I used to always hate building sandcastles.
As a child, for one week every summer, we would go to Cape Cod and rent a house. My father, being ever the frugal man that he is, would rent one within a suburb far from the ocean. Every day, we would pack up our lunches and beach neccessities and head to the water. We’d cut out our own little piece of prime real estate with the secure force of a blanket and toss all of our stuff around it. Then, we’d tear ass to the water. Hopping in, diving through waves, wiping the salt water from our lotioned faces was one of my calmest memories as a child. Once we were too pruny, or if my parents decided that they needed a break, we would trudge back up the beach and dry ourselves before reapplying lotion and finding something else to do. I always wanted to read. My brother wanted to fly kites, build castles, catch hermit crabs… And when my parents realized that their daughter was being antisocial, I would be tasked to join in the follies of my brother and the dozens of children he was performing for. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a wallflower. In fact, I’m pretty damn outgoing. But the beach was my relaxing time.
So I would resign myself to building a sandcastle. I’d slave over it for what felt like hours (but was probably one at the most) before my brother would come over and kick my creation to the ground.
Sandcastles always ended one way for me – in tears