Team Sandcastle and the Pelican

I went to the beach alone on a Saturday in July with a paperback and no plans. Near my towel, a sign announced the annual sandcastle contest, teams of four, starting at nine. I'd never built anything bigger than a bucket mold.

A family of three from Ohio was short a member. The mom looked at me, looked at my shovel and said, "You're hired."

For four hours, we dug, packed and carved. The dad was an architect and drew plans in the sand with a stick. Their twelve-year-old daughter had a gift for tiny windows. The mom kept us hydrated with frozen grapes. My job was hauling wet sand, which I did with enormous pride.

We built a lighthouse keeper's cottage with a spiral staircase and a pelican perched on the roof. We came in second, losing to a team of retired engineers who built the Taj Mahal.

We exchanged emails. They sent me a framed photo at Christmas: four sunburned people kneeling behind a pelican, grinning like fools.