All memories are islands, stranded somewhere out of context on that most unreliable of surfaces, the human brain. We construct our past from such fragments and cling to them so powerfully that each recall modifies the original until only a skeleton of the truth remains, and all those much beloved complexities, long retailed as anecdote, are in all probability, mere confabulations.

The sea this morning, as the fast boat skims across the strait, shimmers in a thousand shades of blue. This waterway, perhaps the most dangerous in the world, is today at its most tranquil. There is no swell and, at this phase of the moon, the tides are at their weakest. The three roaring outboards are so powerful that there is no need to carefully skirt the coast, dart across at the narrowest point, and ride the tide to our destination. We travel, point to point, in a straight line.

It was very different then. We left at night, in a narrow outrigger powered by a single small outboard, and travelled far down the coast before swinging out into a substantial swell and a powerful tide. Being young and ignorant we were not afraid. Not even when the locals, travelling home after a day at the markets, began to scream and wail. Nor even when, pushing directly into the swell, gallons of spray were dumped into the boat by every wave, and all aboard were forced to bail with whatever receptacles came to hand.

It was close to midnight when we finally sailed into the lagoon with the full moon above us. Long black lines swept down the reef, their lips shining in the moonlight, before dying as they entered the deeper water through which we were sailing. We waded up onto a coarse white coral beach with a handful of huts scattered irregularly behind it. No-one came out to greet us or to help unload the boat. Instead we were shown into a communal hall and given thin mattresses to sleep on. And sleep we did, deeply and well.

This morning, sailing in through that same gap in the reef, there are no swell lines and the scattered huts have developed into a large town that has spread along the length of the beach and deep into the hinterland. We, together with our belongings, are unloaded swiftly, and efficiently lodged in a pleasant cafe beneath a large shade tree. To the south, the once barren headland has been terraced with villas, while a fleet of fast boats and smaller pleasure craft, loll about at anchor in the shallows. Amongst them, in their bright primary colours, float a few traditional vessels.

The beach itself, now backed for part of its length by a sea wall, is much eroded, so the tourists, lounge in the long row of resorts, or float, staring out to sea, from the safety of their horizon pools. For the more adventurous, the lagoon offers an array of amusements; banana boats, SUPs, learn to surf lessons, glass bottom boats and snorkelling.

Back then we came only to surf and there were no other amusements; no TV, no phone of any sort, no electricity; nothing except the restless ocean, the people and the deep, star studded skies. There were no other surfers on the island and the waves just kept coming. Hour after hour, day after day. There wasn't much food. Rice, dried fish, coconut, an occasional banana and a very rare egg. The hard rations and long hours of surfing soon wore us as thin as the locals, but we were deeply happy.

Surfing so many perfect waves with such intensity for so long leaves a mark. It burns some things so deep into your mind that they stay there for decades, ready to be reanimated when the situation arises. Now, we can only marvel at who we were then, at our fierce determination to surf to the limit of our ability, at our willingness to take risks, at our openness to whatever each day brought. They are the qualities of young men and we will never be that young again, and besides, the things we sought here are long gone.

So much has changed. The first time we paddled across the reef, the temptation to stop and wonder at its biodiversity was almost as strong as the desire to surf the waves we could see along its edge. Now the surfers paddle across the remains of a seaweed farm and the species growing on the reef could be counted on their fingers. Then you could surf a wave in every set. Now, when there are waves, they are shared between forty or fifty surfers. Then we were hungry. Now every appetite is easily sated.

If the first law of the universe is change, the second is surely that the older you become, the less desirable the changes will appear. The temptation is to see all this through that lens of disapproval; to judge our experiences on the island as authentic and meaningful and the experiences of today's tourists as shallow and trivial. But notions of purity and authenticity should always be viewed with the deepest suspicion.

It would be too easy to lapse into some poorly developed counterfeit philosophy in interpreting our time there. To put forward notions of purity concerning the environment, and even our own motives for being there. To claim for it some existential status it does not deserve. It was a moment in our lives, a moment of such profound peace and simplicity that it continues to resonate on a personal level. It has no other meaning, yet we hope that somewhere, on another island in this vast archipelago, another band of young men have discovered their own island and, as I sip my soy latte and watch the sun set, they subsist on their dreams and the products of their island.

//blindboy