Swivelling to look back, he was surprised to see Max. There he was on the rock wall, a seal-black figure in his wetsuit. He jumped off with his board. He paddled, copped a wave, got dumped and was plunged under. His big old surfboard was a shocker of a thing to have to duck-dive in this surf. He surfaced and was thrown about as Damien watched. Even from this distance he could see he was having trouble. Another set of waves approached and Max tried to duck-dive the first, but it deftly flipped him over and pounded him in the wash.

Come on. Damien cringed. But Max righted himself, kept paddling, came back for more.

By this time Damien was in position for the next wave in the set. Distracted by watching Max, he found it was almost upon him, and had to paddle fast to catch it. The takeoff was difficult, steep and unforgiving. He tilted a little, kept his footing, and managed to land the drop. Sliding down the perpetual face, he made it through to the barrel section, where the wave curled over and almost enclosed him. And there he was: in a green glass cavern, a cathedral outside time. His world became the booming of the wave and the rushing of air.

Except that here the wave closed out. It dumped him and held him under, pummelling him hard. He felt the yank and release of his leg rope and knew it had snapped clean. Coming up gasping, he looked around. In time to see the board bounce against the breakwall, hard and white and brittle like a piece of old cuttlefish.

Just like that, it broke in two, his beautiful prized board. One half bobbed on the surface; the other tumbled out of sight. So that was it: wipeout. What a comprehensive fuck-up. He swam to retrieve what was left, the piece of board he could see. By this point, the tide was getting fuller. Behind him, over the sandbar, the waves fattened as they formed. Without the tempering effect of the incoming tide, the outgoing rip was stronger. It was dangerous, this rip.

Forgetting his board, he looked for Max, raking the lineup with his gaze. When he spotted him, out the back, he was catching his own wave. He made the steep takeoff, a small miracle in itself. He survived the sticky middle section where the wave looked like it could crumble. It almost closed out too, then didn’t. It barrelled along the bar. Damien saw him in the barrel – he was crouching, holding on.

This is the wave, Damien thought, that should have been his, the best left in Europe. It was the wave of the day, a glorious thing they would remember, Damien with a tinge of envy, but also with a shot of pride. Because despite being sick of Max, he was also somehow thrilled. ‘Go, Max, go!’ he shouted, giving a hoarse, yodelling whoop.