Day One:
I always start with something to remind me how to build. With that in mind, I mucked about with a diamond-pattern as the core element, with interwoven layers and tiered walling with simple carved towers. My wife told me it was a little bit on the Georgia O'Keefe side of things thematically, which I'd kind of noticed myself. I mean, Georgia wasn't into angles and linearity so much for obvious reasons, but there were definitely anatomical resonances.
Thankfully, that didn't seem to be noticed by most passers by. Although that sixty-something German woman who took numerous pictures of it may have recognized that dynamic, as her husband gave me a knowing nod.
I started the morning with a vision of a mass of ovoid beings, all staring out to sea with their hollow eyes. But when I began to carve, I realized I just needed to make an octopus. An octopus! Keep it simple, stupid.
This seemed to delight the tiny people, which in and of itself is a reason to have taken that route. A six year old girl with bright red hair was the first to approach with boldness, telling me that she and her four year old sister thought it was great. Later, she brought her mom to see it, leading her by the hand and pointing it out with tiny person enthusiasm. When Mom seemed a little distracted, the strong willed little redhead said: "Mom! Appreciate it!!" Which I, myself, definitely appreciated.
As the Beatles song about an Octopus and his Garden kept humming through my head, I returned in the afternoon to construct a fence and a gate. As I started, a nine year old girl who had been previously admiring the octopus accidentally fell into it. Having taken out a few tentacles, she seemed utterly mortified. Meaning, she was actually tearing up as she stammered an apology. I told that sweet soul that sand was the easiest thing to sculpt with, and that it would be no trouble at all to fix things up. It seemed to cheer her up.
My middle aged bones and tendons just weren't up for another consecutive day of squatting and shoveling, so I took Tuesday off.
Day Three:
Wednesday, I returned refreshed, and began another classic castle. The central tower was first, delta-shaped and with four "windows" all the way through:
I returned to the house to hydrate and slap on sunscreen, and then it was back to the beach for a few hours to build out the main stage. The little gatherings of tiny people watching started up as the latticework walls took shape, which is always a pleasure. The castle took shape, tiers upon tiers.
Then, a break, lunch, and a nap, at which point I returned again. In the interim, family members who'd been down there reported requests from passers-by to take pictures with it. That included a beach security patrol guy, who I chatted with for a bit. He told me the castle was a "public service," which I suppose it is.
The beach in late afternoon empties out nicely, so a little more ornamental sprawl becomes possible.
As night fell and a full moon rose, I wandered down to the beach again to see the ruins. The front side had washed away, but the main ramparts were still standing in stark silhouette against the moonlit sea.
Day Four:
The following day, a delegation of small people gathered as I was setting up, and inquired as to my plans for the day. Having put it off in favor of an octopus on day two, I wanted to experiment with a simple form I'd not mucked about with before, a schmoo-like ovoid. That, and we had an outing planned, so I'd be at the beach for less time. What I ended up with was a small assembly of the critters, in various sizes.
When asked bv passers-by what they were, I'd suggest that they were the sort of sand-spirit that might come hopping up to you on a beach in a Studio Ghibli film. This didn't seem to help folks much. "Are those coconuts?" asked one earnest mom. I told her they could be if she wanted them to be, which was true.
Towards the end of the day, several hovering kids peppered me with questions about them. One boy thought they looked like guardians of some sort, and I agreed that they might well be just that. A slightly older girl wanted to know if they'd survive the incoming waves, and I said they would not, after which I talked to her about the impact of the moon on tides. She's not learned this yet, and she was excited to find out a new thing. The first boy then suggested that they should all have names, which the kids all agreed was important. One was Bob. Another Christopher. The largest, on the far right, was named King Gerald, on account of him being the largest.
Day Five:
On the last day at the beach, I figured I'd pitch up my annual "Bethany Beach" lettering, which I've been doing for years. It pairs nicely with a family picture, eh?
As I was about halfway through, a small voice rose from a passing group. "Hey! I remember that from last year!" About five minutes later, I heard the same thing from an elderly gentleman. Nice to know one's work is part of a stranger's remembrances.
This one tends to be a bit of a crowd-pleaser. The new readers, perched on Dad's shoulders, sounding it out. The genuinely gobsmacked ten-year olds. The gaggle of teen girls. A group of college bros passed by grinning, with one of them loudly declaring that it was the "xxxxing xxxx." The young women who brought and retrieved our rental umbrellas.
The number of folks stopping to take pictures (either with family members or just of the sculpture) significantly increases. The letters seem a marvel to folks, although they're not particularly challenging to construct.
Pretty much every year I do this, someone will in jest suggest that perhaps I should set up a stand and charge admission. Which is in line with the well-meaning souls (kids and adults alike) who'll ask if I'm a professional. We've all seen what the professional sandcastle artist do, and it's in an entirely different league. I just do do it because I love to do it, which is the best of all possible reasons to do anything.
Posts
