Later that evening, under the ocean’s “Mellow Moon,” wetsuits gathered and knelt before a heavily wired, networked, and chipped alter built upon surf boards and wet sand. A bummed-out sermon vibes with lightly crashing waves and someone fuck-plucking their guitar in the SUV. Hands are cut on coral and brought to the temple of PC Worship towering before them, dripping red into the holy electronics. Surges of spastic electricity flicker throughout, and this “Mellow Moon” becomes a beacon of blood-shot shine. Raised hands jazz-out shake, and a reign of increasingly chill shimmering seeks to sway all surrounding surfer mopers.