On Becoming a Sand Monster - Holiday 2005

My Dad (Maia's Papi) is a very accomplished man. He is well read, funny, a whizz at cards, works hard and is very good at what he does. He is also totally immune to the 'eeeewww' factor when it comes to sand. As a kid, I remember watching in awe as he would flop, face first, into a huge pile of sand on Rose Island and happily sleep in its grainy embrace. He would emerge, an hour or two later, rising from the sand like a Japanese B Movie monster to go and wash it off, usually treading on my carefully laid out, religiously sand-free towel.

Anyway, Maia's inital reaction to sand was very much closer to my end of the scale than his. She, when placed feet first on the sand, retracted her undercarriage and demanded that her feet be cleaned.

Papi decided that this was Not On. Time to Impart some Wisdom. Time to reveal the Secret of Being a Sand Monster.

I don't know what was said. I don't know how he did it. But he took a kid who spent 5 minutes cleaning between her toes after each step and sat with her in the ocean wash, getting enough sand in her keks to build a moderate sized castle. And in the process, set up this lovely, lovely photo.