Pawleys Island

At such a young age, I have already found the one place I could not live without. Even though I find myself crammed in a backseat for hours on end, all that time feels nonexistent just as soon as I can roll down my window and hear the familiar drone of the swells crashing. At that same time, I find myself bombarded with a seaweed-paper mill aroma which even a sick person could smell. The island bridge holds little surprise as a few local fishermen, young and old alike, take a hand off their pole to wave. The minuscule

beads of sweat on each their foreheads remind me of how sweltering this summer week at the beach will be. Following the bridge, I can't take my eyes off the immeasurable ocean horizon. It is as if I was staring at an animated Claude Monet painting. The water, a blue-green gelatin, never the same color twice, rises and falls on itself over and again. By this point, the only thing I am worried about is hauling my cumbersome valise to my room.

As we draw near the beach house, I always look to the bottle green, upright blades of marsh to see where tide finds itself. Should I be able to see the muck and clam shells smothering the creek beds, I know tide is out, and that the waves won't be very big. But when I can barely see the tip tops of the marsh grass, I know I am in for some supreme boogey boarding. I can barely contain myself as I rush my bag to my room, throw on my suit, and head for the beach. I'm at all times careful not to get a splinter in my foot as I dash across the antique wooden decks. Upon stepping off that final stair, I am once more reminded of where I am as the searing heat of the cotton-white sand confuses my foot into thinking I accidentally stepped in a bed of coals. Now the trick becomes running as I am only fifty feet away from the place I love the most. Step by step, dodging razor-sharp sea shells like hop-scotch, I am blown away by the icy cold charge of the ocean surf. After I stop shivering like a scared child,