Beaufort South Carolina, heart of the Lowcountry
There is a softness to the ambient glow of sunlight in the Lowcountry. One senses, but cannot see, a hint of amber that comforts in the slightest of visual caresses. It’s the same feeling one gets from tanned skin on an attractively dress person. It is the sense of a perfect homemade loaf of bread. It’s the wonder of a tide washed beach that glistens warmly. It is the elusive light one cannot easily capture in photos, but yet it is there and affects every view. The light compliments life like an amber ale does a warm lazy afternoon. I often wonder if it is the soft glow of light that encourages southerners slower speech and the penchant for enjoying a laidback lifestyle.
The light entrances me. I love its hypnotic effect on the endless flow and ebb of tidal waters. I find contentment in the early sun grazing the top of marsh grass. The light is majestic as it holds court in the tops of the full, strong oak tops and dances under them, weak and with modesty.
It is not just the light of course; it is the people, their attitude toward life founded on a comfortable blend of tidal bays and creeks complimented by islands of forested green melded together with the grandeur of the lowcountry marsh. It is the blend of creatures and croplands that allowed for a simple peaceful existence with plentiful living, but one not easily acquired.
But no paradise can take full measure of itself unless it has a standard against which to measure. For every ying there is a yang.
No see’ ums. They are those little flying jaws of full bred evil. Annoying little bastards. Off-spring, no doubt, of frivolous mosquitoes and biting black flies; and more of them than grains of sand on the beach, more than leaves of marsh grass, more than raindrops in a thunderstorm. They cloud the sky, they get in your hair, they enter your mouth, they climb in your ears. These flying piranhas are the great equalizer. You get used to them or you don’t and that makes the difference between loving Beaufort or failing to see the light.
So in late afternoon the snapping hordes of jaws gather and we adjourn from our afternoon tea on the aft deck, spray all the screens and sequester ourselves with beverage and book or congenial talk about the man eating bugs coating the boat windows. The buggy population will largely decrease in volume with the setting sun and we can turn our thoughts to the restaurant up the hill with scent of beans baking on a tray under the ribs cooking and dripping goodness of the flavored juices and small pieces of meat joining with the beans. What is on your plate for dinner?
