A little Lenten story

An English seaside town, its name suffixed with something left behind by the Romans. A sandy beach with buckets and spades, Punch and Judy, donkey rides, sandwiches gritty with their namesake, seagulls looking for leftover ice cream cones. At low tide, the channel drains like a bathtub toward the ocean, exposing broad mudflats. Sent to wash off her sandpaper ankles, a child might find herself sucked knee-deep into the mire. A slosh and a paddle in the sea still leave the dilemma of how to come back clean. The little pail of water she could scoop in the shallows would not do the trick; the stuff was too sticky. Did they not know, the weary ones worn out by a day of childish joy, who sent her to wash the evidence away, that there was no way, unless someone were to carry her?

A note on the featured image: this beach is not that beach.