I’ve still got the binos. Presley has finally flipped the rig and a brief lull between waves gives him the chance to get both feet into the straps and let the filling sail pull him upright. For a full minute, he’s arrowing out to sea, cresting wave after wave, getting smaller by the minute, then comes an opportunity to haul the board around, and suddenly the black shape is getting bigger and bigger. He’s riding the wave train now, the wind at his back, fighting to maintain his balance as the board plunges into trough after trough. I’m no expert but this, I suspect, is a real test, even for someone as accomplished as Presley.

‘You mind?’

I give the binos back to Mitch, but I don’t need them anymore. Presley is approaching the beach at an alarming speed, his body braced for impact. Twenty metres out, the waves are rearing and breaking but he bursts through an explosion of spume to wrestle the board off the wind and let the sail collapse in the pounding surf. For a moment, I assume the next wave will claim him and drag him back, but he’s even stronger than I think, limping over the pebbles, dragging the board up the steepness of the beach.

‘I think he’s hurt himself.’ I’m on my feet, jumping off the promenade and on to the pebbles. There are fishing boats hauled up on the beach and I do my best to keep running as I dodge the litter of crab pots and coiled rope. I can see Presley’s head and shoulders now, as he struggles up towards the fold of pebbles that overlooks the tideline, and then comes a corner of red sail, and finally the whole rig.

He’s sitting on the pebbles rubbing his right leg before I make it down to him. When I ask him whether he’s OK, he squeezes the saltwater out of his eyes and nods.

‘Blew up quicker than I thought,’ he says wryly.

By now, Mitch has joined us. I introduce him to Presley, and the two men exchange nods. Then Mitch stares at the wall of breakers thundering on to the beach.

‘Madness.’ He shakes his head. ‘What you did was insane.’

‘Coming back?’

‘Being out there at all.’

‘Yeah?’ Presley is rubbing his leg again. ‘Has to be done, sometimes. You know what I mean?’

Mitch doesn’t, but I think I get the drift.

‘Did you get a visit last night?’ I ask him. ‘Our friends in blue?’

‘Big time.’

‘And?’

‘They went through that workshop of mine. Walked away with a load of timber, plywood, screws, even sawdust off the floor. Same with Beth. Paintbrushes, mainly, plus some sampler pots she’d been using.’

‘Any explanation?’

‘None. I got a receipt, though, if I could only read the bloke’s writing.’

Mitch has torn himself away from watching the waves.