Bournemouth beach and its broken promises

Oh Bournemouth beach why do you never live up to your promises? Every time my father ask “kids do you want to go the beach” my brother and sister erupt in fits of glee, as their minds conjure up images of nirvana with warm blanket heat, golden sheets and sparkling oceans to kiss your feet.   But their young and I’m older; I know the truth behind the deceit. Only in the postcards does the sun ever come out during the day. You could spend entire afternoons building castles and fortresses on the sand, but the moment you turn your back they turn into crumbling heaps. As for the ocean, he’s the greatest magician of them all, he tantalises you with gleaming blues that serenades with the dream that it will envelope you in a warm embraces. But when you finally offer yourself up for the comforting delight that is sure to come, you’re instead pricked with millions of tiny needles made of ice that are so unfun. That’s what the sea does best, it tricks you and you never see it coming.

We arrive at the beach and my brother and sister are quickly lured by the bells, whistles and flashing lights of the arcade, the promises of instant riches with one insert of the coin. Their minds then quickly fathom the pools of ice cream, friendships with the stars and journeys to the moon. But their younger and I’m older and I know it’s all just a ruse. Like a genie in the lamp, the arcade cajoles you into thinking it is the route of all wish fulfilments, but what he doesn’t tell you is that the wishes come at a prices, your losing. To have the pool of ice cream, you would have to buy the big house in the first places. To have friendships with the stars you would have to buy a telescope long enough to see them. If you wanted a trip to the moon, you would first have to buy enough fuel to get to mars. In the arcade you always receive less then what you have given, check your pockets for holes.

But then my dad points his large paw triumphantly to the skies, instantly my brother and sisters follow his gaze without a slither of defiance because they are younger. But because I’m older I try my best to look the other way, wise because I know the beach has nothing to offer me. But soon their awes of amazement flood into the air and I can’t stop myself from being drowned in temptation to whip around. But they’re younger and I’m older and it is my duties to have twice the fun, so I spin around and there I see it and finally I’m glad I have come. It doesn’t matter anymore that my brothers and sisters are younger and I’m older, because equally our faces are lit up by pops of red and our eyes dazzled by bursts of purple. For what I see in the summit of sky is the hand of god reaching through the clouds in a crown of light. Finally reminding me how beautiful Bournemouth beach can be during the setting sun and why I want to come back here tomorrow and the days after that, why I want to desperately grab all its beauty and shove it in my pocket to take away with me and why I love Bournemouth beach.

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