EXT.IRISH COAST.LATE AFTERNOON
From atop the cliff the ocean stretches out endlessly before us. Below, we see the white flecks of surf, the darting shapes of diving gulls, the mesmerising glimmer of the silver sun on the waves, like a galaxy of twinkling stars. In the middle of the swell a small boat bobs defiantly through the heaving waters. Aboard, a MAN stands upright; steadfast, as the blue bosom rises and deflates around him. He is one with the boat; the rudder an extension of his arm; his feet rooted to the deck.
In one swift motion he shifts to the side of the craft and hauls in a net of gleaming fish, then tosses it down at his feet, barely registering the bountiful catch — this is his normal; his day to day. This is his life.
The boat cruises into the shelter of a quiet cove, home to a small pier. Mooring the vessel expertly, the man slings the day’s catch in a bag over his shoulder, then starts along the zigzag path up the cliff.
EXT.PUB.THE MAGIC HOUR
The pub is perched on the edge of the towering cliff, overlooking the golden waves, glittering below. From a path to the right we see the man, silhouetted by the setting sun, making his way over the horizon, towards the building.
Inside, the pub is warm and inviting. Nautical instruments and faded pictures adorn the walls, telling salty tales of hardy men. An elderly man, who looks as though he has a few tales of his own, stands behind the bar.
Our man enters and takes off his cap.
Pint o’the blue shtuff please, JOHN.
He hands John a bundle of fish wrapped in tattered newspaper as payment, which John disappears behind the bar, reappearing, as if by alchemy, with a large bottle of Blue WKD and a pint glass. He fills the glass slowly, allowing the fizz to subside — he’s done this before — then places it on the bar in front of the man.
Pint o’the blue shtuff.
The man stares into the glass at the impossibly blue liquid, tracing the swirling currents within, the reflection in his eyes sparkling like the sea. He raises the glass to his lips and takes a deep gulp. It’s fresher than an ocean breeze; more invigorating than the feel of the spray on his face; sweeter than his first kiss… We see all of this in his expression, and more, as he places the pint back down — a lifetime of hardships washed away in an instant, leaving only an unguarded tenderness.
Our man fumbles in his breast pocket, unfolding a small, worn piece of paper — a photograph of a young woman standing outside a house, smiling. He holds it gently, carefully caressing the faded edges. A single tear rolls down his cheek.
Everyone’s got a WKD Side.