‘do you know why there are fewer birds on that side than the other?’ asks Ken.
Two idiot musicians screw up their faces, squinting to grab a look at a ‘v’ formation of pelicans gliding above.
‘there’s less birds’ he resolves.
Howling with laughter we drag our pathetic white carcasses (or carcii as Kira decides to call them later), into the Atlantic Ocean.
We are in/on Oak Island near Southport in North Carolina. Ken is our host, he quickly begins to body surf the chunky comforting waves all around. Ken, it would turn out, is a legend.
The strong current means two options, to walk or swim back to our place on the beach. Ken walks, I swim and Kira cooly attempts to straddle the two options by getting her Pamela Anderson on. Wading and lunging her way up the beach; strong, confident and all of a sudden on the floor.
Like a pro surfer that’s inadvertently waited to catch a huge wave, she is flung about 8ft, then another knocks her over, a third spins her shell shocked face a full 360′.
Still paddling away like a tiny brick with limbs, instead of helping I cry with laughter, so much so that I very nearly drown. A blue print had been set for the rest of the day.
And so this brings me to my second song, ‘something bout a truck’ and the formula of contemporary country songs.
According to the song you need a truck, to not meet an untimely end by a farmer, some beer on ice and to snog a girl in a red dress. And the boy as a point to be honest, a moral code for all of us.
More still; there’s something ’bout a a serious girl crush, something ’bout falling into a deep sleep with only a moment until you hit the stage, there’s still something about Dawsons Creek, something about me turning into Hugh Grant to cope with everything and something ’bout Kira singing at an unborn child in the hope of forcing it from its mothers loins.