But Patrick said, ‘You can’t.’
There were no more words. But luckily the sea: singing in their ears.
George screwed up the paper and started thinking about what they’d have for tea.
Patrick wiped his eyes, but the spray made them wet. ‘It’s too cold,’ he said.
‘Bullshit.’ Moy sat down, took off his shoes and socks, his pants, stood up and almost tore off his shirt.
Patrick looked at him and smiled. ‘You first.’
Moy ran in. Patrick was right, it was way too cold, but he knew he had to keep going. He stopped and looked back. ‘Come on!’
Patrick hitched the board and followed him. ‘It’s freezing.’
And they both laughed, and then Moy sank in the sand, overbalanced and fell and grabbed Patrick and took him with him. And cleared the long fringe from his face and said, ‘What are we gonna do with a surfboard?’
But it didn’t matter. It had drifted too far out for them to retrieve.