Charleston’s water babies have three beaches to choose from: Sullivan’s Island, Isle of Palms, and Folly Beach. Sullivan’s lies close to the harbor’s entrance and near a rock wall called the jetties. This wall breaks up the chop from the Atlantic so cargo ships can safely roll into the harbor and tie up against its loading docks along the Cooper River. These tranquil waters are ideal for boats and boat-watching but terrible for surfers and surfing. Just north of Sullivan’s is Isle of Palms, away from the jetties but more of a drive, and the waves don’t get much bigger.
Folly Beach lies just south of the peninsula, east of James Island and away from the shipping channel. Because it’s the only beach in the area with decent surf, it attracts a more alternative crowd. Shirtless beach bums with blond dreadlocks cruise the streets on oversize bicycles. Bumper stickers like “No Blood for Oil” and “I Love Small Waves” plaster rusty hatchbacks and funky storefronts. Station wagons are custom-painted with trippy images of mushrooms and fairies with rainbow-colored wings.
My secret parking spot beneath a towering oak is empty except for a growing puddle. I take a photo and send it to Angela. She texts back immediately: “Breaking news . . . a puddle!”
I reply, “Clear skies. No rain. One day you’ll see the light.”
My flip-flops squeak and slide as I make my way over the boardwalk. At the top of the stairs, the horizon stretches before me. Billowing cumulous clouds ride the hidden airstreams in a cobalt sky. The sand, as fine as Morton Salt, collects around posts, vegetation, and seawalls. Grain by grain, the sands gather together, forming modest but powerful barriers that protect the land from storm surges.
I squint to measure the surf. The tide just turned and is starting to go out; the waves are still big enough to ride and a bit more organized than they’ll be two hours from now. For my feet to have traction on the board, I rub surf wax on its top using small, circular strokes. Because I’m goofy-footed, I Velcro the leash around my left ankle. A snarl of fishing wire, which can be deadly to sea turtles and other marine life, pokes out of the sand. Before heading into the surf, I wad it up and stuff it in my bag.
The early May air is warm, but the water still holds some of the chill from winter. Woolly fog lines the shore. I tiptoe into the ocean, then hop on my board to paddle out to the calmer waves beyond the surf. I lay my head on the board and listen to the ripples lap its underside while waiting for the next set. The rolling waves rock me gently; a sudden, unbidden thought of Paul makes me shudder.
I stalked his social media last night. In one photo, Paul pees on the wheel of a yellow Corvette. Mid-stream, he flashes a thumbs-up at the camera. In another, he clenches a knife between his teeth, ropy veins bulging from his neck. I didn’t need to see more; I texted him back to tell him I’m getting married. Is this what’s out there? Lone wolves pissing on cars and biting knives? What am I doing? Trip is so much better than Paul. He works late. He calls his mother. He donates to St. Jude and Ducks Unlimited. How dare I flirt with someone else?
A set comes in. I let the first wave roll underneath me and ready myself to catch the second one. I align my board with the shore, kick hard, and paddle harder. I drop into the wave, grab the rails, and pop up into a wide stance.
A beautiful storm of noises envelops me: the churning of the water underneath plays the melody; the fizz of the ocean spray chimes in. My board slices through the water, creating a sound as pure and whole as a tuning fork. I shift my weight to steer, heading south along the shoreline. And then . . . nothing. For a few sweet seconds, I’m so swept up into the moment that the world dissolves into the simplicity of movement.
Gliding over the water, I’m not engaged. There is no Trip. There is no Paul. I’m not even me. In the water, I experience pure freedom, a release from the guilt of having everything a girl could want, if only she could make some minor concessions.