How do the benches fare in coastal, salty air environments?

I am a bench, planted firmly on a weathered boardwalk overlooking the restless ocean. Every day, the salty air wraps around me like a damp, briny cloak. At first, you might think this coastal life is glamorous—the endless horizon, the rhythmic crash of waves, the warm sun on my wooden slats. But let me tell you, it’s a constant battle. The salty spray sneaks into my joints, nibbling at my metal bolts with a persistent, corrosive appetite. My once-smooth surface now bears a patina of fine, white crystals, like a rash I can’t scratch. Yet I stand tall, because I’ve learned to adapt. My wooden heart is pressure-treated, my screws are stainless steel, and my paint is a tough, maritime-grade armor. But even so, the salt never sleeps. It works slowly, like a patient sculptor, etching tiny crevices into my grain. In winter storms, the wind whips salt into my every crack, stinging like a thousand tiny needles. I’ve seen younger benches crumble into rusted heaps within a season, their bones surrendered to the elements. But I endure—because I am washed every spring with fresh water, my bolts are tightened, and a fresh coat of sealant gives me a fighting chance. If I could speak to the humans who build me, I’d say: “Give me teak or cedar, hide my metal deep within plastic sleeves, and love me with a scrub brush now and then. Then I’ll tell you children’s secrets, laugh with lovers, and weather every salty storm for decades.” So, how do I fare? I fare with grit, with grace, and with a constant thirst for a freshwater rinse. I am a coastal bench, and I am not just surviving—I am living.