The Poet had died and The Other was alone in the darkness.
The familiar rhythms were still there, the thumpa-thump
and the whoosh whoosh that had accompanied all her songs,
but it was impossible for The Other to fill the silence in her head.
The Adams family loved beach holidays. That is to say, the mother of the family, Molly Adams, loved to lounge on the sun deck at their seaside cabin (nothing more than a shack, really) and would spend every day there, from 10 AM until 5 PM, with a short break for a sandwich around noon. The rest of the family found ways to entertain themselves.
Like any seven-year-old, young Frank was always on the lookout for adventure and knew that it wouldn't take too much persuasion to convince his father, Frank senior, to take him fishing on the mighty basalt sea breaks. Not that Frankie, for that was what his mother and consequently all their family and friends called him, was interested in fishing.
But his father and Frank, for that was what his father called him, had an unspoken agreement. Each was to be the other's alibi, their excuse for staying away from the cabin for most of the day, every day of their vacation. They knew that not beating a timely retreat would result in endless fetching and carrying of magazines, ice tea, flip flops, tanning lotion, hats, sunglasses... Or worse: having to sit still and silently on the sun lounger next to Molly.
As soon as they reached the breakwater, their paths would diverge. Frank senior would move along the narrow strip of cement that ran along the center of the outcropping with his tackle. Frankie would find himself in another world, in blocks of basalt were transformed into mountains and tidal pools were seas, inhabited by fierce creatures, such as monster starfish that could swallow a pirate ship in one gulp.