The bat and the big African, with the help of all those bloody birds, are digging pits on the Ringworld beach. One will be for the old New England-style clambake, corn on the cob and so on. One will be for the whole lamb stuffed with couscous mechoui. Will we need more? The birds will turn the spit, without the smell of singeing feathers, but with the sound of singing.
At least it gets the birds out of the Tavern for a while. Except for the parliament, as the nocturnal owls are wisely staying at the bar, and the penguins, whose huddle in the walk-in freezer plaintively requests mojitos. The bat, whenever the light is too much at the beach (not to mention the pit digging) but who can hear them plainly, fetches them their drinks, then brings buttered crumpets back for the pit diggers.
Now everyone is buttered, and sandy, and (if mammalian) sweaty, so we have to go swim a bit.
A pile of large clothes are, or is, left on the beach...