Every parent knows the feeling. It’s a weekend and you’re tempted to put your feet up, but you can’t: you have a sporty child, who is in yet another sports event. There will be no rest: you will spend as long as it takes pursuing your double life as a taxi driver.

For parents who refuse to go gently into the soft light of armchair-bound middle age, this syndrome brings another level of frustration. My elder son, Harry, 14, is a talented surfer. He started surfing three years ago and since then we have surfed together in Cornwall, the Caribbean, California, Costa Rica and even places not beginning with “C”, such as France.

It has been a joy watching him grasp the sport so quickly, if also occasionally arresting as he cheekily declares that he is a better surfer than me. He is right, and his nickname for me distils the difference in our abilities. To Harry, I am “the fat Hawaiian”. Regrettably, this is a reference to weathered skin and excess weight rather than prowess in the water.

At this time of year, when Atlantic lows bombard Britain’s western seaboard, surf contests come thick and fast. Last weekend Harry competed in the Cornish Schools Championships; next Saturday he will be in the intriguingly named Minor Disruption competition in Newquay (minordisruption.co.uk).

The organisers will be streaming the event live, aiming to find the best young British surfing talent. They will doubtless be archiving footage, too, helping to ensure that Harry’s eclipse of his father moves from remembered moments to digital immutability.

I will watch from the beach, hoping that Harry surfs well; and, in a quiet moment, I might even paddle out — away from the contest hubbub — and sneak a few waves myself. Afterwards I’ll drive Harry home and we’ll talk of the contest, of what went well and what went wrong. And, as he always does, Harry will ask: “Get any good ones?” It’s a question that makes the taxi driving worthwhile and persuades me that there’s life in the fat Hawaiian yet.