Taking up station in the deep channel beside the break, Nash calculated the period – the time taken for each wave crest to traverse a given point. As each breaking wave detonated, it sent shock waves through the air, followed by the pungent odour of kelpy brine, as trillions of airborne water droplets fell in a cold mist. Its chill cleared his mind. By jettisoning the debris, everything was reduced to cause and effect, now and forever, in this moment . . .

Nash flexed his powerful shoulders, digging the blade of his paddle into the water, bracing himself on bent knees to transfer force to momentum, as the next set began to form. Entering the break zone, he calibrated his run for the last and most ominous-looking wave. Knowledge, experience and instinct guided him, as he turned and built up the speed of the SUP to match that of the gigantic black wall towering above him.

The wave was reaching amplitude – critical mass. Now, timing was everything. Too slow, and he risked a late take-off with a sickening drop, perhaps getting caught by the crest and sucked over the falls. Too fast, and he would lose precious velocity gained by a steeper angle of descent and be run down by a fifteen-metre-high wall of white water. Either would lead to a horrifying hold-down and the certain loss of his board in shark-infested waters. The stakes were high . . . way too high. But for Nash, losing himself in the moment meant exactly this.

Some part of him began to hum, as the irresistible energy of the wave took command. A cavernous stomach-churning lurch marked the point of no return. The SUP hung in the air at the very crest, and then, like an elevator cable snapping, plunged down the near-vertical face. Feet splayed like a boxer, Nash braced against the wind buffeting under the nose, angling his body to offset the forces trying to bury him in the trough three storeys below. With a vicious thud, the bottom of the SUP reconnected. Nash transferred his weight to his back leg to dig in his rail for a bottom turn. Simultaneously, he leaned back hard on the paddle, using it as an extended rudder to carve purchase in the face towering above him. Finessing the torque through heightened nerve endings, he made the turn as sharply as he dared. Water contrails hissed off the embedded rail. In a heady rush of elation, he flattened out his trim.

Now, it was about using his wiles to outrun a wave with forces approaching six tonnes per square metre. Off his right shoulder, he could feel the maw of the beast, gnashing its foamy jaws as he skipped along at more than forty kilometres an hour. Like a sardine surfing the bow wave of a blue whale, he was insignificant. And in that moment of total commitment and connection, the man known as Rob Nash and all his worldly problems ceased to exist.