The Sandcastle

On the shore, past the turning of the tide, I came upon a lonely sandcastle fighting bravely against the sea battering its walls relentlessly in a cascade of ever-higher waves. Whoever had built it designed it to last, reinforcing its walls with large sea shells and adorning it with tall towers and sturdy ramparts. For a few moments, it seemed to work, as at first, the spent surf barely tickled the castle’s foundations. Over time, as the water rose and the waves became more fearsome, the mighty castle began to crumble.

First, the walls began eroding from the bottom, ever-more concave, topped by cantilevered overhangs clinging precariously to the sandy parapets. Then, ominous cracks started to form, as the outer walls separated from the main structure, eventually succumbing to the never-ending hammering of the waves. As the water climbed further up the beach, the castle was encircled, its sands swept away by the waters rushing back to sea, a forlorn holdout of human endeavor in a vast and immensely powerful ocean. One by one, the ramparts tumbled, the walls cracked and fell to their doom, until the castle was overrun completely, covered by the surf and gone from memory.

I stood, as if riveted to the beach, fascinated by the drama of sand and water, as the sandcastle succumbed to its fate. This scene, versions of which have been playing out on Earth for billions of years, reminded me that like the sandcastle, our lives are fleeting, and a mere turning of the tide can wash us away, out of action, and soon forgotten. Is everything so temporary and pointless? If, in the end, we are nothing more than sandcastles, nothing we do really matters. Our hopes and dreams die with us, and even as we live, our days are spent resisting the inevitable tide of time, pushing off the day when we, too, are erased from existence.

And yet, I was also struck by the incredible beauty of the scene, every drop of water and grain of sand telling a story. Who were the builders, now long gone, their souls etched temporarily onto the beach? Would they return to check on their creation? Would they be sad to see it obliterated? As I gazed upon the destruction of their handiwork, their story became mine, and now, through these words, yours. Long after the sandcastle’s demise, and even after I, too, have succumbed to the inevitable, the story might live on.

Meanwhile, we live and must celebrate each moment, enjoying the ocean breeze, rejoicing as the cool waves splash at our ankles, cherishing the sound of surf and gull, and watching in fascination as the tale of sand and water unfolds before our eyes. In the end, the ocean always wins, taking back what it has given. But in the small space between creation and loss is our moment, frozen in time, and if we pause and pay attention, we are rewarded with a glimpse of the eternal.