Lannacombe Beach, South Devon, England
July 4th, 2015.
The others were coming down from the moor and wouldn't be here till the afternoon. In the meantime me and Ed sat on the rocks while he cast a line out and back. Ed's brother and father tried their luck on the other side of the bay.
No one caught anything, but it didn't matter.
By the afternoon everyone was here. We set up a line of rods across the long sandy beach on the other side of the headland and built an enclave from a canvas windbreak and picnic blankets. Ed's grandma came down with his aunt and two cousins. Chaz's parents arrived, but Chaz, as was his habit these days, did not. He had died of Leukemia three years ago at age twenty-three which was a fucking tragedy, and it was partly for him that we made the trip; Ed wanted to make sure that Chaz's parents were still part of everyone's lives.
As the afternoon rolled on we worked our way through large tupperware containers of the salads that Ed's mum had made, barbecued stacks of burgers, and when we finally got a bite of mackerel we hot smoked them right there on the beach.
Our crowd had thinned by time the sun set. Those of us left built a small fire on the sand, passed around bottles of strong West Country cider and watched the moon on the water.
We were all about 30 years old and having an idyllic childhood.
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