We never spent many summerdays on the beach. Temperatures are fickle creatures here, and more than one day of sun is needed to heat up the fringes of the atlantic ocean. Still we were blessed with pockets of white sand beaches trapped between green grass and fjords. The sheep were never far away, their breaking bleat intermingling with the calls of seagulls and the waves. Black turds would scatter the beach, next to the upcasted spirals of wet sand, the castle entrance to the lugworm’s hole. Once tired of my own experiments in architecture I would try to scoop up the lugworm’s casting with my shovel, watching the fragile structure crumble at the edges. I hardly ever saw the fat king himself, buried as he was in his underground gallery. But I did find the shrimps. Wading in the water till the pain circling my ankels was numbed, I would search out that very slight bump in the sand. Before my eyes adjusted they would often take me by surprise, tickling the soles of my feet as I overstepped. After the shrimps, our eyes would search for crabs, hermit crabs, small fish, whatever that was beautiful, bizarre, colourful, alive. We would fill our buckets, our cups or bottles, trapping those creatures in red plastic for a brief afternoon. Just before leaving we would run out into the sea for our last bath, daring each other to dip our head too, then race back and rub our trembling bodies with the hard towels, the sand scrubbing our red skin. Our clothing stuck to our skin, the sand to our sandals, we gave our borrowed treasures back to the sea. We waved, laughed, said goodbye, the echo of our laughter ebbing out with the waves together with the last jig of summer.

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