This was the boys’ place, a section of the clifftop that could only be reached by a narrow path on a crest of sandstone that dropped away to the ocean on both sides. Tourists didn’t know about it, and locals wouldn’t dare come further. The path stopped at an overhanging ledge where you could look straight down at the water and chuck rocks or spit or even pee, watching it bend and scatter in the wind. If you leant right over the ledge you could see a little blowhole, which, in the right swell and tide and wind direction, captured a gout of water and spat it at you, even wetting your face if you were lucky.

Owen and Sam had guarded its secret until they brought Gordon here, to initiate him.

‘Swear you won’t tell,’ Owen said, spitting into the palm of his hand and offering it to Gordon, who grasped it with pride.

That day wasn’t right for the blowhole. The tide was too high, the swell direction too south, the wind too flukey. Owen had seemed pissed off. When Gordon crossed the narrow rock bridge to the ledge, Owen called out, ‘Fall! Go on, little Gordo, fall!’ He cackled. Sam didn’t see the joke. It wasn’t the place to gang up on the younger boy, but this was Gordon’s memory of Owen: you could never tell which mask he was going to put on at the beginning of each day, what mood he’d be in, who he would turn into as the day developed, who he would turn on.

Owen resented having to babysit Gordon that day. He’d been crapping on about it to Sam. Gordon was too young to go into large surf, so Owen was under strict instructions to keep him in the ocean baths. But Gordon had gone climbing on the cliffs above the baths, which had given Owen the idea to show him the secret spot and dump him there.

From the top of the cliff, Owen and Sam saw how the surf was pumping. Owen decided they needed to get their boards. Sam hesitated, but Owen said to Gordon, ‘You promise on your life to guard our secret?’

The wet palm of Gordon’s hand tingled. He nodded.

‘Spit brothers,’ Owen added solemnly. ‘You’ll wait here and tell no-one.’

Gordon felt as if he had been entrusted with the keys to a secret kingdom. No way would he let Owen down.

The elder boys surfed for hours, and while he waited Gordon grew bored. He explored the crags around the ledge, and found a way of climbing down closer to the blowhole. He could grip the strong heather and fit his toes into the horizontal furrows in the sandstone. He got down to that under-ledge. The blowhole still wasn’t quite firing, but you could get your face wet here. Owen would be pleased with him for finding a closer lookout.