Our parents say the sea’s too far. In the summer the beach is too crowded, in the winter it’s too cold, it’ll burn our bodies and we’ll die of pins and needles.
We know it’s not; the air is thick with it. It leaves a sticky film on our windows and rusts the cars on our street. The shop has signal flags strung up like bunting, but they don’t spell out real words.
The older boys go. They have their own cars to drive. They say next year they’ll take us with them. They say it’s not far at all.