Santa Clara Island, a steep outcropping, partitioned the bay’s entrance. Two mountains, Monte Igueldo and Monte Urgull, guarded the mouth of La Concha Bay. On the left, a watch tower overlooked the summit of Monte Igueldo. On the right, the rusted cannons of Monte Urgull’s stone fortress aimed at the inlet, and a twelve meter statue of Christ blessed those cavorting below.

Water taxis ferried people to the crowded beachside bar next to Santa Clara’s sliver of sand. Anchored yachts bobbed as waves from the Bay of Biscay rolled ashore. Children slid from floating platforms and splashed into glistening water as tourists and locals alike thronged the mile-long Playa de la Concha, a beach flanked by the architecture of a European seaside retreat. Strong gusts of wind carried the smell of diesel in the air. Nick bumped into a woman taking photos of her friends under one of the ornate lamp posts lining the promenade. He excused himself, before following Hunt through a restaurant’s white iron gates.