THE SUNSET BOILS on the point. The grandchildren take on the same colour as the rocks they’ve been scrambling around on all afternoon. When he throws his rod to the side to cast, he snags a glimpse of them – at first they watched but when he failed to catch they turned away to clamber some more. He used to be the same, sun blushed and curled, a little chill in the hair of his hot skin; but now he belongs here, calf-deep in swirling water. His line strains, his breath with it – a nibble. The almost imperceptible communication between the top of himself breathing air, T-shirt dried stiff and salty, and his bottom half submerged in the water.

‘You shouldn’t really be out there at sunset, Dad,’ Hayley told him that late afternoon while he carefully strung the heavy rod. She mouthed ‘shark time’ so the kids couldn’t see.