"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

It's possibly the oldest law on the books. Think about it: there's Eve cuddled up in her first strange seconds of existence, and Adam's behind a bush nearby. They need some sort of icebreaker, so he casually lofts a suggestion and sparks the simple philosophy of "tit for tat." (No pun intended.) For eons, this ancient decree perpetuated itself through time and schoolyards, embedding the concept of fair play in cultures across the globe.

Well, you can understand our shock, upon embarking on building these travel maps, that there was a strong reluctance by Great Lakes surfers to participate. Shocked? Hell, we were pissed. For 40 years, these prudes have ogled the best waves in the world from every revealing angle: top-views that show the long lines of Trestles or Malibu; land perspectives emphasizing the ample bosom of big Maverick's and Waimea; watery looks inside the Outer Banks' womb-like tunnels; an assortment of Indonesian G-spots and peering into Pipeline's very cervix -- eyefuls and eyefuls of not-so-forbidden fruit. Then we humbly ask for the quickest of peeks at a couple of anonymous slopes, only to be told that playtime is over -- Mommy's calling, and it's time to leave the clubhouse -- and they skip along without cracking a zipper.

You would think that this most maligned stretch of coast in the world, an area that constantly bombards letter columns with laments of "we're surfers, too" would be stoked that someone was finally going to offer them equal attention among the world's more recognized surfing epicenters. But after calling a string of scholars who could best impart the nuances of this mysterious yet vibrant surfing locale -- an area with a 35-year-old surf club, a contest that's been around more than a decade, its own ESA district and an iron-clad group of international surfers who traipse back and forth across the Canadian border -- not one would open up, apparently worried that travelers will start canceling their North Shore trips for a taste of Lake Erie.

And how do we know they've seen ours?

They told us. Oh, sure, you won't get a grand tour of every crevice, but they'll endlessly tease with tantalizing descriptions, using faraway spots for yardsticks. For example, in the single town of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, one of our informers told us that there are no less than 23 breaks that come and go with the conditions, three of which are "just like" Sebastian, Trestles and Pipeline. Yes, Pipeline. In Wisconsin. (Why this surfing epicenter's annual Dairyland Classic surfing event chooses not to use this location is a bit unclear -- oh, wait, it's in September, way too early.)

Now these claims may sound quite outlandish -- even for a coastline longer than both the East and West coasts combined -- but they reveal some very important facts. First, Great Lakes surfers have absorbed a lot of surfing culture from afar. They know names, they know lingo and they know localism. It also shows they have something to hide, and either the Great Lakes is the next surfing Eden (hence the tight lips), or these guys are suffering a serious case of pointbreak envy and are compensating with false testimonials that no one will ever corroborate.

The only problem is the world's greatest waves weren't made famous by their local surfers, but by foreign adventurers who surfed them and returned home with eyewitness accounts of amazing feats. And until someone decides to reveal the Great Lakes to the world abroad, allowing people to take a gander for themselves instead of screaming unsubstantiated claims, they will remain the outsiders and consequently know another surfing statute -- ridicule. Sorry, fellas, it's just the way of the schoolyard.