The Sandcastle We Built in the Rain

In 1990, when you were ten and your brother was six, we took the trip to Galveston we had been talking about for weeks.

The plan was simple: a few days at the beach, sandcastles, seafood, sunshine, and a car ride home with everyone tired and sunburned. You boys were so excited you packed your swimsuits several days early and kept asking if it was time to leave yet.

I had checked the weather before we went. It showed a chance of rain, but on the Gulf Coast there was almost always a chance of rain. I pictured a quick afternoon shower, maybe an hour inside, and then back to the beach.

That was not what happened.

We arrived late in the afternoon, unloaded the car, and hurried down to see the water before dinner. The sky was already turning dark, but after hours in the car, nobody wanted to wait. We had been on the beach maybe fifteen minutes when the wind picked up. At first it felt nice. Then someone’s beach umbrella went tumbling past us like a giant wheel, and a few seconds later we heard thunder.

I told everybody it was time to head back. Your brother had already started digging what he called a “shark trap,” and he was very upset that the sharks were apparently going to escape. You were trying to carry half the beach back with us in a plastic bucket. We had barely reached the hotel when the rain started coming down sideways.

That first storm lasted most of the evening. We stood by the window watching palm trees bend in the wind while the television kept interrupting with weather alerts. You boys thought it was fantastic. I was less enthusiastic.

We had planned to walk along the seawall and find a restaurant, but nobody wanted to drive in that rain. So our first big vacation dinner came from a convenience store down the street: microwave burritos, chips, cheese crackers, and little powdered doughnuts. I remember apologizing because it was not exactly the seafood dinner I had promised.

You said, “This is better. We can eat in bed.”

You were not actually allowed to eat in bed, but somehow both of you ended up doing it anyway.

The next morning, we woke up early and looked out the window. Still raining. Not a little drizzle, either. It was the kind of rain that made the whole world look gray. The parking lot had become one big puddle, and water ran down the windows in sheets.

We decided to wait it out. You boys put on your swimsuits anyway, as if dressing for the beach might somehow improve the weather. By ten o’clock, your brother was jumping from one bed to the other, and you were trying to build a fort out of every pillow in the room. That was when we announced we were going to the aquarium.

Apparently, every other family in Galveston had the same idea. The parking lot was packed. The lobby was packed. There were wet children everywhere, and the whole place smelled like raincoats and popcorn. But once we got inside, you boys loved it.

You stood forever in front of the shark tank. Your brother kept asking whether any of those sharks could have fallen into the trap he had built the day before. You read every sign and corrected us whenever we got a fish’s name wrong. At one point, your brother pressed both hands and his face against the glass just as a huge fish swam by. It startled him so badly that he fell backward onto the floor. He was fine, but you laughed so hard you could barely stand up.

Afterward, we went to a restaurant near the seawall. The rain had slowed down, and for a moment we thought our luck might be changing. Then the power went out.

The restaurant went completely dark for about three seconds before the emergency lights came on. People started clapping, for some reason. The kitchen could not cook anything, so the waiter brought us whatever was already prepared. We ate cold shrimp, dinner rolls, and slices of pie. Your brother called it the fanciest picnic he had ever been to.

That afternoon, the rain finally stopped. The sky was still cloudy, but we did not care. We grabbed the beach bag and ran outside before the weather could change its mind.

The beach looked completely different after the storm. Seaweed was piled along the shore, driftwood was scattered everywhere, and the waves were rough and muddy. It was not the beautiful blue-water beach from the postcards, but you boys acted like you had discovered buried treasure.

You collected shells, pieces of smooth wood, bottle caps, and one old sandal I made you put back. Your brother found a piece of driftwood shaped like a sword. You found a long piece that looked like a cane. For the next hour, the two of you played pirates while we walked along the beach behind you.

Then you found a crab. It was not a particularly large crab, but your brother screamed as if he had discovered a sea monster. The crab raised its claws, your brother dropped his driftwood sword, and both of you took off running. For the rest of the trip, that crab got bigger every time you told the story. By dinner, it was apparently the size of a dinner plate.

The following morning was supposed to be our big beach day. The sun was finally out. We woke up early, covered everybody in sunscreen, packed snacks, carried all our chairs and toys down to the sand, and found the perfect spot.

Then we realized we had left the bag with all the towels in the hotel room.

I went back for the towels. By the time I returned, your brother had stepped on something sharp, you had sand in your eyes, and one of our beach chairs had collapsed. Nobody was seriously hurt, but there was a lot of complaining.

We managed to get everyone settled, and for about twenty minutes, things went according to plan. Then the rain came back.

There was no thunder this time, so we stayed. We sat under the umbrella while the rain fell around us. You boys ran into the water, came back out, rolled in the wet sand, and ran in again. There was no point trying to keep anything dry, so pretty soon we stopped trying.

We built an enormous sandcastle in the rain. It had towers, tunnels, a moat, and a wall made out of shells. Your brother decorated it with seaweed. You insisted that every section needed a name. We stayed out there until the rain stopped, and then we watched the waves slowly wash the whole thing away.

That evening, we drove along the seawall with the windows down. Everything smelled like salt and wet pavement. We found a little restaurant that was open and had power, and we finally got the seafood dinner we had been talking about. You ordered fried shrimp. Your brother ordered a hamburger. After everything, he had no interest in seafood.

On our last morning, the weather was perfect. Blue sky. No wind. Not a cloud anywhere. Of course, we had to check out and drive home.

We went down to the beach for one last walk. You boys took off your shoes and ran along the edge of the water. Your brother found another crab hole and kept a very safe distance from it.

Before we left, we took a family picture on the seawall. Our hair was a mess. Your brother had a scrape on his knee. You were holding that piece of driftwood like an old man’s walking stick. None of us looked like we belonged in a vacation brochure. But everybody was smiling.

For years afterward, whenever we talked about that trip, we never talked about the vacation we had planned. We talked about the convenience-store dinner, the shark tank, the power outage, the pirate battle, the giant crab, and the sandcastle we built in the rain.

At the time, I thought almost everything had gone wrong. Looking back, I think that was what made it such a good trip.

We did not get the perfect beach vacation. We got a family story.