The other anti-sport characteristic of lifestyle surfers – as opposed to the professionals – is that they never talk up the size of the waves they ride. Quite the reverse. Finnegan points out that in Hawaii “a wave must be the size of a small cathedral before the locals will call it eight feet … Why? Because underestimation is más macho”. Finnegan’s writing is equally restrained. Even when describing a series of near-death experiences – from malaria in Indonesia to an Atlantic storm off the coast of Madeira – his tone is wry, reassuring, Olympian. Like a Morgan Freeman voiceover, which could easily be the soundtrack for the inevitable film.
Now in his mid-sixties, Finnegan’s square jaw and broad shoulders give him the look of a homicide detective. He is a gentle soul, though, and a romantic at heart. Every chance he gets, he still climbs on to on his board, searching for the ineffable. On election day, he paddled out at Montauk, Long Island, while the rest of New York was spitting blood over the polls.
As he told this column, “The waves were the best I’d seen there for years.
“I even found a couple of great spots in England,” Finnegan added. “Remote spots, so I can’t say where. There are too many surfers already.” The success of his magnificent memoir can only exacerbate the problem.