The guitar player speaks the lyrics in a whisper that fades in and out. The snap and crackle of the bonfire drowns his voice, but not the chords. They're not perfect. A string missed, here and there. He stops and picks up the whisky bottle. They all look at him as he swigs. They speak in hushed whispers when they speak at all. Mostly they stare at the fire and drink. Once in awhile someone will add a log, or a discarded piece of furniture.
Some wander towards the sea, to skip stones on the flat, black water or sit on the cool rocks, away from the heat and ubiquitous sand.
They stay as long as the booze lasts, and sometimes the sun joins them.