,

this was one of 'em.

Pappas opens his desk drawer, takes something out and

throws it to Johnny. A pastel blue hockey puck wrapped in

cellophane.

A block of "Mr. Zog's Sex Wax".

UTAH

(reading)

Sex wax? You're not into kinky

shit, are you Angelo?

PAPPAS

Surfers use it on their boards.

They rub sand into it for traction.

UTAH

Thanks for the tip. I needed this

knowledge.

Pappas shoves a thick file folder toward Utah.

PAPPAS

Now lookit the dates on the

robberies. This is strictly a

summer job for these guys.

Johnny leafs through it.

UTAH

... Four months. June to October.

Mmmm...same the year before.

PAPPAS

Another month and we don't see 'em

again 'til next summer.

Utah stares at Angelo as it dawns. Grins suddenly.

UTAH

They're traveling the rest of the

year on the money, going where the

waves are...

Pappas starts to smile. Suddenly, he jumps up onto his

desk, gets down in a speed-crouch, arms extended.

PAPPAS

(to one and all)

The Ex-Presidents rip off banks to

finance their endless summer!

Johnny watches, grinning. The night security GUARD walks

in. Utah turns to the guard, shrugs.

UTAH

I think he needs a vacation.

The guard nods understanding.

CUT TO:

INT. SURFSHOP - MALIBU PIER - DAY

Long stack-up rack of gleaming SURFBOARDS.

A HAND reaches in, pulling out a board from the middle of

the deck.

JOHNNY UTAH hefts it. Sights along it. Trying to look

familiar with alien equipment. Behind him is a whip-thin

15 YEAR OLD SALESMAN. Nut-brown with platinum hair,

jammed day-glo shorts, sleeveless T-shirt, unlaced Ug-

boots.

15

Highest performance, very kind. If

you want to get aggro, man, this

stick can handle your best rage.

Where you surf?

UTAH

I don't.

15

Whoa!! Back up! This's a 5'6" tri-

fin squash-tail thruster. You'd eat

major shit on this, dude.

ACROSS THE ROOM we see Pappas trying on purple wraparound

sunglasses.

The salespunk pulls down a wide board with a garish

firebird paint scheme. Like a lowrider flame-job. The

logo reads "Dance with the Universe."

15

Here, you need a rhino chaser like

this one to learn on. Good board.

I mean for a pig board.

Utah hefts the board. Scowls. Hates anything he's not

great at.

PAPPAS sets his purchases on a counter: the glasses, some

plutonium-pink shorts, T-shirts, sun-block. The GIRL

behind the counter is sixteen, barely contained in a

macrame bikini-top and "Dolphin" shorts. Angelo picks up

a package of Sex Wax from a rack. Sniffs it.

PAPPAS

(reading the label)

"Best for your stick", huh? This

might not be enough. I better get

two.

The girl stifles a grin. Thinks he's cute. At the other

end of the counter, 15 is ringing up Utah's board.

15

Hey, man, guys your age learning to

surf, it's cool, there's nothing

wrong with it.

UTAH

I'm twenty-five.

15

See that's what I'm saying, it's

never too late.

Utah picks up the board and moves to leave.

15

Hope you stay with it. Surfin's

the source. It'll change your life.

Swear to God.

EXT. MALIBU PIER - DAY

Utah and Pappas walking back to the car.

Two FBI agents in suits and ties walking with a day-glo

orange surfboard. Surreal image. The ocean shimmers in

B.G.

PAPPAS

Johnny, it's the only way.

UTAH

Why can't I just walk around with

this thing under my arm and act

stoned? Ask a few questions.

Angelo stops at the railing, points toward the ocean.

PAPPAS

Look. Look at them out there.

LONG LENS on packs of surfers sitting outside. Bobbing

slowly. Hunched like sea birds. Waiting for an unseen

sign. Disappearing and reappearing beyond the break.

PAPPAS

They're like some kind of tribe.

Got their own language. You can't

just walk up to these guys. You've

got to get out there. Learn some

moves. Get into their head. Pick

up the speech.

UTAH

Angelo, this stuff is for little

rubber people who don't shave yet.

PAPPAS

It's all balance, right? And

coordination. How hard can it be?

CUT TO:

EXT. SURFRIDER BEACH - DAY

WHAAAAAM! Johnny is CLOBBERED by a wave.

He's flipped off his board and hits the water face-first

as the wave crashes over him. Other surfers steer clear.

PAPPAS lounges in a beach chair in his plutonium pink

shorts, purple Vuarnet's and a T-shirt emblazoned with

"Surf This" across the chest. A picnic basket sits close

at hand. He winces at Utah's wipeout. Shouts from his

beach chair.

PAPPAS

I think you gotta hit them straight

on!

UTAH

(out of breath)

Got it...

UTAH holds the tip steady, gouges the face of a wave and

squirts out the other side. Another wave rises and Utah

glides up over the hump. He clears the swell and the

ocean suddenly smooths out like a giant lake. Triumphant

over having made the lineup, he sits up on the board, and

falls over.

PAPPAS slices a green apple, some feta cheese and eats off

the knife.

UTAH climbs back on his board. WHISTLES and HOOTS sound

as SURFERS spot a new swell. Utah watches as the regulars

start catching rides. Suddenly he feels like a lost dog

on a busy freeway.

A young LOCAL in a neon wetsuit slashes past him, inches

away.

LOCAL

Outta the way, you dick!

Another, shredding viciously, is blasting toward him.

LOCAL 2

Move it, kook!

Johnny paddles rapidly, ducks under.

Sees another, bigger wave coming.

Pissed off... at himself, at the downy-cheeked hotshots,

at the frustration, he turns his board around and starts

paddling hard.

He somehow gets the soles of his feet in contact with the

top of the board, then struggles up. He's standing --

sort of.

Arms pinwheeling, he topples in a nasty crash...

Right in front of a SHAVED-HEAD SURFER on full

afterburner.

Johnny vanishes in an explosion of spray. His board

SHOOTS OUT.

It SMASHES SIDEWAYS INTO RAZORHEAD.

The guy does an ugly endo.

Utah comes up GASPING for air, arms flailing.

His board, floating a few feet away, tugging at his ankle.

He drapes his torso across the board and pants for breath.

Razorhead, already back on his board, paddles over.

Points to a small dent in the fiberglass.

RAZORHEAD

You dinged my board, kook!!

Utah looks up in apology as--

A CRUSHING RIGHT HOOK SMACKS HIS FACE!

Knocks him under.

Razorhead pulls a KNIFE from a sheath held by a thong

around his neck. As Johnny surfaces, Razorhead slashes in

a vicious arc--

Severing Utah's leash, close to the board.

His flame-job surfboard bobs away.

RAZORHEAD

Politeness counts, ASSHOLE!

The surf punk plunges under a wave, disappearing.

UTAH

Goddamn son-of-a--

Before Utah can finish, another wave engulfs him and he

tumbles to shore, Razorhead nowhere to be seen.

ON PAPPAS as Johnny's flame-job board washes in at his

feet. He calmly picks it up as Utah staggers INTO FRAME

out of the knee-deep whitewash. Johnny rubs his jaw.

Spits blood.

PAPPAS

Kid, maybe this ain't your sport.

Utah grabs the board out of Pappas' hands and stalks off

across the beach.

INT. UTAH'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Johnny dead asleep. Silence. Then BRRRRR!!

He jacknifes up like he just took 20,000 volts. His eyes

read panic. He rolls up, legs scissor against tangled

sheets and he collapses over empty boxes. He stumbles

like a blind man through the mess until he finds--

A tiny Indianapolis Colts FOOTBALL HELMET with a digital

clock for eyes. 5:00 a.m. Johnny emits a drawn out

groan.

EXT. OCEAN - DAWN

Deafening BOOM as a monster wave CRASHES below a sky the

color of slate. A distant Pacific storm has brought the

swell. 10 foot faces. Glassy, green walls the size of

houses beckoning from beyond the soup.

A lone FIGURE bobbing out beyond the break.

The surfer disappears behind the swell.

Then REAPPEARS, grinning across the smooth offshore

barrel.

UTAH wearing a wetsuit stands beside his surfboard,

craning forward to get a better look.

The surfer is a WOMAN.

She moves with liquid grace, in perfect harmony with the

sea, long hair flying out behind her. She undulates like

a dancer.

Dipping, carving, slicing, making it look sooooo easy.

Johnny shakes his head. Oh man, if she can do it...

UTAH

Fuck it.

He stands, grabs his board and heads out into the icy

foam.

OCEAN BREAK

A horizon of whitecaps churn behind him.

He lies on his board, rising and dropping with the swell.

So far so good. He spots a wave. A fluid gray-green

house rising, forever rising. Utah turns. Paddles. The

house catching him, lifting him high upon its roof.

Utah is committed. He gets to his feet as his board

slices along the lip. He peers over the falls, down the

face -- holy shit! -- it looks like Niagara. He loses

balance and spirals airborne, falling bullseye into the

IMPACT ZONE. The entire force of the wave crashing upon

him, plunging him down into the--

WASHING MACHINE (UNDERWATER)

where he SPINS like a whirling dervish, LASHED to a

slamdancing surfboard at the mercy of God.

He is held prisoner in a grey-green churning nightmare,

like a six-ton pit bull has him by the neck, shaking him.

He looks around. Can't tell up from down.

WHAM! His head slams into the bottom -- rocks and sand.

Stunned, he struggles toward the light, finally bursting

to the--

SURFACE. Gasping for breath.

The good news is he's breathing, the bad news is he's

surfaced in the impact zone. Another wave crashes down,

stuffing him back into the washing machine. Leaving no

sign of life in the white froth. The orangeade surfboard

launches high into the sky, spinning like a misfiring

Trident missile, trailing its broken leash like a kite

tail.

IN THE WASHING MACHINE, Utah tumbles in a cold green hell.

His chest is convulsing, needing air now.

Suddenly a FIGURE lunges down INTO FRAME.

A hand snatches a fistful of his hair and yanks him

toward--

THE SURFACE. The WOMAN SURFER bursts through the foam.

Grabs her board for leverage. Hauls Utah's head above the

water with one strong arm.

He is choking, coughing, slapping fatigued arms against

the surf, panic registering in his movements.

WOMAN SURFER

(yelling above the

roar)

Swim, goddammit! Come on! Move

it!

The woman gets her board under one of his arms for support

and sidekicks fiercely into the wave, holding him in a

painful grip.

With powerful strokes, she helps Utah make it to calmer

water outside the break. The big waves, just forming up,

lift them and drop them as they pass. Muted thunder when

the waves hit the beach. She drags him half onto her

surfboard.

Practically slamming his face into the board.

He's coughing out saltwater.

ON THE WOMAN, our first good look at her.

She is EXQUISITE. Hair slicked tight to her high-

cheekboned face, she looks sleek and feral, with eyes that

burn bright.

Especially when she's pissed.

WOMAN

Look crazy son of a bitch! You

wanna commit suicide, you do it

someplace else!

She undoes her leash and swims rapidly off, returning in a

few seconds with Johnny's board. He takes it from her and

flops over it, still coughing.

Wipes at the salt-snot running out of his nose.

There is a cut over his eye from when he re-arranged the

rocks on the bottom.

WOMAN

Look at this pig-board piece-a-shit.

It's still got the price tag on it,

for Chrissakes. What'd you do, buy

it yesterday? You've got no

business out here whatsoever.

Still gagging and gasping, Johnny manages a goofy grin.

UTAH

Well, I saw you and--

WOMAN

Yeah, you saw me and you figured

that if a mere girl can do it, a big

strong stud like you shouldn't have

any problem. Right?! Well you

figured wrong, dork!

She yanks her board around and strokes powerfully away

from him.

UTAH

Hey! Uh, how do I get back in?

WOMAN

(without turning)

Carefully, tough guy. Very

carefully.

UTAH

(yelling now)

My name's Johnny Utah!

WOMAN

Who cares!

UTAH

I'm telling you so when you look

back on this moment, you can

think... there was this guy named

Utah and he was pretty much a dork

but maybe not such a bad person and

I let him drown in conditions he had

no business being in whatsoever...

when I could have easily helped him.

Johnny calmly starts paddling toward shore.

Thundering white water pounding the rocks ahead of him.

He's stoic in the face of certain death.

UTAH

(over his shoulder,

gamely)

Bye.

WOMAN

Wait! Jesus Christ!

(swimming back to

him)

You're fucking crazy, you know that?

You go in there you're gonna eat it

on the rocks. Here, follow me.

The woman paddles parallel to the shore and Utah pumps

along behind her. She gets him away from the rocks, then

starts watching the incoming swell, timing it to the lull

between sets...

WOMAN

Go when I say. But stay down. Just

lie on the board. Alright, let's

go!

Utah paddles rapidly, following her, watching what she

does.

He is borne up by a low glassy wall.

He bellyboards all the way into the mushy shorebreak.

Tumbles. Stands unsteadily, grabbing his board. Runs

clumsily out of the retreating foam as another wave comes,

sucking water out.

On terra firma he looks back to see the woman kick-out

gracefully and disappear beyond the wave.

He flops on the sand. Shivering. Miserable.

EXT. COAST HIGHWAY - LATER

LONG LENS... the woman is peeling off her wetsuit next to

a BATHTUB PORSCHE that needs a paint job. Her board is

propped in the passenger seat. Stereo is pumping.

UTAH WATCHES THROUGH BINOCULARS from 50 yards up the road.

THE WOMAN, in a bikini, towels off briskly.

Swimmer's shoulders. Long muscular legs. Lean and mean.

She jumps into the car without bothering to open the door.

Looks at her watch -- her manner is late, in a hurry.

Through the tiny windshield we watch her shimmy and shake

as she pulls her bottoms off and struggles into something

else, not too concerned about the morning traffic right

next to her.

She pulls on a T-shirt and them performs a Houdini act to

extract the bikini top out of one sleeve hole.

UTAH WATCHES IMPASSIVELY. He starts his car and pulls out

onto PCH to follow as the bathtub Porsche zooms past.

EXT. NEPTUNE'S NET

Utah cruises up slowly, pulls off the road.

Up ahead the Porsche turns into the parking lot of

NEPTUNE'S NET, a Coast Highway hangout that serves high-

grade steamed sea-critters and beer to low-grade road

trash, bikers and surfers.

Lean-and-Mean, wearing jeans and T-shirt, jumps out of the

Porsche. She hurries to the door of the Net, unlocking it

for a couple of Mexican cooks -- helpers wearing

expressions like they wait like this for her every day.

UTAH puts down his binoculars and jots the Porsche's

license number down on a Tastee-Freeze bag. 867CDH.

CUT TO: