A cluster of figures dotted the shoreline—some splashing in the shallows, some lounging on towels, others huddled around a cooler that looked suspiciously like it had been raided already. Laughter drifted on the breeze, punctuated by the occasional shriek of someone getting tackled into the surf.

You spotted them all, scattered like colorful seashells across the sand. Class 78 had claimed a spot near the pier, their voices carrying over the waves. Class 77 was further down, a chaotic mess of beach umbrellas and a very loud argument about something that sounded like it involved a frisbee. And Class 79—they were perched on a cluster of rocks, with one figure waving frantically in your direction.