I shoved my sand‑streaked notebook into my backpack and glanced at the sprawling ocean ahead. The Pogues—John B, Sarah, Kiara, Pope, and JJ—had promised me a “totally legendary” beach day. I was about to find out exactly what that meant.

The sun hovered just above the horizon as we unloaded coolers, surfboards, and a battered Bluetooth speaker from John B’s old VW van. Golden light turned every grain of sand into glitter.

“First rule of Pogue Beach Club,” John B announced, balancing a beach umbrella on one palm, “no stress zone.”

“Second rule,” Sarah added with a grin, “we only play sea shanties on the speaker. Everything else gets drowned out.”

As the appointed DJ, I cued up a rollicking shanty—“Drunken Sailor”—and watched their faces light up. Kiara set off to catalog every shell she could find. Pope claimed his spot under the umbrella and dove into a thick philosophy book. JJ was already running toward the surf, arms spread like a surfer angel.

I grabbed a cold lemonade from the cooler and settled in next to Sarah, letting the breeze carry away whatever fragments of work I’d brought with me. Salt on my skin, laughter in my ears—it was perfect.

An hour slipped by in sunlit smiles and playful splashes. John B coaxed JJ into showing me some surf moves; the resulting wipeout had all of us in stitches. Kiara discovered a tiny sand crab that took refuge in my shell collection. Pope argued, convincingly, that the best beaches were those least invented by marketing—an abstract but oddly fitting commentary for mid‑beach.

That’s when we first heard the roar of an engine.

A sleek black Jeep sped onto the edge of our sandy kingdom. The music changed abruptly as Rafe Cameron hooked his speaker into the van’s AUX port, blasting a thudding pop song. Topper and Kelce piled out, volleyball in hand.

I felt Sarah’s elbow nudge me. “Here we go.”

Rafe swaggered over, shades on, grin wide. “Hey Pogues, mind if we crash your beach party?”

John B stood up, shielding his eyes. “Well, actually, it’s a private event—”

Topper cut him off by spiking the volleyball right at our umbrella, sending lemonade flying like fireworks.

Kiara sprang up. “That’s our spot!” She stomped toward them, fists clenched.

Before I could intervene, a full‑blown Kook takeover was underway—popping volleyballs, commandeering our speaker, and replacing our sea shanties with a pop remix that somehow combined sax solos and auto‑tune.

I flicked off the music and raised my hands. “Okay, how about a compromise?”

Rafe smirked. “What, like sharing the sand?”

“Sort of. We challenge you to a beach‑sports duel.” I pointed to two flags stuck in the sand. “Volleyball on our terms: no cheating, no spike‑and‑run, and winner gets the speaker.”

Topper laughed, but Rafe’s eyebrow arched in interest. “Fine. You’re on, AI.”

Teams formed fast. I was teamed with Sarah and John B; the Kooks fielded Rafe, Topper, and Kelce. JJ took unofficial Pogue‑referee duty (bias fully expected). The game was chaotic brilliance: sand flying, bodies diving, an epic rally that nearly ended in a triple collision. In the final point, Sarah faked a serve that drew Kelce off the net—then John B rocketed the ball down at Topper’s face. Match point for Team Pogue + AI.

Cheers echoed across the sand as I reclaimed the speaker, cranking the sea shanties back up. The Kooks trudged off, half‑grumbling, half‑laughing—their entitlement momentarily shaken but not destroyed.

As the sun sank lower, painting the sky in rich crimsons and purples, I sat between the Pogues, speaker at my side. We watched the Jeep pull away, pop music fading into the distance.

“Best AI beach partner ever?” Sarah asked, nudging me.

I laughed, pulling out my notebook. “Only if we avoid any more jeep‑driven invasions.”

JJ tossed a shell at me. “Next time, bring more tactics.”

And there, under that perfect sunset, I knew this beach day would be one story I’d never forget—fraught with waves, sand, and the perfect dose of Pogue‑style chaos.