“I hate the beach,” Gavril wrinkles his nose at the salty air, arms laden with more towels than initially anticipated. (The top one is a bright, summery red, bands of lurid orange running across it. He does not know where it came from. He doesn’t really dare ask either.) Nikita reaches over and gently sets a pair of sunglasses on his face, tucking a strand of blond hair back behind his ear.

“Correction, you don’t hate the beach,” he raises one finger wit a far too pleased grin, “you hate the sea, and only because you can’t go in it for various reasons. It’s separate from the beach.”

Gavril tilts the glasses down his nose ever so slightly to stare in disapproval over them. “Shut the fuck up, Nik.”

[Roll opening titles.]

South Crest Beach. White sands. Cool breezes. A game of volleyball is already in full swing, populated by college students in skimpy bikinis. The sun catches in Gavril’s glasses and he huffs in a displeased manner.

“I’m literally going to complain all day,” he dithers over which section of sand to drop a beach towel on. 

“What else is new?” Perhaps it’s fortunate how good natured Nikita is - and how content he is to tow the beer cooler all the way over the dunes, wedging it into the sand beside them. One of the college girls bats the volleyball too hard and it smacks her opponent in the face. She keels over, blood spurting from her nose. Neither towel dweller notice, instead bickering quietly over when high tide is. (It’s not for hours, you dinks.)

Up the shoreline, a roomba trundles over the smooth rocks that jut out towards the waves, Beeping cheerily, it dusts a little path towards a rock pool where it pauses to beep again. Clambering over the crags behind it comes its owner, pushing thick hair back into a ponytail. He scratches behind his ear, and hops down to crouch beside the roomba, chewing his lip thoughtfully. The roomba beeps proudly at its find.

“What is it, Irwin?”, the voice is worried, a little faint - its owner has dressed herself all in black, contrary to the bright skies overhead. Irwin holds up a large shell, one hand on the roomba as he proffers it to his companion. She leans down to inspect it, curiosity in her eyes. “A whelk?”

“Dog whelk,” Irwin nods gently. A caption across the bottom of the screen refreshes viewers’ memory; the woman in black is Ida, the mother of Irwin’s boyfriend. Where the son/partner is, who knows? Perhaps the voice actor couldn’t make it to this recording. The roomba bumps gently against Irwin’s foot, and Ida smiles, black hair curling around her shoulders.

“Quite the find,” she’s warming up slowly, like the sands under the dawn sun.

“Yeah, I’m pretty proud.” The roomba makes its bumping a little more insistent, before thwacking hard against Irwin’s sandals.

He wobbles.

“Was that a goddamn splash?”, Gavril lowers his book slightly, eyes narrowed in suspicion at the rocky dunes further down the beach from him. (The book is a German airport novella on evil plants. He does a good job at pretending not to be enthralled.) Sprawled on the red and orange towel beside him, Nikita shrugs, busy trying to subtly unstick his swimsuit wedgie. He earns naught but a raised eyebrow.

“A little help would be nice.” A snort is all he gets in reply.