Sandcastles
By Abigail Chase
Andy’s plastic beach toys reflected the sun’s beating rays as he meticulously constructed a sand castle complete with a mote, tower, and detailed shell designs. His small hands had slaved over the castle for a good part of the summer afternoon, nothing could distract him. As he stretched his arm towards the castle tower to place a flag, Andy heard loud voices from across the beach.
“Hey! Hey there, little man, would you mind throwing the ball back?” a teenage boy called to Andy.
At first, Andy appeared confused as his mind pulled away from his sand creation. Glancing around, he saw the foam football. He walked slowly over, fumbled with the football that was too large for his hands, and sent the ball crookedly to the older boy and his group of friends. The teenager took a step to get the ball and mumbled a comment under his breath which made the other teenagers laugh.
“Thanks buddy,” he said, as he strolled away with his arm around a girl.
Andy could feel himself blushing under his summer tan and freckles. He wished that the ball had spiraled the way he saw on TV during football games. Then he wished the ball had never even come in his direction.
Sitting down, he watched the teenagers as they walked away, joking with each other. They walked down the dock and jumped into a boat with practiced ease. There were two boys and two girls. The girls walked with a confidence in their step, tossing their hair and allowing their bikini clad bodies to be consumed by the eyes of anyone who cared to look. The boys’ hands flirted with the girls’ exposed bodies, hugging and tickling them to force giggles from the girls’ mouths. One boy, the one who had thrown the football near Andy, prepared the boat. His hands skillfully untied the rope and his young muscles were taut under his skin as he pushed off. Seeing Andy staring, the boy waved then laughed to his friends.
Andy watched the teenagers’ boat until it reached an island across the water. He naively wondered what the friends would do now that they had escaped the watchful eyes of their parents. He envisioned the boys playing football and the girls squealing as they waded into the freezing water. He was sure nightfall would bring a fire for roasting marshmallows. By this time, Andy had completely forgotten about the sandcastle that had once been so important. His musings would have continued but his mother called him in for dinner.
That night, Andy lay in bed remembering how the teenagers had laughed together and gone to the island by themselves. Even though he lived on the beach, Andy had never been able to go the island before, not even with his parents. Andy slipped out of bed and walked to the window that faced the island. He swore he could see a small light that must have been a fire. He imagined the teenagers laughing around the dancing flames as light reflected off their knowing faces. He decided he would get there, he had to get there.
Andy awoke the next day at sunrise with a plan of action to successfully venture to the island. He tiptoed past the room of his sleeping parents and silently opened the front door. Cautiously, he walked the worn, shell crushed path to the beach. As he had hoped, no one was awake to find him. Feeling slightly guilty, he walked to the dock where the dinghies were tied. Andy picked out the smallest dinghy with oars and began to untie it from the dock. His hands shook with the knowledge that he was stealing. Every second he expected to be caught, but no one came. Finally, the knot came undone and Andy climbed uneasily into the boat.
His small arms struggled with the initial awkwardness of the oars but soon enough he was underway. The boat dipped and swayed with the unusually choppy water but Andy’s determination did not wane. Fatigue began to set into Andy’s limbs, but still he refused to stop until the oar began to slip from his left hand. He tried to grasp the oar more firmly. but the ocean seemed to be trying to snatch it from him and suddenly, Andy’s hand was empty.
Andy let out an exasperated cry. He could see the oar not too far away and he thought maybe he could reach it. His fingers stretched but the oar evaded his grasp. Andy leaned further, stretched longer, and found himself beginning to fall. There was nothing he could do as the boat let him tip into the ocean.
Andy thrashed about in the water, barely able to swim. Looking around he saw that the boat was already being swept away. He had been able to row more than half way to the island and now Andy was forced to swim to the closest land. The waves battered Andy’s body and engulfed him. He bobbed in and out of the waves, inhaling sharply whenever he resurfaced. Sometimes he miscalculated breaths and drank the salty water that made his lungs ache. Andy had no choice but to continue or submit to the sea. He chose to forge ahead, sometimes floating, sometimes halfheartedly swimming, until the details of the island’s coast were made clear.
A final wave spat a coughing and tired Andy onto the shore. His torso lay on the land but the water still toyed with his feet and legs. With his face pressed to the sand, he struggled to breathe and to remember what his limbs were supposed to feel like. When air began to flow naturally through his lungs, Andy grasped the feat he had accomplished. A feeling of triumph welled in his stomach as he realized he had made the voyage to the island and he soon forgot all the he had just endured.
Andy picked himself up and looked along the edge of the island’s beach. The shore was covered in jagged rocks that would have cut into his feet had he not been wearing shoes. Between all the rocks, Andy realized there was no sand here to make castles. The trees that had looked like a forest from across the ocean now showed themselves to be just a cluster of scraggy beach trees. Still, Andy walked towards the trees with hopes that he might find a forest worthy of exploration. As he entered the tree cluster, mosquitoes swarmed over him, sucked his blood and made his body itch. Andy ran from the trees and went back to the shore.
Once back to the shore, Andy saw that he had been right about a fire. But the remains on the beach were not what he expected to see. Beer cans and glass littered the ground around the fire ring. The innocent fun that Andy had pictured in his mind was wrong. The knowledgeable faces were tainted by something Andy did not know or understand.
Andy’s excitement drained from him and he yearned for home. He looked across the water where his house was still in slumber and the beach sand looked comfortable and inviting. Looking behind him, Andy could see a dark patch of clouds looming over the barren trees and gaining quickly until they covered the whole sky of the island. A raindrop fell on Andy’s face and slid down his cheek. He hid his face in his arms and curled his legs to his chest. He had no way to get back to the beach, no dinghy he could steal. Meanwhile, rain pelted his back, thunder clapped in the clouds and home was further away than it had ever been.
Author’s Note
I decided early on that I wanted to have a story like Araby (by James Joyce) where the main character(s) are infatuated with the thought of something they don’t have at present. I was thinking of doing a short story that takes place in an underground communist society. The main male would be attracted to one of the girls but they have to take secret glances at each other for fear that the other might be a spy and eventually they would escape. Unlike Araby this story would have had a happy ending. However, I decided against doing that story because I felt like the description and anxiety in the world I would have to create wouldn’t fit well into a short story. So instead I went with my idea of the little boy who has to grow up. I wanted to have the teenagers be like the girl in Araby. Andy idolizes the teenagers and the island is basically symbolic for growing up. I considered having him swim the whole way there but that seemed unrealistic. Stealing the boat is significant because it’s something that a child wouldn’t do. Also, the way he unties the boat and gets in is the opposite of the sure movements of the teenager I had the option of making the island a good place but I liked the way Araby ended abruptly on a disappointing note. So I created a sad little island and then the storm. He doesn’t have a way to get home because he can’t go back to being a child and the reader doesn’t know when his parents find him, if his parents find him at all.
The views and opinions in the Enterprise blogs are those of the author and are not neccessarily shared by Falmouth Publishing.
