Kiran
Building sandcastles isn’t how I envisioned spending one of our days. There are only two left. But Mason was really excited about it. He told me how his dad took him and Dana to the beach in Charleston most weekends where he taught a young Mason the intricacies of fishing and the fine art of sandcastle building. How could I say no?
Also, he registered us and paid our entry fees so there’s that too. As a former local, I remember this contest. It seems to have grown in popularity. Several hotels along the beach host it now. At least a hundred people scatter over the beach to stake claim to an area. There are old and young and very young. There are a few professional graphic artists and 3D specialists ready to get their sandcastle on too. Margie Fox from the local news station is here in her white pantsuit with a huge microphone ready to give a play-by-play.
Hoping he’s not too invested in this, I glance at him. His face is stone-cold concentration, making it clear he’s not deterred one bit. This is no frolic-on-the-beach, shovel and pail stuff either. There are rules and judges. We’re each given a box with an identical set of tools. We are not allowed to use anything else. Although, we can scavenge the beach for organic items we wish to incorporate. Judging from the piles the rest of the contestants have in front of them, I doubt there is anything left. Everyone has to make some type of sandcastle within four hours. The judge’s scores are based on design, creativity, and overall stability of the structure.
As soon as the whistle blows to signal the start, Mason grabs every one of his buckets and takes off for the water. A lot of people do. I choose to avoid the herd and organize my tools. There are buckets of various sizes, a few plastic Dixie cups, also in varying sizes, a couple of shovels, and a bunch of plastic tools that look like something I might use to frost a cake.
When he comes back, buckets full, he starts scraping the sand. Then he wets it down and packs it. He runs off again. This time he packs the buckets with sand. He does this several times. I’m exhausted just watching him. Who knew sandcastle building required so much stamina?
Meanwhile, I fill up my first bucket and dump it top down.
“What are you doing, Shenoy?”
“Um…building a sandcastle.”
“Darlin’, you have to level the area first. Otherwise, it won’t be structurally sound.”
“Oh.” I pat down the ground.
“You have to get water, Kiran. It’s essential.”
“Fine.” I pick up my bucket and start walking.
“Take all the buckets, baby.”
I blow a frustrated sigh. “Mason, stop bossing me. I’m no Frank Lloyd Wright.”
He chuckles. “More like Frank Lloyd Wrong, sunshine.” His expression sobers when he gazes at me. “Sorry, that came out really….”
“Dickish.”
“Was going to say mean, but okay. Look, I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
“You didn’t.” I gesture to the beach. “This isn’t my thing, but I’m cool with it. As long as you quit being bossy and stop giving me unwarranted advice.”
“Deal.”
Mason isn’t the only fanatic. The guy next to him is cut from the same rough, sturdy cloth. What’s his name? Ah yeah, he’s one-half of the Jorgensens. They checked in right before me. His wife is there too, shoveling sand into her bucket absentmindedly while she looks longingly at the tiki bar. I hear you loud and clear, sister.
Mason doesn’t build his sandcastle the way others do. He takes the largest bucket, packs it, and then tips it over. He does this many times until he has several neat rows. He builds it up until he has five tiers. He fills between the tiers and runs a plastic paint stick around the edges several times until it’s all smooth. The shape is a perfect rectangle of sand. It comes up just over my knees. It’s cool, but it doesn’t resemble a sandcastle.
“I don’t understand your strategy.”
“You will,” he says in a cryptic way.
Mason takes one of the Dixie cups and tears out the base. He curls the bottom into a tight circle until it forms a round shape and packs it with wet sand. He places these on top of the ginormous rectangle. Then he makes a few that are rounder and longer. He takes the tool that looks like a tiny ice-cream scoop and makes a ball to go on top of each cone. They look like hot dogs with circles on top of them.
“What are you making over there, Marine? A house of dicks?” Rob Jorgenson asks.
I almost choke on the laughter.
“Why are you so interested in my dicks, Army?”
Rob opens his mouth to reply with some topper, but he stops when his wife gives him a sharp look. “Rob, there are children here.”
Both men look contrite.
Mrs. J and I catch each other’s glances a few times, both of us smiling, trying to be supportive, while our boys are planning a full-scale attack. It doesn’t surprise me that Mason is competitive, but I have never seen him this focused. It’s strangely erotic.
I finish my cottage-style sandcastle, although that’s probably a stretch. It’s more like a large, grainy mound. I ditch my shovel.
“Hi, I’m Melanie Jorgenson,” the pretty brunette says, holding her hand out to me.
“Kiran.”
She gestures toward Mason. “Is he yours?” she asks like someone would inquire if a child belongs to you.
“Yeah, I guess he is.”
“Looks like our fellows are friends.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Friends or foes?”
“Maybe both.” She pats the sand off her shorts. “Want to take a break and get a drink?”
“Break? Isn’t it almost over?”
She takes her cell from her pocket and holds it face out. “Still over two hours left.”
I smack my forehead. “Yeah, I can definitely use a break.”
She offers her hand to help me up. “You guys ready for a break?” she asks the boys.
“No breaks,” they say in unison.
“Want us to bring you back something?” I ask.
They both grunt a no.
It’s probably ninety degrees out here and Mason’s been nonstop. He’s dehydrated and probably starving. I’m starving, and he eats twice as much as me. “We’ll fetch a few bottles of water and some fruit for you guys.”
I’m not even sure if they heard us until I start walking away and Mason yells after me to get him a peach. I almost trip face down onto the sand.
Melanie and I order some luscious frozen mango and coconut infused concoction. We order a plate of nachos with extra guac. I drop the waters and fruit in my knapsack. After dropping off the boy’s replenishments, complete with stern warnings they need to drink some water, we drag two lawn chairs over to our spot. Turns out, Melanie is a big fan of romance stories too. We bond over that while scarfing down a huge plate of nachos.
I watch Mason’s creation slowly come to life. He made the solid mass first so he could chip away at it slowly, using the negative space. He blends the sand and water until it’s as smooth as concrete. The curvy slide thing on one side of the structure transforms into an elaborate staircase. On the other side he’s made an impressive drawbridge. The hotdog things become fancy turrets with arches in between them. There are several towers with long intricate bridges connecting them. He uses the chisel to carve even squares onto the walls until they resemble stone.
There’s a passion in the way he works. The chiseled planes of his face are locked in stern concentration. His fingers smooth and bend the sand into a shape. I get lost in watching him.
Margie Fox and her crew stop a few feet from us. She relays a foreboding story of one of the 3D artists, a favorite to win, who had to bow out. Turns out, the shell he was using as the top of his five-tower design was home to an honorary crab. While the artist was getting more water, the crab in question found his house on top of a column of sand. He started crawling, dragging the heavy shell straight down the tower and causing a domino effect.
The judges start their initial rounds and narrow it down to ten people to continue. Shocker alert—Melanie and I don’t make the cut. Of course, Mason and Rob do.
“Kiran?”
“Huh?” I turn to Melanie, realizing I totally missed what she’s said. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you want to walk around and check out the competition.”
It’s not a bad idea. Besides, I need to pry myself away before I jump Mason and ruin his gorgeous creation. Rob’s castle is impressive too, except it resembles a fort more than a castle. He’s hard at work shaping a huge scaly dragon that wraps around the front. There are a few other entries that are decent, but I think it’s between Mason and Rob.
Melanie and I stop in our tracks as a little girl huffs her way across the sand with two dripping buckets. Her arms are limp as if they might give out.
“Need some help?” I ask, stretching out my hand to take one of her buckets.
She pulls them back, her bright red pigtails flying at the side of her face. “I can’t. I’ll be disqualified if I accept help.” She says disqualified without the Q, and it’s just about the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Her cheeks are covered in a mass of freckles. She has a gap in her teeth. She so freaking adorable I want to adopt her.
“Oh, sorry.”
She moves on. Curious, Melanie and I follow. Turns out Mason and Rob do have some competition. Her name is Abigail Helms, and she’s ten years old. Although her entry is not as intricately detailed as Mason’s or as precise as Rob’s, it’s as lovely as the artist herself. The construction is simple, just three layers tall, each one a slightly smaller oval like a wedding cake. She’s carved mermaids on the walls. There are small broken bits of coral and shells decorating the outside. The whimsical design tugs at the heart.
“Uh-oh, we’re in trouble,” Melanie says.
“Yeah, I think we are.”
Abigail rolls sand and shapes animals to stand in front.
“Is that a horse?” Melanie asks.
“Think so.” When Abigail rolls the tiniest pointed horn, I know exactly what it is. “It’s a unicorn.”
Melanie and I both ooh and ahh before we finally drag ourselves away.
I plop myself down next to Mason. His castle is nothing short of stunning. “Hello, my handsome knight. May I ask what princess are you building that for?”
He takes my hand and kisses the underside of my wrist. “This princess.”
The judges make the rounds to pick the finalists. Just as I called it, Mason, Rob, and Abigail are the three finalists. They hand Mason and Rob gaudy gold ribbons. Mason promptly pins his on my shirt. He takes his sweet time, cupping my boob in the process.
I give him a good luck kiss. At this point, each of the finalists have a half hour to put on the finishing touches and last minute flourishes before a winner is announced.
“It’s down to the gritty wire. Or as we like to say, the gritty sand,” Margie Fox announces.
Mason and I watch as Abigail’s mom pins her ribbon on her shirt.
He jerks his head in her direction. “You check her stuff out?”
“She’s talented.”
He stands to stretch. “I’m gonna see for myself.”
When he comes back, I ask, “What did you think?”
He shrugs. “Her horses aren’t to scale.”
I place a hand on each of his shoulders. They feel stiff, so I rub them a little. “Firstly, they aren’t horses. They’re unicorns. Secondly, everyone knows the average unicorn is much larger than a horse.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
I take out a fresh bottle of chilled water. “Drink this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stand on my toes and kiss him on the cheek before I take my seat next to Melanie. “You’re staying in the Sweetheart’s Suite, right?”
She nods.
“How is it?”
“Over the top and gaudy, but it’s weirdly romantic. Hey, do you need any candles?”
“Why?”
“Because there are hundreds of them everywhere in the room.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Melanie sits up in her chair. “I’m torn here. I’m rooting for my husband to win, of course, but the idea of a grown man beating out an adorable little girl seems unfair.”
“I’m having the same dilemma. Plus, the poor girl has to take a break every half hour so her mother can slather sunscreen on her. It’s not really fair.”
Mason walks over to Rob. They talk for a bit.
“Wonder what’s going on there?” I ask.
“More smack talk.”
“Yeah,” I agree, except I don’t see any macho rivalry. It’s as if they are conspiring. They shake hands after.
Mason’s knees are pretty beat up from kneeling on the sand for hours. A few splotches of red cover his usually tanned skin. He resumes work on his sandcastle. He pauses only to take a drink of the fresh water. When he puts the cap back on, the half-full plastic bottle falls. I scream as I watch it crash onto the longest turret.
“Fix it,” I yell, as if he needs the guidance.
Mason shakes his head and points down the shoreline. The judges are making their final rounds, clipboards in hand. He gives me a crooked grin and a one-sided shrug. “Too late, darling.”
I’m so sad for him. He put so much hard work into this.
“Sorry you broke your dick, Cutler,” Rob says.
“It’s a turret. What happened to your giant cat?”
Rob shoots him the same cynical look. “It’s a dragon, and I accidently crushed it.”
The head and tail have fallen off the creature that was the main focal point of Rob’s creation.
It’s official, little Abigail Helms takes the top prize. We all clap as Margie Fox places a huge gold crown on Abigail’s tiny head. It won’t even stay straight. The girl dances around, fighting back a yawn. She falls asleep in her daddy’s arms before the ceremony is even over.
Rob elbows Mason. “Too bad, Cutler. That crown would have looked good on you.”
“Me? You’re the one playing with kittens.”
“Dragon, dude.”