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In bright mid-morning summer sunshine, Doris
Fink drove her black Golf convertible along little more
than a track toward a deserted patch of coastline some
miles north of Old Bar. ‘I’m lost’, she thought as she
stopped the car, brushed her long red hair aside and
checked the map. A few meters further along stood a
dilapidated timber cottage where she decided to ask
directions.
The rear of the house backed onto the road,
while the front faced the beach. On the lawn was
parked a small motorbike. Doris knocked at the open
back door and, while waiting for an answer, observed
the rear porch with its assortment of roller blades,
skateboards, sneakers that had seen better days, beach
towels and various other surf-related paraphernalia.
Directly ahead, at the end of the long central hall, was
the open front door which revealed the surf. After
calling ‘hello’ several times, Doris entered the house
and emerged at the far end where she saw a young
blond man, clad only in colorful knee-length shorts, exit
the water and sprint up the beach, surfboard tucked
under his muscular, tanned arm.