Family

Thanks to Jim Garvey for capturing this shot of me shooting the waves.

A ghost forest with dead and dying trees thanks to climate change and salt water intrusion.

A puzzle in the den.

The "Octopus Tree"

Time passes in front of your eyes here. Footprints wash away and shells are sucked back into the current with each wave.

On a humid summer morning I sat on the beach facing eastward, towards the ocean, on a deteriorated erosion piling. The waves crashed around me and the soft, spongey sand felt good to my feet.

This is my ritual with every trip to the beach, no matter what location, I always rise before the sunrise to gaze into the early light and watch the earth awaken. There is something about seeing the arrival of the sun. It is magical. Starting with just a glimmer of brightness on the horizon, and then, an orange arch of light shining through the atmosphere.

Joggers and dog walkers stop their routine and pause to stare at this beautiful view. People whisper to each other…it’s like you’re in church.

And then, after a few minutes the orange glow turns to white hot, and the moment is over.

This particular trip was important to me. I was hurting inside, I was missing my brother Eric, who had recently passed from cancer.

In some ways, I was looking for answers from the ocean view. From that seemingly endless and straightest line in nature: the horizon over the ocean. I was looking for truth and reasoning to why someone I loved so dearly had suffered for ten years, hoping with each treatment he’d lick this disease. Yet, each year he became increasingly frail and each time I saw him, I knew the end was coming, even though he vehemently was pushing against it and trying to live. Like trying to stop the ocean waves, he would never win.

I found no answers as I sat there in nature’s sanctuary. I simply paused to listen to the waves, that repetitive crashing against the beach, like the clicking of the second hand on my watch, repeating and taking me into the future whether I liked it or not.

At a few minutes past eight, it was time to leave. I was staying at an inn on Pawleys Island thanks to an invitation from a dear friend, named Jim. Soon, at the inn, the breakfast bell would ring and the first meal of the day would be served.

Jim and his wife Jamie had been coming to this inn for at least forty years. Jamie couldn’t come this year and the two generously decided that I could be her replacement at the inn.

I’d just be there for two nights and honestly, I didn’t know how I’d do with the temperatures. You see, the Sea View Inn has no air conditioning. It’s an old inn, opened for the first time in 1937, when there wasn’t air conditioning, with only the breeze from the ocean to cool visitors. Yet, they kept the windows open all these years and allowed guests to enjoy the timeless sounds of the ocean: the waves crashing on the beach, the seabirds, and the laughter of children playing in the sand, instead of the deafening drone of a/c units.

This was the worst time of the year to stay at the Sea View Inn. It was the last week of July and typically, the hottest time of the year. Thirty some years ago, the owners knew they needed a way to get people to come, even if it was going to be hot. So, they allowed parents to bring their children at a much discounted rate with the hopes of more renters.

And every year, during this same hot week, they came. Again and again, year after year, the same families returned. It became a tradition. And each year, with inches added to the height of each child, and the parents a little more gray, the families became closer.

Jim and Jamie were part of this Sea View family and I felt like an outsider, yet this makeshift group accepted me as a guest and I was able to feel the radiant warmth of their time together...a feeling from family.

Was I hot? Certainly. But, was I uncomfortable? No!

The experience was that of a beach house with family. In the morning you went out to the beach and looked for shells. Mid morning you swam in the ocean or sat under an umbrella. In the afternoon you took a nap or read a book in the den. All the while, being gently kissed by the ocean breeze. Shoes came off and stayed off for most of the trip.

The kids were all grown up now, yet it was obvious to this outsider, they all felt affection for each other, even if they weren’t connected by genes.

Like an annual migration in nature, they returned from the places they lived. Many of them were living extended miles from their parents, growing families of their own and establishing themselves in their careers. Yet, they returned every year, during the last week of July to this same place, to this old beach inn, where you wore nothing on your feet, your hair went uncombed, and you relaxed with no a/c or television.

On the last night I was there, they had the traditional sing along, during which Jim and two others played guitar and sang familiar old songs like “Country Roads Take Me Home, Proud Mary, and many others. They all sat, close together, singing the songs they had sung for years, glowing in the moment that would be gone until next year at the same time. It felt good to hear all these voices singing. To see old and young together. To share in their smiles.

One of the main conversations I participated in was about the sea turtle nests on the beach outside the inn. Jim told me there were quite a few this year, and everyone was anxiously hoping they'd get to witness the miracle of the babies leaving their nests, and crawling the long stretch of beach to the ocean. Hopes were high, but unfortunately, nature does not have a set calendar like the families who come here every July, and the hatchings would happen after we were gone.

When I left on Friday morning, I felt a little melancholy. I’d only been there a few days, yet the therapy of watching these different families together, gave me peace.

It didn’t heal the pain I felt inside after losing Eric, that scar would never heal completely until I saw him again. The answers I was looking for never really came to me: the questions of why my brother suffered for so long, and why he never gave up hope all resonated within. Yet, the timing of this trip, the place, and the people were all serendipitous. It was perfect timing. All these kind folks and the unbelievable beauty of nature gave me a wonderful distraction. A chance to look inside myself and think about time from the viewpoint of the inn and the ocean.

I plan to go back again to the Sea View. It may not be the hottest time of the year when I go, but it’s good to know that old place is there. It’s survived many a storm sitting precariously facing the ocean. One day, it might not be so fortunate. Nothing lasts forever. We all die, eventually.  But, I hope while the inn exists, the owners continue to keep this recipe in their cookbook. Sometimes, many times, getting away from all the things that we associate with comfort is exactly the opposite of what we need. Sometimes the best comfort can be within a sea breeze and the love of others.