Every week, we go to the beach. Not for a swim. Not for a picnic. Not for any of the things most families go to the beach for. We go because Kya wants me to draw in the sand.
It started by accident. We were having a wander one Saturday afternoon – coats on, wind in our faces, Kya doing her thing where she walks just slightly ahead of us with her hands out like she’s feeling the air. I picked up a stick and doodled a smiley face in the wet sand while she wasn’t looking. When she turned around, she stopped dead. Stared at it. Then looked at me. Then looked at the stick. Then grabbed my hand and pulled it toward the sand.
“More.”
So I drew more. A star. A flower. A wonky cat. Each time I finished one, she’d study it for a moment, then tug my hand again. More. More. More. We were there for over an hour. I drew everything I could think of – houses, trees, fish, the sun, a terrible attempt at a dog. Kya watched every single line like it was the most important thing in the world.
That was about two years ago. We haven’t missed a week since.
It’s become our ritual. Saturday or Sunday, depending on the weather and how the week’s been. She knows when it’s beach day – she’ll find her coat, stand by the door, and wait. No words needed. The routine says everything. When we get there, she walks straight to the same stretch of sand – always the same spot, always near the water line where the sand is flat and firm – and she grabs my hand and points down.
I’ve become a surprisingly decent sand artist, if I do say so myself. Started with stick figures and smiley faces. Then she moved on to her favourite cartoon characters. Peppa Pig was the first request – she grabbed my phone, opened the browser, and started scrolling through images online until she found the exact Peppa she wanted. Not just any Peppa. The right pose. The right smile. The right expression. When she found it, she held the phone up to my face and pointed at the sand.
So I drew Peppa Pig in the sand. And it was… not great. Kya looked at it. Looked at the phone. Looked back at the sand. “Rubbish.”
Fair enough. I tried again. Still not right – the smile was wrong, apparently. “Rubbish.” Third attempt. The ears were off. “Rubbish.” By the fourth go I was squinting at a phone screen in the wind, drawing a cartoon pig in wet sand with a stick, with the world’s most exacting art critic standing behind me. But when I finally got it right – when the smile matched, the ears were round enough, the eyes were in the right place – she did this little bounce on her toes, hands flapping, and stood next to it like it was hers.
That became the game. Peppa Pig, Tickety Toc, characters from whatever she’s into that week. She scrolls, she chooses, she holds up the phone, I draw. If it’s wrong, I hear about it. One word is all she needs. And I start again, because getting it right matters to her – and because the look on her face when it is right is worth every failed attempt.
The tide washes them all away by evening. But that’s not the point. The point is the drawing. The being there. The doing it together.
The beach itself is brilliant for Kya. The sound of the waves is constant and predictable – no sudden noises, no alarms, no hand dryers. The wind gives her that sensory input her body craves. She’ll stand with her arms out, eyes closed, letting it push against her. The sand under her feet, the salt in the air, the cold on her cheeks – it’s like a full-body sensory reset. She always leaves calmer than she arrives.
And the space. That’s the other thing. No walls. No crowds. No queues. Just open sky and flat sand and room to move. She can jump, flap, spin, bounce – whatever her body needs – and nobody bats an eye. There’s something about a beach that makes everyone a bit freer. Kya just takes it one step further.
Sometimes other children come over to watch me draw. Kya doesn’t mind – she keeps her distance, but she watches them watching. I think she likes that other people enjoy the pictures too, even if she’d never tell you that. She just stands a few steps back, hands flapping gently, and waits for them to go so she can have the sand to herself again.
People ask me sometimes why we go every week. “Doesn’t it get boring? It’s the same beach. The same thing every time.” And I always think – that’s exactly why it works. It’s the same beach. The same spot. The same routine. For Kya, that sameness isn’t boring. It’s safe. It’s where she knows every footstep before she takes it. And inside that safety, she’s free.
The tide washes the drawings away every time. We rarely take photos of them. They exist for an afternoon and then they’re gone. But I don’t think Kya cares about keeping them. She cares about the making. The watching. The quiet, sandy, windy hour where it’s just us and a stick and the whole beach to fill.
Last Saturday, she scrolled for ages before she found what she wanted. A strawberry. Just a simple strawberry. I drew it big – right near the water line – and for once she didn’t say rubbish. She picked up a stick herself, crouched down next to it, and drew a wobbly line beside it. Just one line. But she looked up at me afterwards with this expression like she’d just painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Then we sat down together on the damp sand and watched the sea creep in, wave by wave, until the strawberry and the wobbly line were gone. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t mind at all. She just stood up, grabbed my hand, and pointed at a fresh patch of sand.
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