You’d’ve thought the sand was on fire if you caught sight of the Bucket Brigade running to the ocean for water and hauling it back up the beach two-fisted, a bucket in each hand. Trip after trip, the two girls labored so earnestly I was compelled to seek the impetus of their efforts… ah, a moat. Of course it was a moat! That stalwart guard against main attack, so by extension (we convince ourselves) the rising tide will also be kept at bay. Enough moat (we convince ourselves) will save our sandy edifice (built at a great expense of time, equipment, and artistry) from the High Tide.
Sadly the shifting trench refuses to cooperate, and the moat will hold no water, itself being made of soft and thirsty sand.
Slowly the tide reaches out as it climbs the beach, and in the act of filling the empty trench softens the hard edges so carefully dug. Rounding off every corner, undercutting every wall; The rushing surf surrounds the castle in a violently frothing attack we had never envisioned. Brutal nature collapsing our labor, our object of loving effort dissolving away into the rising tide.
Tomorrow the sand holds only the faintest memory, resting clean and smooth, inviting us to start anew, dig again, build and sculpt—trying to entice the sand to conform to some aesthetic we pursue that it does not share. Wind strips away drying grains of sand while we work. Shell fragments leave hollows and cause collapses. The tide comes in.
Tomorrow we dig again.