Picture the scene: it's another lazy Sunday in Santa Monica. You've woken up late and the sun creaks through the blinds. Your bedroom, white walled, wooden floored, smells of patchouli, sandalwood, and the atomised zing of a thousand long and lusty nights. You stumble to the fridge, cracking open the last of the party's beers, and head out into the blinding afternoon heat. The beach is the only place you want to be, the only place that makes sense, the only place you could possibly go on a day like this.
So you head there, without a care in the world and an adequate amount of factor 30 plastered over your bronzed body. Stuffed into your Walkman is a compilation of smoothed-out Japanese disco, lugubriously low-rolling AOR funk, and Chris Rea classics, put together by NTS' newest recruit, Let's Get Yachts. As your toes curl in the sand, you feel all your worries, responsibilities, doubts, fears, and anxieties evaporate into the salty air. You are free. You've been released by the healing powers of yacht rock.
Oh and if Santa Monica seems a long way away, simply hop on a east-bound train from Liverpool Street, get off at Norwich, take the Bittern Line to Wroxham, stop off at Roys—the world's biggest village shop—to stock up on half-priced burgers and buns, then make the trip to Brinks Barncroft to hire a vessel, jump in said vessel with the burgers and buns, and spend the afternoon drifting down the Norfolk Broads with the beating sun and this mix for company. Who needs California anyway?