Crate Day

It was the start of summer and what better way to celebrate than with a crate of beer? It was the traditional way - it even had its own day on the calendar in New Zealand, with its own set of commandments. It would be patriotic blasphemy not to.

Brandon was conveying this to Joe as they headed to get a crate and drink it at the beach. Summer in New Zealand could be sensational but it was also known to be patchy: patchy cloud, patchy sun, patchy rain.

Crate Day this year though was glorious and the lads were filled with the bonhomie that only warmer days and bottles of beer could bring.

"You've got the cooler?" Brandon asked Joe.

"Yes, mate and it's packed full of ice. Now, it just needs some beers chilling in there as well and we're all set!"

"Whoohoo!" The lads whooped and Joe punched the air outside the open window. There was nothing better than beers and beach. Except maybe some babes too. Joe basked in the anticipation of a day filled with pleasure.

*

It had been a great day. They'd decided on a crate each. The day had not amounted to much: some drinking, some flirting, some beach volleyball, some swimming, some drinking. But it had been, in Joe's opinion, awesome!

The sun was starting to set and there had been talk about a bonfire but that had been ages ago and Joe was now relaxing on the sand, the heat of the day retreating from the grains underneath him and the sky above. Brandon had hooked up with some girl and Joe smiled sleepily and laughed to himself, muttering "Lucky bastard" as he brought his bottle to his lips for a swig of warm beer.

Gritty. But he drank it anyway. Scratchy too but he didn't care, drifting off, the waves rhythmically soothing in the background.

*

Deep is the sleep of the drunk. It leads to dark, impenetrable oblivion for some.

Oceans see no obstacles. It just keeps coming, hoping things in its path move out of its way. Or are conscious enough to do so.

Because it all gets taken.

Bottles.

Crates.

People.

***

365 words