In the year 2501, Earth's scientists notice a sudden amplification in the sun's heat output. While there is little for them to fear -- global warming has long since melted the planet's polar caps turning the once-terrestrial beings into an entirely aquatic civilization -- Mars is in serious danger. Only conquered in the last 200 years by the Spanish, the once icy sphere's colonies now suffer a flood of Biblical proportions. Earth receives transmissions that what little population remains has concentrated on Mars' highest peaks, awaiting the inevitable on what is now a volcanic group of islands surrounded by nothing but endless ocean.

Unfortunately, centuries of living underwater has left Earthlings ill equipped to handle a rescue mission of such massive proportions. Scratching for a solution, one scientist notices that the backdrop for an S.O.S. video transmission shows powerful waves battering the perimeter of these once-lofty peaks and suggests that if they could clone a crew of surfers from the 21st century, they may be able to convince them to take on the task.

Officials for Starforce, the earth's planetary expedition, agree. They focus on natives of America's East Coast, since they are particularly wave-starved and more likely to comply, settling on three renowned names of the time: former world title contender C.J. Hobgood for his fishing skills as there is no word on what food resources are available; Peter Mendia for diplomacy reasons as he is of Spanish heritage; and Ben Bourgeois because there are only two sleep chambers on the space vessel and he is known to be able to slumber for the whole 8 month voyage without stirring.

(Editors' note: Yes, we realize that logically, after 500 years, Kelly Slater would still be the most obvious choice. It's called willing suspension of disbelief. Look into it, you're gonna need it for this fricken piece.)

Thus the crew was resurrected and debriefed. Their mission: carry a scientifically produced freezing agent that will halt the melting process and allow the current inhabitants to survive. They will have one week to scour the island, familiarizing themselves with coastal bathymetry as they wait for the largest wave-height and greatest turbulence to disseminate the maximum amount of solution across the waters. Armed with only the necessary supplies to safely deliver them to and from the planet -- plus the Fodors Guide to Mars and its Surrounding Moons-- the crew launches, ready to arrive sometime in October. Two computer-based cyber-bionics are set aboard to record the mission. Here is their tale.

Stardate 2501-10-01

So this is Mars. A very strange place. Actually, with the exception of little green men running around naked and tasering each other, it's exactly how I envisioned it: craters, volcanic boulders scattered across eerie red dirt, cratered mountains blanketed in ash. Lithe, three-breasted women with a thing for droids. . .oops, how'd that corrupted fantasy file get in there? Better erase that.

Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Flava 1. I'm a chest-transported flight recorder from the 25th century. Those of you who know Tweekie from the old Buck Rogers TV show may remember Dr. Theopolis -- the computer he wore around his neck -- that's what I look like. Or used to look like. The engineers at Starforce figured the clones would assimilate better if they could relate to me, so they altered my appearance to that of a Flava Flav giant clock necklace. Too bad the geniuses didn't account for the rapidly changing pace of pop culture in the 20th century, since Flava was behind bars by the time these guys were out of diapers. Needless to say I spend much of my time in various backpacks or tucked away in -- and often on top of -- the Mars Rover. Nonetheless, I keep my sensors on at all times and record every detail in words. My partner is the Van Lennep 600, a top-of the line visual replicator and navigating system. He's been modified to handle both jobs flawlessly and can even transport and record simultaneously.

Oct. 3

We rise at dawn. I immediately suggest that we discuss the proper plan for distributing the agent, but it seems the boys have other plans as they start assembling their surfriding devices and basically ignore me no matter how loud or brightly I bleep and wink. Left to no recourse, I convince them to take me along and after a long argument over who will carry me, they agree to strap me to a piece of wood and let me bob on the outside.

The first break we surf isn't large, but it's thick. The right is basically a heaving take-off with a quick barrel into deep water, but the left is longer, critical racetrack. As I'm drifting out, CJ nabs the first ride, streaking into a frothy, frontside tube before blasting out and up over the lip. This adds some adrenaline to the session and the crew starts trading waves. Unfortunately, nobody can recreate that first ride, and then three inhabitants paddle out. They obviously don't realize the purpose of our rescue mission, as they don't seem pleased to see us. What's strange is that instead of standing up as they catch these undulations, they lie prone and hug the bottom moving straight. I make note in my memory file to ask if they are lesser beings as they tow me across to a second, less powerful but larger wave as this one falls apart.

They tell me that this new wave is called "point." It's certainly larger, but it lacks the rotund force of the previous --- what's the term they use?-- break. Still, the wave allows for more motion per ride, and each surfer embarks on a combination of maneuvers that sends floods of water droplets flying out the back. Unfortunately, I'm gradually being pushed in and soon find myself on inside, crashing through rocks like a meteor shower. Van Lennep 600 pulls me in and begins soldering me back together. After a few more impressive rides, the humans return and we all find a cantina to dine on traditional Spanish cuisine. Except me, who indulges in a wee bit of graphite paste and some fresh silicon.

Oct. 4

Today I met the locals --although it wasn't my idea. Apparently my constant blipping has become something of a nuisance. So instead of paddling me out to the lineup, they duct-taped me to a board and pushed me toward one wave while they surfed a better break, only with more people. It was small -- slightly overhead (their heads that is) on the biggest sets -- so I casually drifted out and met their salutations in fluent Spanish. They were nice; at least I think they were nice. But, unfortunately, in order to communicate with the surfers my language chip is based on an American educated in late 20th century, so all I understand is "si," "no," "bueno," plus a bunch of words for condiments. And while phrases like "salsa de tomato" make me a hero in restaurants, they don't do shit out the water. Still their tone of voice was moderate and soothing and they pushed me into a few waves.

I can still see the earth crew from here. CJ is battling a minor case of sickness from the new environment, but it doesn't damage his abilities at all, as he routinely puts together an insane combo of gouging turns and aerial antics. The latter prompts Mendia to try for what I'm told are called "new school" maneuvers called a varial. It's a quest I'm afraid he will not complete. And Ben's light footwork has made for a lesson in aquatic dissection, continuously showing off the three blades with which he works.

Oct. 7

The solar winds have set in with unbelievable force. As we exited the water yesterday, it seemed inconceivable that we'd wake this morning with howling onshores and six-foot surf. But the swell pushing down the point right now offers promise from yesterday's tiny but fun sessions. (One reason they sent East Coasters is they knew the crew wouldn't complain if the waves were only head high.) If only it would clean up.

When the conditions aren't right for capturing the surfers in the water, Van Lennep 600 -- or V6 as we've grown to call him -- leads us around the new island and shows its various amazing features. He informs of each and every detail, from the planet's unique weather patterns and appropriate wave locations to the land's inhabitants. Some of the more interesting life forms include Dromedons (a variation of earth's camels, which are used for transport) and several species of canni. One particularly ferocious beast is known to roam these lands and Mendia is most worried. Apparently, he suffered third-degree rug burn as a boy when neighborhood bullies tied him up and a dog dry-humped his leg for six straight hours. As a result, we make sure to point out each pooch we pass no matter how threatening and say, "Run Pete! I think he likes you. " Maybe he's the one who left me strapped to the roof of the shuttle transport for the turbulent ride across the Sea of Vomitability.

Oct. 9

It's officially bigger and more blown out than ever. Easily 10 feet plus. So after a failed search for waves we take another tourist trip around the island where I buy a "Droids stay plugged in forever" t-shirt. (Now I just need some arms.) On the way back we stop and watch the surf unload in tons, then return to the house to play cards, drinking this mixture of fermented hops called beers and listen to popular music from the 1980's. Strangely, the high-pitched synthesizers of Kajagoogoo speak to me. Literally. They say, "Dear God, kill me, make it stop!"

Oct. 10

Woke up to yet another onshore day, only this time it's shrinking. My forecast software shows no new Martian systems so we board the shuttle for our return to earth. Even after the snafu on the way here, those bastards were about to check me with the boards, but I convinced them my DVD player was better than the onboard system so they stuffed me in the overhead and wired me directly to the speakers. I heard one of them say, "At least we won't have to look at him" then got slammed against the door as we blasted off. We safely broke Mars orbit and the boys were just crawling into their sleep suits when I suddenly heard an "Oh shit." Peeking out, I could saw the special freezing agent, still dangling from the rear view mirror next to the pine tree air freshener.

"Looks like we're turning back," grinned CJ.
"Flip that bitch," ordered Mendia.
"Zzzzz, snort, drool." gurgled Ben.

Guess he'll find out when he wakes up. Hope there's some friggin' waves this time. Or at least one three-breasted humanoid. --Jess Bloughmy