There is something culturally significant and alluring about the Australian coastline. Between its rugged southern cliffs and the tropical northern points lie a myriad of seductive sandy coves or stretches of long white beaches that spear the horizon like a comet in the night sky, bordered by thousands of miles of dunes with hues and shades to make a rainbow weep in despair at its own lack of beauty.
The Aussie sun, sand and surf is infamous for its body beautiful, bronzed bathers but equally, more recently, for the less appealling 'beached whales' that accompany the army of eskys and umbrellas on most weekends and public holidays. But while the aesthetic lustre of naked skin and lustful curves becomes a rarer and less forgiving sight, some things will never change.
Since the earliest of times, small children have watched attentively as older siblings built sand castles that often resembled St Basil's Cathedral as if it were sculpted by a collaboration of Picasso and Dali in a fit of artistic chaos fuelled by a night of absinthe and opium.
Adorned by whatever flotsam and jetsam happens to be scavenged from the shoreline, these remarkable constructions bear little resemblance to reality and, briefly, even seem to defy the laws of physics before being crushed by the youngest child as they pounce on the precariously teetering turrets in a cataclysmic demolition of 9/11 proportions.
The juvenile engineers will scream with disdain and the adults quickly intervene to prevent retaliatory strikes from those armed with plastic pails and shovels. A grey haired mediator is appointed to assess ground zero and resolves to assist in the reconstruction effort, promising to "build it bigger and stronger and better than before".
All parties excitedly agree to the proposal, with the false hope that the mediator has some esoteric knowledge about the qualities of sand and water. The building phase resumes once more as the sounds of peace echo through the warm breeze, caress the ocean spray and frolic with the screech of gulls.
Solid foundations are mapped out and compacted by a hundred eager footsteps. Walls are built as thick as they are high, and a moat is dug wide enough for any suitably scaled clipper to navigate at sailing speed without fear of running aground. An esky lid becomes the drawbridge, ensuring that a two year old giant can view the progress without causing further havoc.
Turrets soar into the air, three and four pails high. A pail being the industry standard measurement for feats of engineering in this environment. The ageing foreman takes on most of the critical labouring tasks himself and sends his minions scurrying down the shoreline and into the dunes to secure materials for the fortification of the great building.
Many grand and exotic paraphernalia are returned to site and are first shown to respective mothers and grandmothers for assessment. A grimace or look of disgust from the matriarchs are a signal of approval to the proud scavengers and only increase their enjoyment of this collaborative effort as they squeal with laughter at their daring insolence.
Nature is recycled in a way that even the gods could not have predicted. Crab limbs become cannons, pieces of shell that survived the tumbling across reefs are reborn as armour cladding for battlements, while cuttlefish remains form the many brattices and hoardings from which the army can defend the castle walls. Strips of seaweed are tied to twigs and placed high atop each turret to proudly announce the royal standard under which this city is protected.
A quarrel breaks out between the three boys over who should be king. As swords are drawn and duels challenged, a fair lady charms the would-be knights with her siren voice and proclaims that Queen Barbie of Malibu shall rule, promptly placing Her Majesty atop the largest building in the keep.
The small guild of artisans stand back to admire their work and the foreman instructs the 2 year old giant how to dig away a small portion from the side of the moat and create a trench toward the ocean.
With each consecutive wave lapping the shore, a trickle of water begins to emerge in the trench. Six waves later and the sea starts streaming into the moat as the sandsmiths jump and squeal and clap their hands in appreciation of the miracle unfolding before them.
Matriarchs of two eras are dragged from their comfortably reclined positions and begged to give attention to the grand design of the latest generation. Pleasantries and polite accolades are duly offered and received before life is allowed to return to its dull, but serene, talk of the latest health concerns for poor Aunt Sally.
Back to the new fortification protecting Australia's shores, the builders seemed to have moved onto new projects. The three boys taking the southern part of the kingdom for practising their swordsmanship and jousting skills while their two female counterparts attend to Queen Barbie, ensuring that the castle is appropriately fitted with everything Her Majesty desires.
The two year old giant is given a royal pardon, appointed to be the city's sentry and allowed to wade through the moat on the promise to never touch the castle.
As the warm afternoon becomes cooler with a shifting southerly breeze swirling sand around legs and into eyes, it is time to pack away the accoutrements of modern civilisation and bid the medieval fortress a fond farewell.
With its creators carried away by horseless carriages that are unfamiliar to its own era, the empty relic stands forlornly on the beach like a discarded toy in a field.
In a few short hours the sun will set on this small human endeavour. The flags blown from their poles by gusts of wind, the tide creeping in and lashing away at every grain of sand in its foundations, with the towers eventually crumbling into ruin.
By sunrise the next day, no trace of the thriving civilisation would remain where once Queen Barbie of Malibu ruled.
The pride of humanity over its entire existence is simply no match for the endless humility of nature.
