He knew the answer, of course. It was always the same, the one all-encompassing pursuit that gave his life its shape. Could you revise the list of things you lived for? He didn’t think it was possible. What if there was only one thing on the list?

All the while they were driving east, tracking along the coast. As they neared the Basque coast, their destination, Max looked increasingly rattled. He was nervous about the surf. More than nervous. He was afraid. He’s right to be, Damien thought. Only fools do not fear the ocean.

‘If you’re not feeling it, you know you don’t have to go out.’

‘If you’re talking about Saturday, that was because of the undercurrent. That thing was fucking lethal.’ Max tried to buzz his window down, but it went so far and then stuck.

‘The worst thing is to panic.’

‘I know that.’ His eyes glittered, each one a miniature abyss. His anger hadn’t dissipated; he had sharpened it to a point. It was audible in his voice, visible in his bearing: he carried the shock of having faced his own mortality and weakness. Raising his voice over the wind, he said, ‘I’m not like you, Damien. I’m not obsessed with surfing. There are other things in my life. It’s the most useless thing in the world to try to be good at!’

‘There are other things in my life.’

‘Are there? Like what?’

It was galling to realise he didn’t have a comeback.

When they came over the hill at last, Damien caught his breath. Magnificent lines of swell rolled in to the rocky coast. The tide was fairly low, an incoming tide by the looks of it, while out beyond the breakwall the waves were gathering strength.

They had to check into a guesthouse. There was only one twin room vacant. In the room, Max kicked off his shoes, collapsed on a bed, and hung his big paddle-like feet over the end. Damien came out of the bathroom to find him like that, asleep, looking tender and angelic. Taking his chance to slip away, he grabbed all the sugar sachets from the shelf next to the kettle, tore the corners open and tipped the sugar into his mouth. He went out carrying his surfboard, crunching the crystals for energy.

He let his cousin off the hook, went for the surf without him. A determined wind blew from the south and funnelled through the valley. This turned the wind offshore, perfect for hollowing out the waves. Sure enough, as he ran downhill to the breakwall, a barrel formed on the sandbar, forced into being as the swell hit the shallow water. It thickened into a wedge-shaped wave, and then peeled neatly northwards. He could see a small group of surfers jockeying in the lineup. Jumping off the wall with his board, he paddled out through the breakers and took an uncrowded spot.