It was 2003 and my first trip to Ireland. It was myself, my brother and our oldest surf buddy, the guy who would come raging into my parents’ house at 4:30 in the morning, over a decade earlier, to rouse us for dawn patrol. I was 16 and he was my ride to the beach -therefore, by default, my lifeline.

Even when said surf bud would creep past my parents’ bedroom at this ungodly hour, interrupting our fitful summer sleep (we didn’t have a.c.), my dad would let him get away with a lot more than he…