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‘I can tell you’re fishing for soppy quotes for your article,’ he says haughtily. ‘This isn’t one of our assigned interviews.’

‘I’m not fishing for anything; we’re talking.’

‘This is how you get your subjects to open up to you: luring them in with a drink in a nice, chilled setting and then – bam,’ he claps his hands together, ‘you get them to say something without thinking, something they regret. But you’ve got your snappy headline.’

‘I’ve never had anyone experience regret over something I’ve written about them. More often, I get sent wonderful presents from my interviewees thanking me for a feature that shows them in a candid but honourable light.’

He lifts his brow. ‘Isn’t that bribery?’

‘ After the piece is published,’ I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. ‘They have no say on what I write. You read my pieces – did you read anything in there that led you to believe the subject might regret talking to me? Or did you finish it willing them to win?’

‘I don’t care if people will me to win,’ he insists. ‘You don’t win something because others want that for you. You win because you’re better than everyone else in the competition.’

‘And how do you become better than everyone else?’

‘You work hard, you focus,’ he shrugs, ‘and you hope that the conditions and swell on the day work in your favour. Sometimes, you get that perfect set; sometimes, you don’t. It’s got nothing to do with the number of people cheering for you.’

‘People cheering for you can help your mentality, which can lead you to win, though, right?’ I point out.

‘I’m no athlete but everyone needs someone in their corner.

Someone to keep you calm when things get rocky, someone to be there when the doubts creep in and help to remind you that you have what it takes. ’

‘Not surfers. We’re lone wolves.’

‘I’ve read that the surf community is a strong one. A lot of surfers are friends, competing all over the world together, and they have plenty of supporters watching the contests and cheering from the shore. I’ve seen the videos.’

‘You can’t hear the cheers above the roar of the waves.’

He’s trying to shock me, I surmise. Maybe he wants me to gasp or think badly of him.

But I’ve heard this line of nonsense from athletes before and I know that it’s all a facade.

Doing this job has taught me that strength lies in numbers.

The ones who really want to win are well aware they can’t do it on their own.

‘No,’ I say calmly, ‘maybe you can’t.’

‘You see? I’m not going to make a very interesting subject for your article.’

I take a sip of my drink. ‘Can’t say I agree with that.’

He glares at me. ‘There will be some questions I won’t answer, Iris. I may have agreed to do this thing for my mum’s sake or whatever, but I’m not going to bare my soul. There has to be some boundaries.’

‘It’s rare that there aren’t.’

‘Your other interviewees may be happy to go back to their childhood or discuss their past or go into detail about the profound meaningful motivations that encouraged them to pick up a ball again or whatever,’ he waves his hand, ‘but that stuff is off limits with me. It’s not relevant.

I’m just a surfer, doing my thing, and I’m going to win Rip Curl Pro Bells Beach this year. That’s it.’

‘Works for me.’

‘Okay, then. Good.’

‘Great.’

He shoots me a sceptical look but my sincere expression doesn’t falter. If he can put up boundaries, so can I. But, honestly, it’s really quite amusing that he thinks I won’t be leaving here with the story that I came for.

I take another drink of my wine. He takes a swig of his beer.

We both look out at the beach. I fight a smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him glance at me.

‘What?’ he demands to know. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’

‘No reason,’ I say, before my grin widens. ‘Okay, I was thinking about you saying, “profound meaningful motivations” that made them “pick up a ball again”. It was funny.’

His scowl softens. ‘It’s true. Their motivations were profound.’

‘I know.’ I lean back in my seat and stretch out my legs, still chuckling. ‘It’s the way you put it. So casual about some of the best athletes in the world. But, hey, whatever, they’re just… picking up a ball.’

He edges towards a smile. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m just picking up a surfboard.’

‘Right.’

We fall back into silence, but this time, it feels different. He seems a bit more at ease. It’s too soon to tell, but I think there’s a teeny, tiny crack in his armour.

His phone vibrates and he checks the screen, before downing the last few swigs of his beer and jumping to his feet. ‘I should go,’ he announces.

‘Okay,’ I say, sitting up. ‘This was great, thank you. When would it suit you for our first interview? Does tomorrow work? We could do same time, same place if you like.’

‘Sure. Fine.’ He gives me a pointed look. ‘You’ll soon see that there’s not much to write, Iris. I’ll have my game face on.’

As he turns away and leaves, I sip my wine smugly, enjoying the tranquil view.

Go ahead, Leo Silva, put on your game face.

I’ve had mine on all along .