If only ‘easy to read’ were not a deprecating statement in the world of the literary canon. I very much doubt that this book was easy to write. It’s a book where surfing looms large and yet it isn’t boring, or trite, or trivial. That in itself seems an achievement.
But it isn’t a book about surfing. Nor is it a book about adolescence. Sorry, The Guardian, but it isn’t a ‘coming of age surfing novel’. It’s a book about a man and how he became what he is. It’s very sad, and despite that I found it impossible to put down.