The waves would lap gently around the edges of the castle, smoothening the sharp lines into delicate curves. This would send us screeching, and our tiny limbs into a flurry, working at breakneck speed -- hauling "dry sand" from the shade under the coconut trees, hauling "wet sand" from underneath the ocean, shaping the towers and turrets with our suntanned little fingers and, in stark contrast, patting them into place with the white undersides of our palms.
I never really enjoyed building sandcastles at the beach. Even as a kid, I thought it tedious, and, as I watched the tide slowly inch closer and then suddenly taketh away or one of the boys stomp it flat with gleeful abandon to a backdrop of the setting sun, a little bit pointless. The enormity of the task, coupled with the meticulousness it required, was, to me, more daunting than interesting.
Time was better spent, I thought, soaking oneself prune-y in the salt water, or cavorting around giggling on the sandbar. I found no pleasure in the building.
Perhaps I was too preoccupied with other pursuits Or perhaps I was lazy. Or perhaps, recognizing the fragility, I was too scared to start.
But there comes a point in a day at the beach where every child must partake in building. Sandcastles. Sometimes, it happens because of a change of mind. Other times, it's because it's the only choice of activity. And, in other times still, it's because it is inevitable.
And so, even if the tides would wash it away, even if it eventually would get stomped flat, I, we, poured everything we had into building. We filled our pails and emptied them. We crafted the shapes and links of its form. We polished every tiny detail, until, in our eyes, it twinkled like sunlight reflecting off the sea. We labored, and we laid layer upon layer, until it looked like a castle from our dreams.