I hyperventilated my fear, unable to move up or down, clinging to the rock face, squeezing the balls of my feet onto to a tiny ledge.
'What will happen if I fall?' I asked my fearless friend.
'You'll die,' he said cheerily, holding my hand in a grip of steel.
I can still feel the victory of that climb down, can remember the thrill of being cut off by the tide til morning, wading through caves in the pitch black, eventually sleeping by the embers of our fire.
Much later we chose another part of Cornwall, holidaying in the fishing village of Newlyn, a week of intense white heat, the glare of the sun Ibiza-like and unfathomable, except that the beach was stippled with those universally British striped windbreaks.
At night we slept with the windows open to the sound of masts clinking in the harbour, by day we swam at Porthcurno, clambering over the rocks to more and more private bays until we were completely alone. I think of some of the far flung holidays I've been on - Thailand, Bali, Australia - and none can quite capture the unfettered joy of that week in West Cornwall.
'Let's move here,' we said, the beginning of a 5 year fantasy which culminated with us having an offer accepted on an idyllic isolated house.
'But I have a full time job in London,' my husband said as we opened the front door of our terraced Clapham home and the fantasy splintered around our ears.
My sister lived the dream, though, she moved to the South Coast and a whole new side of Cornwall became ours - buckets and spades on the soft white sand of Pendower and Porthbeor, taking the King Harry chain ferry over the Fal River, then back for halves of cider at the Philleigh Inn, New Year's Day walks on the beach in the shadow of Caerhays Castle.
Our children are growing up with their own memory stick of Cornwall and I'm glad. It feels like a place that should be handed on.