Barefoot In The Sand

You see, we could outrun any mainlander on our turf: beach sand. This came in handy when we saw one of these tenderfeet* encroaching on our territory, the land that belonged to the people of the sea. They had no right to be here, so we could put a thumb on our nose, wiggle our fingers and get away with it.

*Tenderfeet (noun, plural: Idiots from the mainland who wore shoes during the summer and, thus, had feet as sensitive as children. Also, similar idiots who couldn’t take hot sand.)

“Ha, ha,” we would sneer; “a little hot for you fairies? Stones a little rough for your feet, wimps?” Waggle, waggle went the fingers and run, run went the feet. Across the sand we went, as graceful and nearly as fast as sandpipers.

With the balls of our feet digging into the back edge of previous footprints, we can easily outrun the flatlanders who are putting their heels into flat, virgin sand. Meanwhile, we are chasing seagulls out of the way, gaining distance, thankful of our heritage as seagoing people, beach-dwellers.

We can have fun, too, at night when the few paths up to the road are almost invisible through the thick, impenetrable scrub. Do almost anything you want to those people and only you know the quick way out of there. Hide in the scrub and they’ll never find you. Oh, it’s fun being beach people.