Gordon could no longer speak. In the circular workings of his mind, he always arrived at this point, and then he could not speak or act or do anything, all he could do was wish he was in darkness, asleep.

‘It’s all pretty fucked,’ Sam finished his sentence for him. ‘But good on you for dealing with Benny that way. Someone in this joint has to be a decent father eventually.’ He swung his board around and locked eyes with Gordon. ‘You know what I mean, brother. It was the lie that set us free. Until now, I s’pose. Now it looks like it didn’t.’

They found themselves staring at the place where Sam had first called Gordon ‘brother’. And ever since, Sam had been true to that word.

‘We’ve got to make a plan,’ Gordon said.

Once, up on that cliff, it was Sam who had done most of the talking. While Gordon spoke now, Sam remembered that day. He remembered how, as he had explained what was going to happen, Gordon was mostly shaking his head—not in disagreement but in wonder. Now, it was Sam who was shaking his head, yes, in wonder. This was no Gordon he knew. Eventually, cautiously, under persuasion, Sam began nodding. This was better than the Gordon he knew.

‘Well, that is a plan,’ he said when Gordon was finished.

‘What do you reckon?’ Gordon asked. His eyes lit on the top of the prominent sandstone ledge at the northern end of the beach, above the ocean baths and the marina, with the graffiti:

BLUEBIRD

‘I’m in,’ Sam said now, as Gordon had said then.

‘It’s our only hope.’

‘Hundred percent. But I’ve got one condition. There’s something you’ve really got to do.’

Before Sam could explain, they were distracted by another commotion in the pack. For all the beauty and the glory of such a perfect big-wave Bluebird day, there would always come a point where sharing and patience and appreciation of this holy place reached saturation. Tempers had been unravelling, and now every set of waves was resulting in an incident. Gordon saw Dog, whose voice pierced the air, fall off his weapon. The rubber rope linking his paddle to his board had been pulled by a surfer, yanking Dog into the water. Gordon thought he saw Japan Ned on the end of the rope. There was splashing and thrashing like a shark attack, and angry shouting. Gordon paddled towards the beach, and a nice big wash-through took him in. He tried to get up off his belly and ride it standing up, but his arms had turned to liquid. He slid into the beach, put his board under his arm and set off for The Lodge. He didn’t need to hear what Sam wanted him to do.

THE RIGHT WAY

The right way

‘Just go. Go, you clot! ’

‘Wait. What?’

‘Stay where you are.’

‘Goodness, will you shut up?’