jogging backward, arms spread wide Come on! The water's perfect. You're telling me none of you want to race to the buoy and back?

doesn't look up from his book I'd rather drown.

flat, from under his towel I'm conserving energy. For survival.

still locked in a staring contest with the seagull Father, I require a projectile.

not looking up from his marine wildlife book No projectiles, Damian.

grinning, spinning to face the group Okay, but what about sandcastles? Team competition. Losers buy dinner.

turns a page I'm not building a sandcastle with you, Dickface.

gasps, mock-offended Your words wound me. Y/n, back me up here.