Dad said they were going to the beach, and Sophia immediately had a plan.
The plan involved three buckets, two spades, one special shell she'd been saving, and a very important hat.
"Biiiig," agreed Amelia, who had no idea what a sandcastle was.
Mum packed the sunscreen. Dad packed the bags. Amelia packed her toy dinosaur and a single sock.
Just the one sock. No one knows why.
The beach was perfect. The sand was warm. The waves were just the right size — big enough to be exciting, small enough that Dad didn't have a heart attack every two minutes.
Sophia got to work immediately. She had a vision. Towers. A moat. A drawbridge made from a paddle-pop stick she'd found in the car. She dug and patted and shaped with the focused energy of a tiny construction worker.
"'Kay," said Amelia.
Amelia sat down directly on top of it.
Not on purpose. She simply wanted to sit, and the sandcastle was there, and sitting seemed like a good idea. It made a very satisfying crunching noise.
Sophia stared at the flat patch of sand where her towers had been.
She took a deep breath. "I'm going to build it again," she said. "Bigger."
This is very her.
After the sandcastle (the second one, which survived), Sophia had a new idea.
Dad should have asked more questions. But he was warm and sleepy from the sun, and lying down sounded lovely.
When he opened his eyes, he was buried up to his neck in sand. Both girls were patting it down with their spades, very pleased with themselves. Amelia had put a small flag on his nose.
"Am I the biggest sandcastle in the world?" asked Dad.
"Yes," she said. "But Amelia might sit on you."
Mum took approximately forty photographs.
The seagulls came for Dad's chips on the way home. Amelia tried to feed them. Sophia tried to catch one. Dad had sand in places sand should not be.
In the car, both girls were asleep before they reached the highway, their cheeks pink, their hair full of sand, their hands still slightly damp.
