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  • I crouch down in the sand on Woolacombe beach in Devon. Stu is clambering up the rock, his boxers spilling out of the top of his trousers.

    My brother has always been a wayward puppy – running around causing chaos before charging back to me when he gets bored to find out what to do next. We had already been down to the water's edge and hopped around shivering in the chill April spray. Stu had then looked at me expectantly, his hair all at odd angles from the blowing wind. 'What's next?' his eyes ask. He hasn't changed.

    Which is why he is now at the top of the rock, coiled to spring into the air, on my instruction. I tell him to wait a minute while I adjust the shutter speed. He peers down to the sand below, checking his landing – it must be higher than he thought, because he smile is a little nervous. He shuffles uneasily on his perch, the stone digging into his bare feet.

    But now I'm ready, and shout up to him as I bring the camera up to my eye. The sand spirals around me in the breeze. He nods, crouching. Ready? JUMP.
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