Gerald had packed sunscreen, a wide-brimmed hat, and an umbrella for what his travel brochure called "a breathtaking coastal adventure." What the brochure failed to mention was that the beach would be hosting the Annual Sandcastle Architecture Convention — sixty-three serious adults arguing about turrets.
The moment Gerald set up his towel, a man in a visor nearly knocked him over. "Watch it! I'm trying to embed my flag pole into this foundation!" The man had apparently spent six hours pressing a tiny plastic flag into compressed sand. He looked deeply proud.
Gerald retreated to higher ground to enjoy the scenery, which was genuinely lovely — rolling waves, golden dunes, the occasional seagull stealing a competitor's decorative shell. The natural backdrop would have been peaceful if not for the heated debate happening nearby about whether moats counted as "structural."
He tried lying back and letting the sun radiate warmth across his face, a moment of total relaxation that lasted exactly eleven seconds before a woman tripped over his cooler and launched a bucket of wet sand directly onto his head.
"Sorry!" she called, not stopping.
Gerald sat up, wearing sand like a helmet, and checked his arms for damage. He had, in his chaos, forgotten to apply sunscreen. The ultraviolet rays had already left a cheerful pink stripe across his nose, making him look like a clown who'd given up halfway through.
He looked at the sandcastle builders. He looked at his pink nose. He looked at the seagull eyeing his lunch.
Gerald reached into his bag, pulled out his umbrella, and joined the convention. He had opinions about moats.