I set down the only things I’ve brought with me: a bucket filled with a funnel, a cup, a melon baller, a spatula and a small shovel. I take a seat and begin my work: building a sandcastle.

Like painting, writing, fashion or decorating, there is an art to creating a sandcastle. My dad and grampa took sandcastle building as seriously as if they were building a house.

I pick up my shovel and dig into the sand, stopping when the sand turns darker. I squeeze a ball of sand in my hand for a few seconds and roll it around in my palm.

Always use moist sand, I can hear my dad and grampa tell me. If it stays together in your hands when you roll it around, it’s perfect sand for a castle.

This is perfect sand, I think again, a soft wind off the lake tossing my hair around and carrying a soft mist that moistens my face.

I begin to dig in earnest, like Sonny does on the beach, rear in the air, tossing sand left and right. I start with my shovel, but then quickly switch to a bucket in order to move more quickly. When a big reserve of sand is piled high, I find a flat spot and begin stomping around like a horse to create a strong foundation.

I begin to build, using my hands and the shovel to create an imposing wall. I fill buckets with sand and place them on my foundation, creating towers, and then use my cup to create turrets. I create roofs, walls and windows, before using the melon baller and spatula to scoop out and carve doors and details like steps and stonework on the towers.

I stand and brush the sand off my backside, and begin combing the shoreline near the dunes. I find a few nice pieces of driftwood as well as some feathers, which I add to the tops of my towers. I grab my shovel and begin digging a trench to the shoreline, going deep and far enough that water begins to fill the trough I’ve dug.

“That’s quite a castle,” a woman says as she walks the shoreline. “With a moat, no less. Very Game of Thrones.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I stand back and admire my work, when I see Evan leading a group of a dozen women down the beach steps. My heart quickens.

“Welcome!” I say. “Thanks, Evan.”

He nods and then gives me a secret wink, before heading up the steps again.

I take a deep breath and scan the group. For some reason, I didn’t expect the participants in my first women’s empowerment weekend to be so varied. I had the guests introduce themselves at breakfast, and the women span ages from their thirties to their seventies. They are of every race and ethnicity, and from all over the Midwest: Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Milwaukee.