What a Billow be...

When given the choice, I go to the beach about twice every decade.  

Not because I hate the beach, or that I ever leave the beach unsatisfied, but the mountains, the rivers, the trees, the puddled-marshlands, have always proven superior in my experience.  Nonetheless, here I am listening to the crashing waves (a most lovely melody, I readily admit) for the second time this year.  The ocean is unusually packed with jelly-fish this year, so swimming in the ocean isn't quite the charm I remembered it being.  So today, my brother and I opted to build a sandcastle at the edge of doom.  

Why the edge of doom? you may ask, and rightly so.  The edge of doom, I have long believed, is the only place a sandcastle should go - otherwise, there's no point in even building one.  The kings of old didn't build castles just to feel better about themselves or to say, "Hey, ma! look at these white-washed walls!"  No.  They built them for protection from plague-ridden swineherds and over-zealous knights who thought chivalry meant the slaughter of small children.  It is in a similar vein, I reason, that sand castles should be built.  If there's no threat of a jelly-fish hoard pouring over the walls in a splurge of salt-water, there's no need for a castle.  

So Andy and I built ours at the edge of doom, and just as we finished he called it a day and went in.  And there I was by myself, guarding everyone else's towels with a castle under siege.  Fortunately, the castle was holding its own, so I let myself relax. The natural thing to do in such situations is to sit in one of the nifty seats Andy and Haynes dug in the sand earlier that afternoon.  So I did - minding my own business, not causing anyone any grief or trouble - the sun going down on my right and some sand-pipers piping away at my left - when a girl a few years my elder passed by and started loitering in the area, picking up shells every so often - or shall I say acting like picking up shells.

Before I knew it, she asked me if I was comfortable in my little seat.  "Yes," I said casually, "my brother made it and I stole it from him after he left."

"Oh!" she laughed, coming closer to me.  "You mind if I sit down?"

I wish someone other than the girl had seen my face in that moment.  I think it was akin to an old photo my mom took of me seven years ago.  We were in Hawaii for my 9th grade Spring Break and my brothers and I were posed with the coconut-wearing, grass-skirted Luau dancers.  Ben and Andy are very natural - smiling and holding up a pineapple rind or something.  But not Alan.  Horror, sheer horror, holds my face together as I breathe in the shock of the scandalous moment.

And so it was today, as the bikini-clad girl sat by my side on the gulf coast.  Why?  I will never know.  I did, however, manage to maintain semi-control of my shock as I conversed with her about her school, her hometown, and her age (6 years my elder).  Eventually, my parents both walked up from their stroll down the beach and gave me the "what in tarnation?" look.  Andy, meanwhile, looked on quizzically from the balcony, as Ben showed up with Whitney and both of their heads cocked.  

And you wonder why I like the mountains better.