It was a semi-prime beach day, in the low 80s with hazy sunshine. Accordingly, Crane’s Beach in Ipswitch was semi-packed.
Next to our umbrella was a brigade of tanned, toned women who could cruelly be identified as middle-aged. They sat in chairs in a single line facing the sun, and only one of them would talk at one time. She’d deliver a long narrative in a lilting drone until someone else roused to take over the vocal duties. When not talking, the women closed their eyes and sipped from cans that I later identified as Tab.
Except for this klatch of lethargic housewives, our spot of beach was quiet. The ebbing low tide waves lulled us into beach comas. And then –
“Wir sitzen hier!” Brash German voices assailed the peace. A group of strapping adults and two blond boys strode onto the patch of sand directly in front of us. Blankets were unfurled, buckets of toys were emptied, and conversation was screamed.
“Gesetzte die Sonnencreme auf deinen Schultern!” the mother screamed at the children before attacking them with a bottle of Neutrogena sunscreen.
“Das wasser ist sehr kalt!” one man screamed to the others as he ventured into the frigid ocean.
“Wo ist die Schaufel?” a child screamed at no one in particular, repeatedly.
“Oo-luh-luh,” Mr. Pinault said. “An invasion.”
The German youths immediately set upon building a sand castle. Soon, the entire clan pitched in to forge a sand empire that expanded in territory down the shoreline at an alarming rate. Mr. Pinault eyed them warily, like a cat monitoring a pack of dogs.
I decided to take a stroll down to the tidal flats. When I returned some time later, the German family had just finished packing up their things. They nodded to me as we crossed paths in the sand. I stepped past the sand kingdom as it melted into the tide.
“We won,” Mr. Pinault said, relaxing in his chair.
“Because the American showed up,” I said, kissing his liberated French face.
