The beach is no place for games.
This is a zone for static activities. Book reading, or building a sandcastle. At most the roll of a tennis ball is acceptable.
But some people go nuts. They throw footballs about. Fly kites. I have watched groups play full games of cricket, using a stick to draw a makeshift pitch twenty feet across.
How selfish. The beach is a public place, and no one has intrinsic ownership. You must respect the tranquility of the ocean.
We used to bring a tent on our visits. I always scampered to the back, and hid from all the mucking about.
My parents argued that I should not let other people control my life. Everything was fine as long as you kept your distance. But I knew the cheering and the explosions of sand were unavoidable. That constant flying missiles waited outside the door.
During our latest trip. raised voices kept interrupting my detective novel. I unzipped a tiny sliver of the tent, and peeked outside. A dry heat broke up the humidity within my den. Someone ran past, a kite under one arm, their feet padding on damp sand.
A orange crust covered the hems on the heavy cloaks of the strangers. Knots and lesions dotted the sticks they carried in both hands. The screaming started soon after. Smoke mixed with the smell of seawater.
I retreated, and snuck back behind my book. Turned the page. The first silhouettes of claws appeared on the canvas.
This was a game too far.
