Sea Foam: Visitor writes about the beauty of fall in the Lowcountry

Thanks to Steve Branyon of the Upstate town of Honea Path for sending us an essay on what the Lowcountry can mean to a visitor in October.

It's written by Eric "Chickasaw" Williams, who tries to capture in words the feelings of this special month.

"A good friend of mine wrote this poem about Beaufort," Steve writes. "Thought you may be interested in reading it. We vacation there during the month of October, hence the name."

The Edge of October

By Eric Williams

The boat slips gently, almost silently, into the estuarine waters. I feel the easy, yet powerful, pull of the tide at my vessel, in a manner not unlike the way in which it now tugs at the strings of my heart. I am overwhelmed.

Though nearly a year has passed since we last parted ways, these waters, these creatures, these sights, sounds and smells, although rightfully alien to me, are as familiar as the very air I breathe and the paths I trod daily.

The toll of the seemingly infinite chasm that I have been forced to endure -- which lies between last autumn's involuntary departure and this long-awaited moment of homecoming -- is not yet fully defeated. Its ghost now tries to seep into my mind as sea water into a ship, through some forgotten crack I neglected to seal. Its sole intention is to steal this moment and cheat me of my celebration of conquest by reminding me of the ephemeral nature of this precious time.

But today, victory is mine, for as the tide fills the marsh, so it fills my soul, and to quote the bard loosely, I will stand at the meeting place of two eternities, the past and the present, and try to improve upon the very nick of time and notch it on my stick. Each instant is more golden than the last, and I, more determined to tirelessly savor each.

With my equipment at the ready and the eager, unabated anticipation of a child incessantly urging me forward, only my necessity for basking in the moment, living it rather than only living through it, as if to verify it as reality indeed, prevents me from hastening my journey through the Story River in search of my quarry.

My presence here seems more as a dream, for in my dreams I have ridden these waves and walked these beaches each passing day, and thus, grown accustomed to the bitter awakening of reality. Now, at last, it is real.

The myriad shades of green that paint the vast expanse of spartina seem nearly to glow as they starkly contrast against the azure ether that is the coastal October sky. A tinge of gold at the tips of the grass seem to diffuse the meeting of the two and signals the beginning of the imminent sleeping season close at hand. The stalks serve as thermometers, with their green mercury dropping until at last it can go no further, and the marsh must slumber as it has for eons.

This time is not yet, however. This is a time of harvest and the laying away of essential goods to sustain life through the coming barren period, in the sea, just as it is on terra firma. It is also a life-sustaining harvest for me. Though the denizens of this place that have the misfortune of falling victim to my nets and hooks may serve as sustenance for the flesh, there is, more importantly, a fountain of nourishment for the soul.

As the changing of the seasons renews life, as the changing of the tide renews the shore, this change renews and invigorates the fibers of my being.

For one month, I live fully. On the edge of two islands, on the edge of two seasons, on the edge of heaven and earth, on the edge of land and sea, on the edge of two worlds.

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