It is rare to be welcomed, with overwhelming warmth and positivity, by an incredibly exclusive and inspiring group of skateboarders. This goes double when they're complete strangers and I find myself intruding on their territory. These guys weren't friends of friends that I ran into on common ground as in a skatepark. I met the Destroyers at the site of their "Sunday sabbath" (an empty swimming pool at an abandoned motel), the Sahara. Analagous to the Hell's Angels or any tightly woven pack that is marked as such, more than one Destroyer wore a black hooded sweatshirt with a skull and bones logo on the back. A small, fuzzy dog wandered around the steps in the shallow end, answering to Malcom (or Mallard). One of the boys snuggled and kissed his girl, clad in leopard print and spikes, between eye watering speed lines and echoing grinds. They hollered and cheered when someone hit coping or opened up the throttle through the shallow end pocket. They heckled their friend for pushing off with his foot midrun. The sun was fading from the sky, the cement had a "pussy pink" glow, but these fellas didn't need full vision to see the lines that narrowly avoided the pool's pock marks.

Watercolor on paper by Scott Hughes