Waves rolled forward, shells and bits of sand surging in the after-effects of the sea's temper. And then, subtly and as thin as paper, a layer gently pulled back the wave’s contents. What was brought by the ocean was returned, just out of reach from the dry shore.
“Don’t go too far,” Clint called, watching as his twelve-year-old son disrupt the retreating waves.
“He’s fine, Clint.”
“I know Ma,” Clint sighed, watching the boy play.
“Come on,” she patted a portion of the sandy beach underneath the umbrella. “Sit down, relax. That’s what you came here to do, right?”
Clint sat down but kept his eyes locked on his son.
“Don’t ruin Mark’s fun,” Joan said, her motherly tone pulling Clint’s eyes away. “God knows you shelter him enough as it is.”
Although she was his mother-in-law, Leah’s mother, she was more than an equivalent match for his late mother.
“Can you blame me?” Clint asked, watching Mark scoop up handfuls of wet sand. “With his condition, he can’t—”
“He’s not dead yet,” Joan suddenly said, her voice a hoarse whisper. Clint turned to face her, his jaw tensing slightly. Joan sighed. “I’m sorry, Clint. I know,” she looked out at the young boy, “the doctors say he’s so fragile.” A look of knowing came across her, and Clint didn’t interrupt. “They tell you that a strong wind’s enough to crack their bones, that an ice cream sundae will overload them and fry their brain.” She shook her head, and then made eye contact with her son-in-law. “If it were me, I’d hate whoever put me in a hospital room to wait out my death.”
Clint looked away, the memory of Leah’s pale and lifeless eyes distant, but not so far removed that he wouldn’t shed a tear if he thought on it much longer.
Joan laid a hand on Clint’s.
“You’ve done well in raising him by yourself, Clint.”
“I wasn’t entirely alone,” Clint said with a smile.
“None of us should be,” she replied.
The two sat in silence a while, watching as Mark heaped up the wet sand only for it to be swept away by the tide. The sun began to set, and as the sky turned orange, Clint rose and walked toward Mark.
“Hey champ, ready to go?” he asked.
Mark sighed, his thin shoulders slumping slightly.
“What’s the matter?” Clint asked, lowering onto his haunches to face his son.
“My castle,” Mark said, pointing a dismal finger toward the day’s work. “I couldn’t get it very high. Every time the waves pulled it away.”
“Maybe it’s too close to the water,” Clint suggested. This didn’t make it any better for Mark, his castle was still hopelessly destroyed. “Tell you what, how about we make a better one tomorrow?”
Mark looked up at him.
“Yeah,” Clint nodded, “we can build it a little further away so it doesn’t get pulled in.”
Mark rose eagerly, imaginings of towering spirals and sandy palace hallways filling him as he and Clint walked toward Joan. They left the beach with the few other stragglers, sand creeping into their dry clothes and annoying them as they walked to Joan and Harold’s beach house.
“How was the beach, kiddo?” Harold asked when the three returned. “See any turtles?”
“No turtles Grandpa,” Mark said with a smile. “Turtles don’t come that close to the beach,” he added.
“Oh yes they do!” Harold insisted. “I’ve seen them!”
Mark’s eyes squinted in disbelief, but a bit of curiosity swam within his pupils.
“Don’t you want me to tell you about it?”
Mark nodded, and Harold grinned.
“Alright, but let’s get some ice cream first,” he said. “Every good story needs something to eat with it.”
And so he and Mark made their way to the kitchen while Clint and Joan took the beach clothes to the laundry room.
“That story’s not actually true, is it?” Clint asked, Harold’s deep storytelling voice booming through the house.
“Which one is he telling?” Joan asked, as if she couldn’t hear the story.
“The turtles, Ma,” Clint repeated, dumping the wet clothes into the washer. “Where he saw the baby turtles making their way to the sea?”
“And he got swept away in the waves with them,” Joan said, a corner of her mouth turning in a smile.
“Well, I know that part isn’t true,” Clint nodded, scoffing a bit to himself. “But he didn’t see any turtles, did he?” Harold’s voice became a loud whisper, and Clint stopped, thinking Mark was having one of his instances. Joan held his arm as Harold continued.
“And there I was,” his voice paused, and Clint could almost see his eyes vibrantly glistening. “Pulled into the sea as if I’d never walked on land a day in my life.” He gasped. “Sea turtles! Baby sea turtles everywhere!”
“How long were you under, Grandpa?” Mark’s soft voice whispered.
“I can’t say,” Harold replied wistfully. “I lost track of time completely. Could’ve been hours, days even.”
“Grandpa…” Mark said, “you would have died.”
“I certainly should have!” Harold said, and then continued thoughtfully. “But I think the turtles wanted to take me somewhere, to someone else.”
Mark didn’t ask, but Clint could tell that his son was fascinated with the story.
“You said sea turtles don’t come to the beach,” Harold said. “Where do you think they go after they’re born?”
“To the sea,” Mark said, a bit of a giggle in the back of his throat.
“Well yeah,” Harold chuckled. “But where in the sea?” he asked, his voice wistful and immediately capturing Mark.
Joan smiled and patted Clint’s arm.
“He always was a story-teller,” she said.
“So he didn’t actually see any turtles,” Clint concluded as they finished up the laundry.
“I didn’t say that,” Joan replied. “But the rest may be embellished,” she said with a smile. “Alright!” she announced as she walked in on Harold and Mark. “What movie we watching tonight?”
Clint watched the three of them a moment, observing the perfect distance Harold and Joan kept with Mark. They never showed any concerns for his health, but knew how to work around his twelve-year-old mind. Clint knew that Mark appreciated this, he could remember multiple times he’d been rebuked by his son for ‘hovering’. To some degree, he argued that he couldn’t help but hover. But he knew that Mark was an outlier enough as it was. Having a parent that monitors his every move would only move him farther away from a normal life, however long he had left to live it.
“I’m doing my best,” he whispered, glancing up a moment. “That’s all I can do, right?”
He then joined his family.
They made it to the beach earlier than yesterday, Mark made sure of that. He had built up his sandcastle blueprints in his head and had been sharing them ever since breakfast. Harold was off fishing, so it was just Joan, Clint, and Mark again. But they were more than enough for each other.
“Hurry, Dad!” Mark said, breaking into a run.
Clint almost told him to wait, not to run so fast, or even worse: be careful. But, he saw the excitement in his son’s eyes and refrained.
“The tide isn’t very high yet!” Mark relayed to Clint after he’d reached the sea.
“Perfect!” Clint answered as he caught up.
The first piece of building the sandcastle was to determine where to lay the foundation. Mark wanted it close to the water because he said it would look better with a moat. Also, if you push it too far away, he argued that it wasn’t half as cool. Clint argued that if they built so close to the water it would be demolished before the end of the day. If they moved it up, however, it would be safe and people could look at it for a long time after they’d left.
In the end, Clint ceded his argument, and they built it just a little further than Mark’s last castle.
“If I had built a better irrigation system, the castle wouldn’t have broke,” Mark explained. “So all we need to do is move the water better.”
“Maybe,” Clint said as he began to dig. “But eventually the water will disintegrate any irrigation system made of sand.”
“Trust me, dad,” Mark said, “I built like ten castles yesterday.”
Clint didn’t mention that all of them had broken, and kept digging until Mark was satisfied. Once he was, he drew out a map on the beach, blueprints for his castle.
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” Clint remarked, looking over the plans.
Mark didn’t answer, he was too caught up in setting the foundation for his greatest work. As he explained, it was crucial to create the irrigation paths first, so water would be diverted from the castle while they were building it. Clint listened patiently as his son instructed him how to dig the trenches and how deep to dig them. Clint was impressed by how thought out everything was but knew that his plans were flawed in small aspects. He hesitated in bringing these issues up, as the master-builder seemed very proud of his work.
“Lunch!” Joan called after they had been digging for a while.
Clint rose eagerly, while Mark looked over his scene with concern.
“Sand’ll still be here,” Clint said.
“But the waves might break our trenches if they’re not ready,” Mark protested.
“We’ll dig it out,” Clint assured him, “come on, it’ll be fine.”
Mark gave one last uncertain look at the half dug trenches before rising.
After lunch, they returned to find that the waters had crawled toward the trenches. Some of it had seeped over the edges and now pooled at the bottom, but no real damage had been done.
“See?” Clint said.
“Hurry,” Mark said, dropping to his hands and knees.
They continued digging, scraping away at the sand until a long trench had been dug out to protect their sandcastle. They then began to move on to the construction of the actual castle.
Same as with the trenches, Mark’s instructions were very specific and carefully planned. Clint wasn’t certain they were achievable, but he was committed to doing his best.
When they began building, Clint thought things were going well. Mark had several objections to his work, however. Several spires had to be redone, and Mark was constantly checking over his work. But what caught Clint’s attention most was the gradual increase in the size of the puddle within the trench. Although it wasn’t immediate, Clint could see that the puddle was growing.
“Hey chief,” he said, pointing the problem out. “You want me to dig this trench out a little more?”
Mark hurried over to the trench.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “But not too deep, or it will be dangerous for our castle.”
Clint nodded and began scraping wet sand from the bottom of the trench. As he did, he noticed more water seeping in as the tide grew stronger. He didn’t say anything to Mark, but could tell by his son’s repeating glances that he was growing worried.
“I can’t keep it all back,” Clint said as the trench filled halfway despite his best efforts. “The castle’s too close,” he concluded.
“Build a wall,” Mark said quickly, pointing to a spot in front of the trench.
“I don’t think it’ll help much,” Clint said.
“But it might stop the waves until the tide slows,” Mark said urgently.
Clint set to work on the wall, carrying sand from the upper beach so he wouldn’t create any divots that might damage their castle. As he worked, the gentle surge of the waves eased forward. They ate at its foundation, softening it and gradually forming it into a wet slump.
A sudden wave, larger than the others, pushed the saltwater up over Clint’s wall.
“No!” Mark exclaimed as the water passed over the full trench and struck the sandcastle. He quickly rushed to Clint’s wall, bending down to strengthen it.
“Mark, I don’t think we can stop the ocean,” Clint said as the waves continued to mount the wall.
Mark sat back and watched as the sea took his construction and turned it into mud. His expression was contemplative and grim, but Clint could tell he was theorizing new constructions that would last longer.
“What if we build it higher up tomorrow?” Clint suggested.
Mark nodded.
“Not too high, though,” Mark added. “A sandcastle needs to be by the sea.”
Clint nodded, although he knew that even a foot farther from today’s location wouldn’t have saved the castle. But he didn’t want to take over the project.
As they were leaving, Mark turned to take a last look at what had been his castle and gasped.
“Dad, look!” he whispered, pointing toward the ocean.
Clint turned, squinting in the dying sunlight.
“I don’t see anything,” he said after scanning the horizon.
“It’s a turtle, Dad!” Mark said. “Just like Grandpa’s story, except it’s a big turtle,” he whispered.
Clint peered out at the sea, but couldn’t see anything apart from the growing waves.
“I don’t see it,” he said again, shaking his head.
“It’s going under the waves now,” Mark said, captivated by whatever he saw. “It’s gone,” he said a moment later.
They both stood watching the waves a little longer, Mark eagerly hoping for the turtle’s shell to resurface and Clint glancing from the waves to his son.
“You ready to go?” he finally asked.
“Yeah,” Mark said as he turned from the ocean.
They left the beach, Mark occasionally glancing back, and the adults idly chatting about dinner.
“A turtle?” Harold said with visible awe as Mark explained his sighting.
“Not a baby one either,” Mark added, “a huge one!”
“Well…” Harold stroked his chin a moment. “You know what they say about seeing a big one this close to shore?”
Mark shook his head, now fully entranced and ready for another one of Grandpa’s stories. Clint smiled but found himself listening a little closer as he helped Joan in the kitchen.
“They say that seeing a large sea turtle close to the beach is a sign,” Harold explained. He was sitting on his favorite armchair and Mark was on the ground, eagerly looking up.
“A sign of what, Grandpa?” he asked.
“A sign from the other side,” he whispered in response. “An invitation to go to the other side.”
Mark was silent.
“That’s where all the baby turtles are going,” Harold continued, “and a big turtle only comes to shore to either lay eggs or take something with it.”
Clint began to cut the watermelon a little slower, his mind brewing over Harold’s words carefully.
“I don’t know if I like Dad telling him these stories,” he said to Joan, who had begun seasoning the fish Harold had caught.
“They’re harmless,” she said, “like fairytales.”
“But with his condition,” Clint protested, looking up from the watermelon. “An invitation to the other side?” he whispered. “Should he really be telling him that?”
“Why not?” Joan asked.
“It just seems too mature for him,” Clint continued. “He doesn’t understand all that’s happening, or what’s going to happen,” he added silently.
“He will eventually,” Joan said after a moment of quiet. “And if Harold’s stories give him a bit of hope when he does understand it, I don’t think they’re harmful.”
Clint didn’t answer.
“You remember Leah’s last moments,” Joan said. “She had some hope, and it made it easier for her to leave.”
Clint again said nothing. He hated comparing what Leah had gone through with what was happening to his son. It wasn’t fair to lose them both this way, for them to fade out so suddenly.
“I know it’s hard,” Joan said, and her voice was a little unstable. “Believe me, I remember when Leah—” she set the seasoning down a moment and placed both hands on the counter. She shook her head. “It isn’t right, and it isn’t fair. But we can’t do anything about it except let them go, and let them go well.”
Now Clint was placing his hands on the counter. His eyes were misty, but he wouldn’t shed any tears. Not yet, not while Mark was just a room away from him.
“Did you ever see a big turtle?” Mark’s soft voice came from the living room.
“Can’t say that I ever saw one so close to shore,” Harold replied. “Although my Grandma said she did.”
“Really?” Mark gasped.
“Yeah, on the very same beach. She said it was a great big green sea turtle,” he explained. He then added, “although, in those days Grandma’s sight was getting pretty bad, and none of us saw it. So we’re not sure if it really was there.”
“I believe her,” Mark said suddenly.
“Do you?” Harold chuckled. He then added thoughtfully, “so do I.”
Clint finished cutting the watermelon as Joan continued seasoning the fish.
“Let Mark listen to Harold’s stories,” Joan continued. “Let him build his sandcastles. These might be the last things he does.”
Clint placed the cut watermelon in the fridge and Joan put the fish in the oven. They then set the table as laughter from Mark and deep chuckles from Harold sailed from the living room.
The next day, they returned to the beach. Mark, certain that he had crafted the perfect design for an unshakable sandcastle, was eagerly skipping toward the shore. Clint and Joan followed behind, carrying chairs, snacks, towels, and an umbrella.
“Come on!” Mark said, observing the gentle seeping of the waves. “The tide’s not very strong yet!”
“Coming,” Clint replied as he set down his load and left Joan. “Are we going to build it higher up this time?” Clint asked as he reached his son.
“Yeah,” Mark said, “but only a little.”
“But—”
“Yesterday I should have had the wall built before the moat. And then,” he eagerly pointed to a new location, “the water wouldn’t have filled up the moat so quickly.”
“I think it would help to move it up a little further too,” Clint suggested. “Maybe up here?” he asked as he stood several feet from Mark’s location.
“No,” Mark shook his head, “that’s too far.”
“It’s going to break again,” Clint said.
“No it won’t,” Mark said confidently as he began to dig. “I’ll protect it.”
Clint smiled at his optimism and submitted to his son’s designs.
They earnestly set to work on Mark’s wall, building it thick and high, until Mark was satisfied. Clint was sure that when the high tide came the wall would be reduced to a slump of sand, but didn’t say so. They then began on the moat. This was done differently than the previous day, and all according to Mark’s new design. He instructed Clint to build it in a straight line that stretched far beyond the castle foundation in both directions. He then showed Clint to dig the trench deeper on the ends, so that any water that got in would be sent outward, away from the castle. This wasn’t a bad plan, but Clint knew that eventually the trench would fill up. There was more than enough water in the ocean to fill such a simple trench.
“This good?” Clint asked after he’d finished with his side of the trench. Mark walked over to observe it.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “great job Dad.”
His son’s applaud made Clint smile, but Mark quickly lept to the next step.
“Now we can start the castle,” he said.
This began much better than the previous day. Mark was confident that the wall and moat would hold off the waves, and set his mind eagerly on the castle. Clint was surprised by the detail he had envisioned and wasn’t sure he could keep up with his son’s demands. But he did his best and learned how to follow his instructions.
“No!” Mark exclaimed as a wave sloshed over the wall.
“It’s okay,” Clint said, “the trench is protecting the castle.”
Mark watched anxiously as another wave seeped over. But, as was the trench’s design, the water was carried away several feet in each direction where it began to pool. With the danger out of sight, Mark and Clint set back to building their castle. They made decent progress, and by the time Joan called them over for lunch, an impressive castle was being forged from the sand.
Mark ate anxiously and quickly, watching the castle from a distance.
“Ease up,” Joan said, “your castle will be fine.”
Clint knew otherwise, and further knew that Mark couldn’t do anything about the castle’s destruction.
“See anymore turtles?” Joan then asked.
Mark turned and gave her his full attention then, his eyes filling with Harold’s story.
“No,” he said, “but maybe I will later.”
“Maybe,” Clint said, still somewhat leery of Harold’s stories. “How did you think up all those designs for your castle?” he then asked, hoping to distract his son from stories about leaving this world.
“I thought of them,” Mark replied, as if it was a stupid question.
“Oh,” Clint nodded, “I thought maybe you did some research on sandcastles.”
Joan chuckled a little.
“Where’s the fun in following someone else’s directions?” she said. “It’s not a Lego set.”
Mark grinned too, his mind lifting from his sandcastle for a moment.
“Well sorry,” Clint scoffed with a smile. “Guess I like to be prepared.”
“Are you done?” Mark asked, rising and brushing off breadcrumbs.
“Yeah,” Clint said after finishing the last of his soda. He winked at Joan, “back to work.”
By the time they made it back to the construction site, Clint saw that they had a problem. The sea had nearly filled their trench, and parts of the foundation were softening.
“Hurry, take out some of the water!” Mark said, leaping to one side of the trench.
Clint obeyed, and he and Mark cupped their hands and scooped as much of the water out as they could. The waves kept coming, however, and soon their efforts were in vain. Saltwater lept up around them, and the walls of the castle began to droop.
Soon, the entire foundation was unstable and a portion of the wall collapsed.
Mark stood back in dismay as the scene unfolded. Clint sat amidst the waves, watching as the castle was swept away. He didn’t say “I told you so”, or suggest building further up. Mark came to that decision on his own.
“I guess you were right,” he said, his shoulders somewhat slouched. “Maybe tomorrow we should build it higher up.”
“Hey,” Clint gave him a light nudge, “we’ll make a better one, don’t worry.”
Mark nodded, but didn’t seem overly optimistic.
When it came time to leave, he didn’t turn to the sea hoping to catch sight of a turtle. He just walked slowly back toward the house, a few paces behind Joan and Clint.
Stepping into the house, they were greeted by the smell of rich seasoning and the sound of something sizzling in a frying pan.
“Welcome home!” Harold called from the kitchen.
Mark didn’t rush toward him like he had the previous two days, he seemed much more lost in thought, almost defeated.
“Smells good,” Joan said as she entered the kitchen. “Haven’t burnt anything yet,” she added.
“Hey now,” Harold winked at her, “as long as it’s in a frying pan I can cook it.”
Clint smiled and looked to Mark, but found that he had made his way silently to the porch. He followed his son, opening the screen door and casually stepping into the dusky air.
“You okay?” he asked as he took a seat beside Mark.
Mark nodded. It was a response anyone could see through, and Clint waited a moment to continue. He thought carefully of what to say, knowing that his advice on castle-building wouldn’t do much good.
“Your Mom used to love building sandcastles too,” he said.
Mark turned to face him then, his eyes curious.
“Yeah,” Clint continued. “We used to have contests to see who could build a better one.” Clint smiled in memory of the early days of their relationship. “Of course, ‘better’ was different to each of us. I said that if a sandcastle lasted longer, it was better.” Clint’s smile faded as the memories became more real. “She used to build amazing sandcastles. They looked like they were straight out of a fairy tale.”
Mark looked out at the beach, where the sun was dipping into the horizon.
“Her castles were a lot like yours,” Clint concluded, giving his son a gentle nudge.
“Did her’s break so quickly?” Mark then asked.
The question stopped Clint a moment, made him catch his breath.
“Yeah,” he said. “She liked to build them close to the water, like you.”
Mark smiled a little, and Clint’s eyes watered. The gentle curving of his lips was so similar to hers. He quickly looked away, out at the last red sliver of sunlight.
“Sandcastles don’t have to last forever,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll build the castle wherever you want.”
Mark nodded as he looked out at the beach. Clint knew he was already planning out the next masterpiece, each spire and wall crafted to suit his imagination.
They were soon called inside to test whatever Harold had cooked up. As they gathered around the table, Clint watched his son with a new pair of eyes, every small action now seeming so familiar and meaningful.
Clint woke with a start, a sound tearing from Mark’s room. He threw himself out of bed, through his door and into his son’s room.
“Mark!” he exclaimed as he saw his son bent over a bucket.
It took several minutes for Mark to stop vomiting, during which Harold and Joan had appeared and stood anxiously watching. Clint was beside Mark, a hand on his back and a glass of water in the other hand.
Mark took the glass eagerly after he had finished, his eyes red and his hands shaking softly.
“It’s alright,” Clint whispered, his hand now rubbing gently along Mark’s back. Harold took the bucket out of the room and into the nearest bathroom.
“I’m fine,” Mark said as Joan went to refill his glass.
“You sure?” Clint said, “you take your medication?”
Mark nodded.
“Why don’t we—”
“I just want to sleep, Dad,” Mark sighed as he climbed back into bed.
Clint watched him anxiously, the weary look in his son’s eyes haunting and familiar. He’d seen the same look in Leah’s eyes.
Harold returned with the bucket, and Joan placed another glass of water beside Mark’s bed. They all then exited the room, Harold and Joan back to their bedroom. Clint stayed in the hallway, sinking against the wall with his head on his arms.
The next day’s sandcastle was extraordinary. Clint and Mark worked in much better synchronization, each of them content with how their castle was being constructed. Mark had decided to build the castle further up, as Clint had suggested. But he had also decided that a sort of river would be built leading up to it, so that it could still be near water. This satisfied both of their designs, and allowed them to work in full confidence that this castle would be the best.
Given the previous night, Clint watched his son carefully for any sign of fatigue or weakness. And while he saw small signs, he saw such joy in his eyes as they built that he couldn’t pull him away. They were joking, talking, and working together, all in a way that they hadn’t done the days before. Clint heard and saw Leah, as if she was right beside them building a castle. He couldn’t remember a time he had been so happy, so fulfilled, yet so on the brink of loss as in that moment.
By the time the sun began to set, they were both satisfied and sat back admiring their castle.
“It’s perfect,” Mark said.
“The best,” Clint nodded.
The castle walls sat just beyond reach of the waves, but a small trench ran through it, bringing the ocean to the castle. Its structure and foundation were impressive and sturdy, and its walls decorated with intricate designs. It had spires reaching heavenward in majestic slopes and swirls, seashell imprints carefully placed along them.
“Let me get a picture,” Joan said as the sun began its descent.
Clint and Mark sat down beside the castle, one arm wrapped around each other. Joan’s phone sealed the memory, and they all rose to leave.
They walked up to the house, each of them happy and in a good mood. Both Clint and Mark were confident in their work, and were already making plans to add onto it the next day. Mark didn’t look back to check for turtles, but he did take one last look at their castle.
By the time they reached the house they could hear Harold cooking and humming to himself through one of the open windows. Joan sighed and smiled, and they made their way indoors.
“Wind’s kicking up,” Harold commented as a sharp breeze rushed past the screen door. He went to close the door. “Had to leave fishing early, the boys were saying a storm was coming in.”
“Will it make it here?” Mark asked.
“Wouldn’t doubt it,” Harold replied.
Mark looked to Clint, both of their minds instantly moving to the sandcastle.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Clint said and then added, “and if it breaks we’ll build another one.”
Mark nodded, but his eyes anxiously watched the bending trees through the window.
“Eat your fish,” Joan said, “before it gets cold.”
Mark did, but glance up occasionally.
“Any sea turtles today?” Harold asked after they’d finished dinner.
“No,” Mark answered. His mind was still on the beach, and his grandfather’s question hadn’t really resonated.
“Shame,” Harold commented before going into a fishing story he’d heard that day.
No one was really listening, although everyone pretended to be. Even Harold paused and glanced at the strength of the wind occasionally. Mark was most distracted of all, and kept fidgeting anxiously. Clint saw it, and noted his son’s politeness. He was concerned for their sandcastle, but wouldn’t interrupt his grandfather in the middle of a fishing story. Joan might have been listening, but she had heard this story many times and knew too well to be enthralled anymore.
“And then,” Harold’s voice grew sharp, gathering everyone’s attention. “Just like that, he was whisked off to the land beneath the waves, never to be seen again.”
“I think we’ve had enough stories,” Joan said, “Harold why don’t you bring the chairs in from the porch.”
Harold nodded, disappointed that storytime was over, but not wanting to lose another set of outdoor furniture to the wind.
“I’ll help,” Clint said as he rose to follow.
“Mark, come help me with my flower pots,” Joan said. Mark obeyed, and the two set off to the front of the house while Clint and Harold took to the back porch.
The wind swept over them the moment they opened the doors, pulling at their hair and clothes. One of the chairs had already been displaced a few feet, but they had made it before any real damage could be done.
“Gonna be bad,” Harold commented. “Might not be able to fish tomorrow,” he added.
“That bad?” Clint asked, scanning the beach for the sandcastle he and Mark had labored over.
“Don’t doubt it,” Harold replied. “Wind like this’ll bring in waves.”
Clint sighed, understanding what that meant for the sandcastle.
“Tomorrow should be good fun on the beach, though,” Harold added as they moved indoors with the chairs. “Lots of waves on the beach.”
Clint doubted that Mark would be so excited about the waves.
Clint woke to a sound, not so violent and sickening as the previous night’s. It was the simple shutting of a door. Clint rose quietly and stepped into the hallway. Walking past their room, Clint saw that Joan and Harold were still sleeping. Or at least, their door was closed. He froze when he got to Mark’s. It was wide open, an empty bed in the center of the room.
“Mark?” Clint whispered as he moved out of the hallway, out toward the back porch. The door wasn’t entirely shut, and the sharp wind sent hushed screams through the crack. Clint moved to the door and peered out it.
The waves were lapping up on the beach angrily, foam and sand churning at their forefront. Clint remembered Mark’s anxiety at the onset of the storm and understood that he had gone to check on the sandcastle.
“Joan! Harold!” Clint called as he stepped out.
His bare feet hit the cold sand, and gusts of wind tore at his body.
“Mark!” he shouted as he approached the beach. He could hardly himself, and doubted he would hear his son very well if he responded. Clint moved toward where they had built their sandcastle. “Mark!” he called again.
“Look!” the voice of his son called out.
Clint stopped, straining to see his son. He made out the shape of the sandcastle, which was much less detailed as it had been only a few hours ago. The sea had filled the channels and eaten away at its foundations. It was only a matter of time before it fell.
“Mark!” Clint repeated after seeing his son beside the castle. “Mark, let’s go!”
But Mark didn’t turn toward the house, or to Clint. He kept his eyes on the sea, or something in it.
“Look,” Mark repeated, pointing to the water.
“I don’t see anything!” Clint shouted as he stepped toward his son.
“A turtle!” Mark shouted, stepping away from his father and toward the sea. “Just like grandpa said, a giant green turtle!”
Clint turned to where Mark was pointing, but saw only the volatile ocean.
“Come on, son!” Clint shouted, growing frustrated. He reached out to take Mark’s arm, but he dodged it and stepped away. “Mark!”
“The turtle!” Mark shouted back, now making eye contact. His eyes stopped Clint, made him catch his breath. They were peaceful and even excited like hers had been. “I’m supposed to go with it,” Mark said.
Clint snapped out of his trance and grabbed hold of Mark.
“No,” he shouted firmly, “come on!”
Mark struggled, a sudden surge of desperate urgency coming over him. In his surprise, Clint’s grip slipped. Mark had always been a tender child, soft-spoken and gentle. This kind of action was unlike him, and it startled Clint.
“Mark!” Clint shouted as his son began to run toward the sea. He followed as best he could, but was stopped when a wave rose above both of their heads. It crashed over them, throwing even Clint back toward the beach. Clint felt salt and sand smear across his eyes, but quickly rose and turned as the sea pulled back its long arms. “Mark!” he shouted, seeing nothing but the next wave. It struck but was much less violent than the previous one.
Clint continued screaming and calling, running into the sea as the waves became less and less powerful. But Mark was gone.
After several hours, Harold entered the water to pull Clint out.
“We’ve called the coast guard,” he said, putting a firm hand on Clint’s shoulder. “There’s nothing more you can do.”
Clint didn’t answer. He took one last look at the cold and cruel expanse before leaving.
Joan wrapped her arms around him when he made it to the beach. Clint followed suit and hung his head low. His eyes fell to the sandcastle, or rather, where it had been.
A small mound, littered with shells, lay where Mark’s creative endeavors had once stood.
No one said a word as they slowly made their way up to the beach house.
Clint woke sharply, sweat coating his face and his breath coming in quick rasps. It took him a second to capture his thoughts and memories, but much less time to leap out of bed and rush out of the room.
His eyes watered as he ran down the hallway and came to Mark’s room.
He held out his hand, staring at it a moment as it shook gently. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily before turning the handle.
The door creaked open, and Clint peered through the slit in the door.
There, resting peacefully, was his son.
Clint sighed, and let several tears slip out. He smiled weakly, his heart pounding but his spirit soaring.
“Thank God,” he whispered as he shut the door.
He then walked out to the kitchen, where the sun was just beginning to slip over the horizon and through the windows. Clint saw Harold, standing in the kitchen and watching the sun with a cup of coffee.
“Thought I heard something,” Harold remarked, turning when Clint entered. He was smiling, but sobered when he saw the remnants of Clint’s emotion. He then turned around and poured a cup of coffee. He handed it to Clint and then turned back to the ocean.
“Look at how peaceful it is now,” Harold said as they both looked out at the sea. “And here I thought I wouldn’t be able to fish today.”
Clint saw the sea, saw the gentle waves lapping onto the beach, and found it calm and soothing despite the horror it had brought in his sleep.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Harold didn’t turn to face Clint, but kept his eyes on the sea. “Such calm after a storm?”
“Yeah,” Clint murmured.
Harold smiled and nodded.
“It’ll be alright, Clint,” he said. “There’s always calm to be found after a storm.” He then turned and gave Clint a tender smile. “Always.”
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