Breakfast on the Beach
written by: Mark Woodward
A Psalm for the Mad, the Marvellous, the Mostly Bald — and the Lord of the Breakfasts
The sea came in like it had nothing better to do,
grumbling under its breath about plankton and holidaymakers,
while I sat on a half-sunk deckchair that smelt of vinegar and doubts.
The gulls circled like loan sharks – dead-eyed and impatient –
eyeing up the limp bacon butty I’d barely touched.
It was 6:04 a.m. and I was halfway between life and an unreliable stomach.
Across the shingle, someone had written “LIVE” in seaweed.
It might’ve been “EVIL” the other way up. Either worked.
The sand (not saying the banned word, just the beach stuff)
was clinging to the leftover corner of my Egg McMuffin like an old tax bill.
There was ketchup on my slipper – again –
and the camp stove hissed like it knew secrets about me
that even my urologist had politely pretended not to notice.
We were all waiting. For what, no one said.
Barry from oncology snored beside me in his folding chair,
wearing a hat that read “YEAH, STILL HERE.”
Then He showed up. No trumpet, no halo,
no Heavenly disco ball or choir of Bass Baritones in robes.
Just a bloke in rolled-up trousers
frying fish like it was the most natural thing since toenails.
He had the calm of someone who’s seen worse
and the eyes of a man who’d absolutely win at pub quizzes.
I didn’t recognise Him straight off –
He was holding a spatula, not a sceptre.
“Got any grub?” He asked, like a cheeky uncle
at the family BBQ who’s brought nothing but takes everything.
We offered Him our last sad sausage
(which looked suspiciously like a pencil with a tan).
He smiled and said, “Try the other side.”
We thought He meant the sea.
Turned out, He meant the soul.
But we weren’t in a rush to get all philosophical before coffee.
Pete fell into the water again.
Didn’t even hesitate –
leapt in like the fish owed him money.
Came up spluttering and shouting,
“IT’S HIM, I SWEAR IT’S HIM!”
but it sounded more like,
“GLUBBLURGH, MAAARRRRGH!”
We nodded politely.
By the time we’d dragged the net ashore,
we’d caught everything but an Amazon Prime subscription.
Cod. Herring. One aggressive crab.
A Tesco trolley. (Forget I said that. Just a trolley. With opinions.)
He had breakfast ready anyway.
Fish on coals. Bread, lightly burnt – just how your nan made it.
He handed it to us like it was the point of everything.
And maybe it was.
The sun rose like it was late for work.
I saw my chemo drip in His eyes –
no judgement, just understanding and a bit of gallows humour.
He didn’t say “You’ll be fine.”
He didn’t say “Trust the process.”
He said, “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
And passed me the burnt end of the bread –
the best bit.
The tide pulled the years off me.
I remembered how it felt to laugh so hard
you forget your hospital gown’s untied at the back.
Janice from the support group spilled her orange juice
when the toast popped – thought it was her last PET scan result.
Barry toasted survival with a mug of cold tea
and swore it tasted like hope and antiseptic.
We didn’t talk about tumours.
We talked about lost dentures at Nando’s, and the time Dave
accidentally flashed the vicar while changing on Brighton pier.
We laughed till our stomachs ached –
not from fear this time, but from living.
And He just kept serving breakfast.
Never rushed, never ran out,
like He had all the time in the world.
Which, when you think about it,
maybe He did.
This is not a myth.
This is bacon in the rain.
This is chemotherapy with a side of Ready Brek.
This is where the pain pulls up a chair,
but someone’s already laid out the plates,
and the tea’s strong enough to stand a spoon in.
This is the morning after despair’s worst night out.
I sat there with my balding head
catching the morning light like a badly installed satellite dish,
and He passed me another fish
as if to say,
“You’re not finished.”
And I believed Him.
Because sometimes,
the cure isn’t clean or clever
or even in the veins.
Sometimes it’s on a beach,
Breakfast on THE beach
in a moment of belly laughs,
bad eggy-bread,
and the simple miracle of still being here.
So, eat.
Tell the others.
He’s still cooking.
Tina tried to baptise her Weetabix
in the sea, said it cured gluten intolerance.
We didn’t argue.
You don’t argue with someone
who beat radiotherapy and still wears sequins to chemo.
Barry was building a sandcastle – sorry, a “beach fort” –
to keep the crabs out.
He claimed one pinched him in a delicate area.
No one checked. We just nodded.
The Lord of the Breakfasts sat cross-legged,
flipping fish like He invented brunch.
He didn’t sermonise. Didn’t drop a pamphlet.
He just buttered bread
with the kind of grace that made my PET scan results
feel like last year’s gas bill.
He poured tea like He knew I’d been thirsty for years.
Not just in the throat. In the bone of the wanting.
Iain lit a cigarette and muttered,
“If He’s real, He won’t mind.”
Jesus took a drag. Blew out nothing but peace.
“Tell your lungs to stick around a bit longer,” He said,
“They’ve got tickets to the matinee.”
The beach was a communion of the collapsed and the chronic.
One lad turned up with his IV on a trolley,
wheels squeaking like guilt in a confessional.
He said, “My nurse said I’m not supposed to be here.”
Jesus handed him a buttered crumpet and said,
“Well then, it’s definitely the right place.”
You could smell the old life burning off.
Not in some figurative, faffy way –
in actual fish grease and hangover breath
and that one guy who forgot deodorant
because his body forgot how to care.
It was the realest worship I’d ever seen.
No choir, no drums, no worship band. Just the sound of survivors
spitting tea while laughing at their own funerals.
Margaret piped up between mouthfuls:
“I asked Him last night if I was gonna die.”
We all went quiet.
Jesus chewed. Swallowed. Looked at her.
“So did I,” He said.
And that was that.
The breakfast went on
as if the apocalypse had RSVP’d late.
Jesus told Pete to stop trying to bless the fish.
“No one likes overdone holiness,” He said.
“Just eat it. That’s the blessing.”
I don’t remember who started the conga line.
Might’ve been one of the hospice volunteers
or maybe an angel in disguise
with a doubtful knee and a bladder issue.
All I know is we danced
like diagnosis was just another bad date
we’d already ghosted.
There was one moment –
one ridiculous, shining, stupidly beautiful moment –
when I caught Him watching me.
Not in judgement.
Like I was His favourite part of breakfast.
And suddenly the fear
didn’t taste as strong anymore.
He passed me a fried mushroom. Just one.
“No miracles today,” He said. “Just this.
And that’s probably enough.”
And maybe it was.
Because survival’s not pretty.
It’s not clean or filtered or worthy of a hashtag.
It’s leaking out of both ends,
yelling at your carer, then crying in the loo.
It’s laughing so hard your catheter nearly evacuates.
It’s holding someone’s hand
as they forget their own name,
but remember your breakfast wrap order.
He never once asked for faith.
Just offered ketchup
and asked if anyone knew how to play guitar.
So, we sang.
Badly.
Half in key, half in tears.
The beach listened politely.
The tea brewed on.
And when He finally stood
and slung His battered pan over one shoulder,
someone shouted, “Where you off to now?”
He grinned. Wiped His hands on a napkin
that looked suspiciously like a prayer.
“Got another breakfast,” He said.
“Someone else just woke up thinking it was over.”
So, if you ever find yourself
bare, bored, and broken at the edge of things,
dragging your sick body towards the sea,
just know this:
There’s firelight somewhere.
And someone flipping fish.
And He’ll still be there,
with a plate, a grin, and more tea
than you’ll ever be able to drink.
At YOUR, Breakfast on the Beach
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