Salt, Sand, and Sanctified Sugar

Behold! A miracle of Midgard: I slept in. Until 9:30am, no less. A feat not achieved since the Battle of Broken Sleep began many moons ago, somewhere around the birth of my first youngling. And lo—upon waking, I felt not like a war-torn berserker clawing his way from the grave, but like a meadow flower kissed gently by the sun. (Well. A flower with lower back pain and plantar fascitis.)

The little warriors —my son, James the Whinging, and my neice, Amelia the Talkative— were already vibrating with glee, having sensed our destination with the same precision a raven finds carrion. We were going to the beach—that sacred shoreline where man meets the edge of the world, and children scream into the void because their toes touched seaweed.

As is custom in Clan Ragnarsson, I brewed their morning potions (builders tea, not that herbal coward-water), because let’s be honest—if your offspring aren’t somewhat addicted to caffeine by age four, are you even preparing them for Ragnarok?

The skies were merciful. Sunlight danced behind grey veils like a coy lover, and a gentle breeze kept us from melting into sweaty puddles of our former selves. While the younglings conspired over which toys to bring (answer: all of them), I sat cross-legged upon the living room floor, reflecting on her. The Banshee. The Wraith. The one whose shadow still clings to my ribcage like mildew. Healing, as I’ve come to accept, is not linear. It’s a roundhouse kick to the soul, then a hug from your niece. And then another roundhouse kick.

Somewhere between those spirals of thought and a short essay exploring it (which I hurled upon the digital wind for my readers), our ride arrived.

Now my lady-friend goes by many names, but in my ledger she’s logged as The Viking’s Apprentice. She’s a somewhat fiesty soul—a credit controller by trade (yes, I know, I’m working on it), a seeker by heart, and most importantly, a good listener. We’ve shared nightime talks and long rambles about sorrow, madness, and spreadsheets. She eats up my ramblings like a starving disciple at the feet of a mountain mystic—though she still gasps when I use a knife to open a tin of beans.

She is learning, though. And I? I am learning too. Somewhere between her meticulous budgeting and my preference for burning paper currency to start campfires, a new type of adult is being forged. A balanced creature. A functioning one, even. Gods help us.

And so we departed the brick-built lands of civilisation and headed to the salt-licked air of the sea-side.

The Beach. Midday

The children ran barefoot across the sand like the wild animals they are, screeching and flailing as though summoned by Neptune himself. The sea called, and I, father of wolves and bringer of towels, answered.

I waded into the water, dragging my progeny behind me like a weary otter with two barnacles clinging to its back. To my astonishment, it wasn’t ice water! It was… warm. Warm like a fresh ale left on the window sill. Warm like memories of a childhood unburdened by rent and recycling bins. We splashed and whooped and reveled. The Viking’s Apprentice, meanwhile, refused the sea’s call—choosing instead to lie on her back in the sun like a woman possessed by the spirit of a sun-drunk lizard. What can I say? Not all battles are worth fighting.

We played. We soared. They carried inflatable rubber rings out into the ocean with grubby fists and chased merrily as they waves carried them away. They named caterpillars. (Don’t ask. There’s now a “Gary the Wriggler” who lives in my wallet.) We ran, we buried limbs, we fought invisible sand monsters, and for a brief, glorious time…

The world stood still.

And in that stillness, I remembered: This is it. This is the marrow. Not the bills, not the to-do lists, not the hunger for future victories. Just sun, sand, wind, and the irreverent laughter of small humans who still believe the world is enchanted.

And then? The people came.

An elderly couple gifted us a kite. Just like that. No ceremony. No “follow me for more kindness tips.” Just a gesture. Meanwhile, we shared our last two Krispy Kremes (yes, even I succumb on occasion—shut up, Thor) with a young family perched near us on a dune.

And that’s when it hit me. The old lesson. The true magic.

Community is holy.

Not the synthetic stuff you find on apps. Not the forced small talk with the neighbour who always smells faintly of cat food and an undefined musk. I mean real, spontaneous, no-strings communion between living creatures who know that being alive is hard, and that softening it with kindness costs nothing.

By 6pm we were staggering back to the car, pink with sun, pockets full of accumulated beach-stuff, and spirits reset. The kind of reset you can’t buy or schedule. The kind born from nature, movement, connection, and shared sugar.

That night, I slept.

Not like a man collapsing from exhaustion, but like one returned from pilgrimage. A full ten hours beneath the stars, with no banshee dreams to haunt me.

Today?

The sun is trying to cook the very pavement from under me and it’s just past 7am, but no matter, I’ve a kingdom to build. But I carry yesterday with me. The sea-salted joy of my children. The gentle apprentice beside me. The feeling that, despite all the loss, all the darkness, I am still here. Still building. Still laughing. Still worthy.

So sharpen your swords, fellow wanderers.

There is no Wi-Fi in Valhalla.

But there is sand, and sea, and communion.

And yes. The occasional doughnut.

– Ulf

🪓 Like what you read?🪓

🪙 Then toss a coin into the fountain.

Make a wish —

for wilder words, sharper truths,

and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.

Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,

and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.

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