Stone and Sand

Sand sculpting is like theatre: the final product only exists momentarily and then is gone forever. I’d never say that aloud—that sand sculpting is like theatre—since it sounds too pretentious. It IS art to me, but no one thinks of you as an artist. Michelangelo carves David and he’s regaled as one of the most famous sculptors of all time. A sand sculptor creates David on the beach and all they get is a picture in the local free newspaper, The Island Times. The only difference is he chose stone and I sand.

It was Sunday morning, and I was out at the shore tracing my next project in the sand with a stick. High tide was just beginning to recede. The gentle crashing of the waves growled at me, vowing to return and destroy my Davids as they did every day. The plan today was easy enough—a commission from a young man about to propose to his girlfriend on the beach at noon. He would walk hand-in-hand with her along the beach then come upon cursive words in the sand reading “Will you marry me?” next to a big sand diamond ring. The trickiest part would be to create the geometric design of the diamond and be out of the way in time.

As I started in on building the ‘W’ a ding notification came in on my phone. It was a Venmo payment from Carter, the fiancée-to-be. That was the usual way clients paid. The instant access was nice, especially since the constant tide of bills worked harder to erode my income than the sea on sandcastles, but there was something deeply missing in the exchange. It felt good to hold cash in my hands, to touch the job well done and feel it in my pockets.

What he didn’t know, and what I was still coming to grips with myself, was that this would be my final commission on Sunset Beach. Or any beach. My final anything anywhere.

The decision came exactly a week prior, on a balmy Sunday morning. I always returned to the site of my work and every morning all evidence of it was washed away returned to the sand. Like a glass slipper turned back into a regular shoe. Except, for some beautiful unexplained reason, that morning.

It was magical: my sand replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa was still there from the day before, as though preserved from the elements overnight in an invisible glass box. As I came over the dunes I gasped and stood there in marvel. Never in ten years of sand sculpting had that happened. I wondered if the sea had finally taken mercy on me, letting me keep my work just this one time....

…And then as soon as I saw the sand tower, I saw them. Two Spring Breakers walking along the beach. A boy and girl swinging around their shoes in one hand and their empty Corona bottles in the other, probably after closing down the last club at 4am and unable to accept that their wild night was over.

It was the boy’s idea—he noticed the sand tower and I could immediately see the idea pop into his head. He made a “whoop!” sound and ran straight toward it. Without a moment’s thought, unaware or uninterested in the glorious phenomenon that allowed my tower of Pisa to endure the night, he just…

….tipped it over.

My replica fell like a log onto the beach. I gasped again. The girl laughed. The boy cheered. He stomped on the rest of it until it disappeared entirely. Hours of my life, somehow spellbindingly untouched by time overnight, reduced back to dust before my eyes.

So that was enough. I would finish with the sand ring commission and then vanish from the beach myself as though I had never been here. Surprisingly, the landlord of my little beach cottage was unfazed by my sudden and quick departure. All I got was a short text to leave the keys under the mat on my way out.

Seagulls cawed above me as I patted the perfect triangle of the ring into place.

“Don’t you dare mess with this.” I warned them as I stood up and dusted off my hands.

Will you marry me?

I looked down at the words and polished sand ring and suddenly… a desperate lust came over me. A rageful desire to destroy my work myself. To stomp and laugh and dance all over every hour I ever spent working on something that would disappear anyway.

But I didn’t. I shook the sand off my jeans and slowly slipped away right at noon, just before a pair of silhouettes crested over the sand dunes further away.

That last night in Sunset Beach pained me, the longing to stay and have some sort of tangible evidence that what I was doing had any purpose at all. "Pain is temporary" goes the phrase. But that’s actually not true at all. Pain can live inside you forever. Whoever first said, “pain is temporary” more so meant to say, “YOU are temporary.”

The next morning, I packed up my few things into two backpacks, finished sweeping, and said goodbye to my little home. As I opened the front door to leave the keys under the mat—there was a box sitting on top of it. A gift box wrapped in simple brown paper.

I looked around suspiciously and then picked it up. Something inside rolled from the movement, so I delicately sat down on the cottage stoop to unwrap it.

I peeled back the paper and lifted the little flaps to reveal a chain necklace with a little glass box attached to the end. In it was a teensy pile of sand.

I reached to the bottom of the package and pulled out a note. It read:

Margarette,

My name’s Sarah, newly engaged to Carter who commissioned you for his big surprise yesterday morning. I just wanted to thank you for being a part of our magical day and will always remember the moment when I first looked down your sand design. Unfortunately, as expected, the tide came and wiped it away by nightfall but we came back just to collect a little bit of sand from where the ring was. Some of what we collected is in the glass pendant for you, to preserve our gratitude.

Thanks again,

Sarah

PS- Just so you aren’t creeped out, I got your home address by contacting The Island Times newspaper after they did that little article on the sand sculpture of David you made a while ago. I didn’t realize you were such a celebrity here!

I unclasped the necklace and put it around my neck, feeling the sand-filled glass box rest on my chest. I held onto it tightly, without fear of it disappearing in my hand.

At long last.