The Low Country

It doesn't matter whether I am baking in the middle of 90 degree Denver, listening to the children play in the tree next to my yard, or resting on the dock in my bikini at Lake Louise, listening to the hum of ski boats pulling laughing kids over boat wakes on tubes... when I read Pat Conroy's description of th Low Country, floating down a river on Sullivan's Island, following the tide out to the Atlantic, I can almost taste the sea salt on my tongue, and breathe in the sweetness of Pametto breeze...

"In the summertime, the salt water that floods the creeks and bays and coves of South Carolina is warm and sun-shot and silken to the touch. It did not hurt or shock to enter the water, but soothed and washed away the frazzled nerves of our runaway week. The creek was dark with the nutients gathered in the great salt marsh; you could not see your hand if you opened your eyes underwater. We were swimming in a part of the Atlantic that the state of South Carolina has borrowed for awhile. Now the tide was hurtling back, drawing the essence of its marshes, the blue crabs lying in wait for stragglers who would soon be prey. As the tide receded the oysters would be locked tight, retaining a shot-glass-full of seawater that would hold them until the next full tide; the flounders hidden in the mud flats; the mullets flashing in quick silver sea grass; the small sharks nosing around for carrion; the blue herrons straight-legged and heraldic in the motionless hunt; the snowy egrets - the only creatures in the Low Country - whose name invoked winter - staring at the shallows for the quick run of minnows... we remained wordless for the first 100 yards, remarkable only in our stillness and the rightness of the moment."

Love it.