“This is it!” announced Gav proudly from the clifftop, phone in hand as he live-streamed a video on Facebook. “Widow’s Peak, fabled secret Point-Break. Six foot and clean.”
We charged towards the sea, a rainbow rabble of surfboards, hooting all the way. The wave swelled, glinting in the morning sun and rising like the excitement in our bellies.
None of us were experienced surfers. We were just a bunch of kooks from London on a stag do, but we copied what the locals were doing.
After a couple of hours, everyone except Gav and Tony headed back.
As we approached the van, we discovered the words “Locals Only” plastered across the side panel. Its tyres had been slashed, too, for good measure.
Our collective mood instantly deflated like the tyres. What sort of place was this?
We were so distracted sorting out the van, we didn’t register that Gav and Tony hadn’t returned until we were leaving for the pub. They weren’t answering their phones.
“The pub’s walking distance from the surf spot,” said Jay. “I’ll look for them.”
“I’ll join you,” said Simon.
In the pub, Mark, Biz and I tried to crank up the atmosphere to “stag do” level, but it wasn’t working.
I downed my pint. “I’m going to find them.” The others followed.
Tony’s car was still there.
The sea looked ominous now beneath frowning dark clouds. There was a chill in the air and the wind whistled around us as we descended towards the beach. My stomach lurched. Why was the place deserted when the surf was still pumping?
“Alex, look,” said Mark.
A yellow surfboard bobbed against the rocks. It was Tony’s board, its leash cut. And just a few feet away lay Jay’s cracked phone. My blood ran cold.
Just then, a stone skimmed my head. We turned to see an arc of surfers, hands on hips, staring down from the clifftop.
“Run!” I shouted.
*
“You do realise,” said Garda Detective Murphy, “that you broke every rule of surfing etiquette in one morning?”
“Are you saying we deserved this? Why aren’t you interviewing the local surfers and looking for our friends?” I said.
“I’m saying, Widow’s Peak is a dangerous wave and you’re clearly inexperienced surfers. We have Search and Rescue looking for your friends. It’s much more likely that they got into trouble in the water. There’s no evidence that local surfers were involved.”
“How does that explain our two missing friends who weren’t even in the water? The cleanly cut leash? Our vandalised van?”
“I think we’re done here,” said the Garda. “If I were you, Mr Hayes, I’d get out of town immediately and keep my mouth shut.”
Outside, people on the street eyed me menacingly. Even the wind howled, “Go!” and pushed me towards my car.
The sea bid me a final farewell through my rear-view mirror, hissing and spitting like a snake as I drove away. And then a wave of grief came crashing down over me.
