A FEW DAYS LATER, I decided to join the delirium. As a certified dive master, I'm comfortable in the ocean, but I was plenty nervous, even though seas had dropped—to ten feet. The National Weather Service had issued a small-craft advisory. Diving for abalone in these conditions looked about as appealing as jogging in a hurricane.

Fortunately, my guide was Jack Likins, a 61-year-old retired Mattel executive and ab diver of 43 years, who boasts of owning "one of the largest collections of Barbie dolls you've ever seen." A former college water-polo player, the six-foot-two, 210-pound Likins looked at me sternly as the waves bashed in. "I wouldn't even think about going diving today if you weren't here," he said in his sandpaper voice.

Likins is part of the sport's North Coast nobility, an abalone grand master. His diving gear is worn and ragged—not shoddy, but well used. His ab iron—a flat, 14-inch crowbar designed to pry the snails off rocks—was made from the hardened steel of a leaf spring salvaged off an old Buick. The license plate on his brown 1949 Chevy pickup reads ABLUNY.

"I wanted to get ABALONE," he explained, sounding a little more distressed about the plate than might seem healthy, "but it was already taken."

Likins dives for trophy abs—snails ten inches in diameter or larger, which can feed seven people. (The largest ever taken was 12.3 inches across.) Most ab divers consider themselves lucky to find one or two ten-inchers in their lives; Likins has 58 trophy shells, dried, scrubbed, scoured, lacquered, and mounted, either on his wall at home or on display at Jay Baker, Gualala's community hardware store. (The Barbies stay packed in a dark corner of the garage.)

"We'll be lucky to find any abs today," Likins said as we shuffled into the surf. Fifty-two-degree water slinked down my wetsuit. I kicked toward deeper water, took a big breath, and dove.

Down, down, down—three hard kicks straight at the seafloor. A four-foot roller broke through the cove, pushing me to shore. Then the wave sucked out, toward the open ocean, dragging me with it. Sand and kelp and pieces of shattered sea urchin floated around. My mask smashed into something. The bottom. Time for air.

After 20 seconds of getting trashed, I was winded. Likins, more than twice my age, bobbed peacefully on the surface—Yoda in rubber. He looked at me, smiled, and said, "You've got to relax. Go with the ocean. If it surges, let it take you. When it lets up, go for the bottom. But you need"—another four-foot roller plowed through—"to relax."

Thirty minutes later, Likins brought up an 8.5-incher. I hadn't even seen an ab. Back on land, he handed it to me and said, "I figured you'd want something for your efforts."