Gordon squinted back to the beach, half visible in the rain, but no fix-chasing Brazilians were in sight, just Japan Ned suiting up in the car park.

‘Saw your old lady up the shops yesterday,’ Sam said. ‘I was thinking about how back in the day she tried to keep you out of the water. She was terrified you’d get a taste.’

‘I have to go see her and Dad,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ve been avoiding them since Ben and I got back.’

‘Yeah, she knows. You’re a bad son.’

Sam took a wave that only he could have spotted. Sam was a big man of big parts: big nose, big brown eyes, big tussock of greying black hair plastered over his big forehead, big handlebar moustache foresting his big mouth, and a jaw so stupendous it made the rest of his features seem small. To outside eyes he and Gordon would have looked like indistinguishable middle-aged blurs. In fact, Sam was fifty-four to Gordon’s fifty, a seniority that defined their relationship as cleanly as if they belonged to a traditional, age-respecting culture. Old Bluebirders could still see their young selves in each other, and Sam would always be the big boy to Gordon, charismatic and scarred, the one who told him what to do.

‘I did have the fear, but that was what hooked me,’ Gordon said. ‘Remember those big days?’ They didn’t make days so big, so clean, so perfect, so free, anymore. He wondered if he was staying in Bluebird like a second-coming zealot, hopped up on the return of paradise.

‘What you never saw was what it did to your mum. Probably lucky for you.’

Sam took another wave. Gordon waited, thinking about Norma. He really had to go see her. Sam paddled back and sat on his board.

‘Funny thing is, I don’t fear the ocean anymore,’ Gordon said. An accidental drowning, while probably an unhappy business to go through, sometimes presented itself as the solution to his problems.

‘Me neither,’ Sam said.

‘But you’ve still got the stoke.’

‘You can’t come out on a day like today and say you’ve lost your stoke, brother.’

‘These are the only days I come out. You’re out every day.’

‘I’m a sick puppy. Anyway, if you don’t like the crowds you could go the Dog route,’ Sam suggested. ‘Stay competitive, just give yourself a bit of help with your choice of craft.’

‘Dog still wants to win,’ Gordon said.

Sam let that pass, out of respect for the awkwardness of Gordon’s situation or because he saw a wave. This time, he paddled hard but the slab of chop petered out. Gordon heard him swear.