Ghosts of Trees

On the northernmost end of J. Island is a stretch of beach that's only wide enough for walking when the tide ebbs to its lowest point. When the tide rolls back in, it drowns most of the available sand and curls right up against the edge of the maritime forest.

When I was there last week, I parked my car in one of the crude spaces near the picnic area and followed a little trail through the forest. The ancient live oaks stretched their gnarled branches over the path and the garlands of spanish moss filtered the sunlight into a spotty pattern on the forest floor. The path wended through the trees, so old and wizened, it felt other worldly. When I finally cut a swath to the other side and found the sandy stretch, it was really quite breathtaking. The beach was wide; the tide receded to the point that it washed just over the rippled sand dunes, and at its very edge, fishermen were more than knee-deep in the water.

The late afternoon sun buttered the landscape in a mellow golden glow. And down the naked strip of sand were trees - whole trees from root mass to spindly tops, washed up on the sand. The beach is called Driftwood Beach for this reason. But whereas I think of driftwood as scraps of sun-bleached board, these were water-stripped live oaks whitewashed by the sun and saltwater. Weathered smooth and replanted in the sand.

I found myself wandering through this beach-side forest, a beautiful wasteland of trees. It was serene; the wind tunneled away the voices of the few other beachgoers. Most people had already deserted the beach for dinner, and the further I walked along through the sand forest, the more remote it seemed.

I marveled at these amazing natural sculptures, carved from nothing more than wood and elements. They were austere and haunting. At another time, they were vibrant whip-slick saplings, and now they lay hollow and abandoned on the dunes.

The water gently lapped the shore; the sun oranged and grew soft. I climbed into the upstretching branches of one of the horizontal live oaks and gazed at the expanse of the Atlantic. To my left and right, branches arced and once-green root cords twisted in a massive wooden knot. These husks of trees weren't less than they once were; they were simply beautiful in an unexpected way. Trees outside the bounds of imaginable trees. Like the way that lives, imagined one way, end up a boneyard of unrealized dreams or directions abandoned. Clean white sculptures of what we once were or lives we never lived and haunting us with their imperfect beauty.