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Sand, sun, surf and serenity

By Ashley Thiesen Caldwell | August 2, 2009

One of the best parts of living in Charleston is the easy access to our three beaches and the short drive to dozens of others along the state coastline. Read this relaxing column by Ken Burger from the Post and Courier.

There is something universally soothing about a long walk on the beach. The crashing of waves, the wind in your hair.

No matter how far you come to be here, the sensation is the same. Sea gulls gliding overhead. Brown pelicans plunging into the water. Shrimp boats on the distant horizon.

Little wonder we lose ourselves in the daydream, strolling the ocean’s edge, splashing saltwater as we go, feeling the tug of an unseen undertow.

South Carolina has its faults, but our natural beauty makes up for some of our flaws. We are blessed with long stretches of sand, smooth underfoot, reaching for miles along the sloping shoulders of our state.

It’s no wonder so many flock to the Palmetto State this time of year. The beaches are packed with people in various forms of relaxation, soaking up the summer sun, reading, napping, allowing the rhythm of the tides to take control of their soul.

From Surfside to Seabrook, Pawleys to the Isle of Palms, Myrtle Beach to Murrells Inlet, Kiawah to Crescent Beach, Folly to Litchfield and Garden City to Cherry Grove, we live in a wondrous place.

Scent of sunscreen

The beach at dawn is almost deserted, except for a man and his dog, running in tandem as the light breaks over the eastern rim.

The ocean, always in motion, scarcely notices as it draws back across the canvas it covered the night before.

Gone are love notes scratched in the sand, castles constructed by children and the footprints of a thousand tourists on a moonlight stroll.

Busy are the shorebirds, breakfasting on the edge of a sudsy brew that bubbles with each incoming wave. So too, a pair of osprey that hover above, preparing to dive on an unsuspecting school of shiny silver fish.

The air is still and fresh, untouched by the scent of sunscreen. The beach is clean, except for tiny shells and scattered sweeps of seaweed.

From the south, coming quickly, a helicopter thumps into view, doors open to the rushing wind, as our coastal guardians prepare for another day.

Old Bay brine

By late afternoon, the crush of cars create a parking lot, and the spill of humanity huddles under umbrellas, sprouting like colorful mushrooms along the beach.

Kids, immune to danger, splash in the surf where older men, ever the optimists, cast lines to snag shark and other things that mothers, always vigilant, fear the most.

Between blankets, spread at random, little girls play hopscotch, teenaged boys throw footballs against the wind, as older girls, in bikinis, pretend to ignore them completely.

Slowly but surely, the sea reclaims the people’s playground, chasing them back to beach houses where wild shrimp boil in Old Bay brine and laughter carries from one front porch to another, like sea birds soaring downwind.

In the distance, the sky is streaked with low-lying clouds, the summer sun sets the sky ablaze, dolphin roll silently by, and the ocean, always in motion, scarcely notices at all.

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