The trees along the beach of the northern end of Jekyll Island look like something out of a story book, twisted and bent. The high tide line is barricaded from the waves by a man made rock wall that’s been put in place to slow the erosion that’s slowly moving the northern part of the island to the south.
I wish I’d thought to get some images of Driftwood Beach (to the north of our hotel) but by the time we actually made it that far in our walks, it was dark and I, of course, had left the camera in the room.
On this vacation, I had every intention of being creatively productive. Sure, I thought, I’ll take my notebook down to the beach, spread a sheet on the hard packed sand, lay on my belly and kill two birds with one stone: work on the tan and get some writing done.
Needless to say, that didn’t happen. For one, I’d forgotten how hard it is to write at the beach with the wind tossing hair and pages about and the grains of sand that find their way into everything. I’ll be shaking them out of my belongings for some time to come.
For another, I was far too engrossed with watching the waves and playing in the surf to bother putting pen to paper.
Though on our second day there, I did manage to collect some images in my image notebook.
Considering one of the many short stories I’ve been poking at focuses heavily on the sea, they should come in handy. My memory is strong and with my many ocean visits over the years, I can easily recall the smell of the brine, the dark odor of decaying marine life, the sharp, gritty feel of sand against my skin, the drag of silt around my feet as I waded into the sea.
But in the event that my memory fails me, I like having some things committed to words.