Evening fell, and Punta Ballena transformed. Neon bled into the twilight. The air smelled of sun cream, fried chicken, and possibility. This was the main event: 18 holes of pub golf. Each bar was a "hole," with a specific drink as the "par." A shot of tequila was a par 3. A pint of lager was a par 5. A suspicious-looking pink cocktail with a plastic monkey in it was a par 4, but only if you kept the monkey.

By 2 PM, they were on a catamaran packed with other stags, hen parties, and a DJ who looked like he’d been awake for three days. The rules were simple: don’t fall in, don’t lose the ring, and keep Tom’s glass full. Alex had ordered the "Viking Funeral" package—an open bar and a plank to walk off.

They stumbled off the boat and into a waiting minibus. Destination: Western Water Park. The hangovers hadn’t arrived yet, but they were lurking. The key activity here was the "Kamikaze" slide—a near-vertical drop that made Tom’s stomach relocate to his throat. Finn went first, screaming like a banshee. Tom went second, his inflatable T-Rex arms flapping uselessly behind him.

"It was perfect," he said. "Never again. But perfect."

They ended the night at a silent disco on the beach. It was 3 AM. The world was soft and fuzzy. Tom put on the headphones. He had three channels: 80s rock, 90s hip-hop, or Eurotrance. He couldn't hear his mates, only the music in his own ears. He looked around. Alex was passionately singing Bon Jovi to a seagull. Finn was breakdancing badly. Gaz had found his trunks again but was wearing them on his head. Paul was just sitting in the sand, smiling, holding a half-eaten kebab.

Tom groaned, but he was smiling.