Sample: Indigo Blue
Just below Charleston off the coast of South Carolina in the southernmost region of the Lowcountry, tucked between Edisto and Hilton Head, sits a small landmass seven miles long by three miles wide called Blue Island. It is a site steeped in soulful culture, natural salt-tinged beauty, and magical light; a once isolated place now reachable by bridge rich in tradition flanked by marshland nestled beneath moss-draped oak and cypress trees, with diverse wildlife, vibrant art, unique cuisine, and sun-kissed beaches.
It is also the home of superstition, of loamy marine sediment in brackish wetland, alligators, abandoned plantations, and arcane spiritual practices.
This underlying element wasn’t readily apparent to me during my initial tour of the island as, entranced, I explored the quaintly exotic art gallery, marketplace, and then later the small cove where jagged limbs and weathered driftwood littered the sand like bones.
Rather, the dark side of the small barrier island I would reside on for a single month … a solitary month that would stain my memory indelibly as if I had lived there a decade … would slowly creep its way in during my days and then weeks there, like black ink travelling through the veins of a luscious rose.
On the afternoon I arrived in my recently acquired Jeep Cherokee, I knew very little about the history of Blue Island. I only knew you reached it by crossing a swing bridge that got you over the brackish water and back onto dry land, where you were greeted by a row of palm trees on each side.
Once past the small commercial district housing a marina, a café, an outdoor outfitter, and a gas station/convenience store, I observed that except for a few crisscrossing streets deep in the island where everything else seemed to be established, it was primarily rural and wooded all the way to the northeastern point. And there at the end of a narrow sandy lane, I found my future home perched near the bank of a marshy inlet—and beyond it, the blue line of the ocean.
The engine ticked after I shut it off as I sat there absorbing my actually being there on the precipice where the ground met the Atlantic three hundred miles from my former home.
The house I would now be inhabiting sat on stilts, surrounded by mossy oaks and palmetto trees in a patch of landscaped grass. There was parking underneath between the pilings, but I wanted to check the place out and unload everything first.
Grabbing my phone, I opened the door, climbed out, and then stood there taking it all in. The soft breeze blowing across brought with it the scent of salt and fish and a trace of something organic and faintly sulfuric. The property was loosely bordered by ferns and other spiky plants, wild shrubs, some with tiny blooms like sunflowers, and on the outskirts, wispy clouds of purple atop clumps of taller grass. Sweetgrass, I thought. I did know that much.
Ignoring the set of wooden stairs leading up to the front porch, I walked past the jeep and around the side to better see the marshy part. Threading my way through the trees and vegetation, I hesitantly moved outward, then came to a stop when I felt the ground go spongy.
The ocean had crept in, filling the reedy, low-lying terrain with seawater. I would be able to see it better from one of the decks, but from what I could tell, it looked like it was just past high tide. I pulled my phone out, checked the time, and saw it was going on two o’clock.
If it was this high now, what would it be like during a storm? I glanced back at the tall pilings underneath the house and imagined the water flowing in and surging through them like a river. With a small shiver I turned back to the murky swathe. It was certainly beautiful with its unmarred riotous wildness, and peaceful with only the gentle chatter of the seabirds and the sigh of the wind.
Movement caught my eye and I looked over to see a group of birds, nine of them I counted, resting on the bare, twisted limbs of a long dead tree that had grown up from a mound of greener marsh grass. Not far from them, three larger white birds with longer legs and beaks hovered over their blurry reflections mirrored across the water’s surface.
I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to the chorus of sounds, absorbing the sea breeze in my hair and the salt settling on my skin. Distantly, just within hearing range, I could detect the rhythmic whisper of the waves and farther out, the low mournful wail of a passing ship’s horn.
In the face of the awe and reverence I felt right then at the wonder and majesty of this wild, sublime world, my last worried misgivings fell away and I felt something loosen in my chest. There was no one left for me now, not one soul in that town with any meaningful connection to me. Only the graves of my mother and father and grandmother and aunts and uncles and cousins. And their ghosts everywhere I looked. At the old “monkey” park that few remembered used to have a small zoo section back in the day, where we once held our family reunions. At the Save-A-Lot that had first been a Community Cash where I’d shopped with my mother as a kid. At my relatives’ various homes dotting the streets, now occupied by strangers. At the decrepit building off Main Street that had been Cooper's Restaurant, frequented by one and all during its heyday. Inside the empty interior of the boutique I’d briefly worked at during my teen years. The pool hall, now a furniture store, where I’d met my first boyfriend …
But here, now, experiencing the harmony of the natural world at the very edge of the ocean and beyond, I felt lifted out of that into something greater than myself. Where my existence and experiences were merely threads in the grand tapestry of it all and I could let go and simply appreciate being alive and bearing witness to it.
The light faded as a cloud slid in front of the sun and shadow dropped over the landscape. As if in response, somewhere out of sight came the unmistakable high-pitched squeal and slow bugling notes of a seagull.
Reluctantly I turned and started back across. The travelling had caught up with me and I was beginning to feel my tiredness.
~
By the time I eased into a dining room chair with a cup of medium blend, I had gone from tired to exhausted. I had found the power on as promised and the kitchen stocked with the basic staples along with a whole roasted chicken, the makings for a salad, fresh rolls, and surprisingly, a chilled bottle of Taittinger Brut. How much had that set them back? I wondered.
For the next half hour I sat there gazing out at but not really seeing the smooth patch of lawn before the wilder waterlogged vegetation where the tallest trees hung out over the slowly receding water. Feeling simultaneously burned out and exalted, I sipped at my coffee and let my mind drift back through the long day.
The four-hour drive (with two quick stops at rest areas) along 26 then 95 then 17 heading below Charleston had been somewhat stressful at times when I’d had to switch highways, but blessedly uneventful. Shortly after, I had started seeing water. As soon as I’d hit US-21, the last major road I needed, I had begun to look for somewhere to stop and had managed to gas up and grab a pre-packaged sandwich and a soda at a small Shell station.
But just as I had been congratulating myself (prematurely as it turned out) on making it through unscathed after successfully navigating the charming streets of downtown Beaufort with its antebellum mansions and Spanish-style buildings—I had bumped up onto the seemingly endless two-lane bridge leading out to the island. I had soon found myself white-knuckling it as it continued angling upward and I entered a section of crisscrossing girders high above the water. Envisioning the old, possibly rusted structure swaying and undulating before breaking and crashing into the depths below, I had been trying not to hyperventilate when the way ahead of me had finally begun to slope downward then leveled out and I passed onto normal asphalt again on the other side.
While I was cresting the top of that old bridge suspended above the gray-blue ocean, I had experienced a moment of near horror at what I had gotten myself into. But now that I’d made it …
I shifted away from the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked through the doorway across from me at the part of the adjoining kitchen’s maple wood cabinets and wrought iron-and-rattan table I could see. Though the décor was somewhat spartan, everything was clean and matched the coastal theme throughout perfectly.
They had been looking for someone to rent the place for the long term, but I had messaged the owner, who had promptly replied, and managed to secure it for six months. But once this little sojourn of mine ended, I would most likely have to relocate to somewhere with better job prospects, possible in or outside of Beaufort or Charleston. After paying the expenses to bury my mother beside my father—who’d died of cardiac arrest five years before and now rested in the family plot across from the church that she, and sometimes I, had attended—and then buying the jeep to replace my old, barely running Kia and covering everything in preparation for my move here to the edge of the world, I had been left with just enough from the life insurance and the sale of the house (the house I’d begun living in again when my mother’s illness began to get the better of her) to tide me over comfortably until I secured a position and settled somewhere permanently. That was the plan, anyhow.
I stood up to fix a fresh cup of coffee, then changed my mind and got out the bottle of Taittinger instead. I searched around until I found something to drink it out of, then peeled the foil back and unwound the wire cage. Pointing it away from me, I pushed up on the cork with my thumb, then when that didn’t work, began twisting the bottle around while pulling on it, and finally out it came with a pop. Grinning, I filled the flute from the dining room hutch to the brim with the bubbly liquid.
I stashed the bottle back in the fridge and carried the flute with me through the house, up the stairs to the next level, and then carefully up a ladder there to the open-air deck above it. The “observation” deck it had been called in the online description.
As I moved out, still clutching my drink, I had to grab the handrail as a wave of vertigo swept over me. Ripping my gaze away from the disorienting view, I took a fortifying gulp of champagne, then still holding tight, stepped closer to the railing and peeked over the side. Four stories up, I thought, drawing back from the dizzying drop, counting the open level on the ground.
Keeping my focus on the wooden planks that made up the floor, I shakily walked over and lowered myself into one of the two wooden chairs. Eyes still downcast and trying to still my trembling, I raised the flute for another sip, and then lifted my gaze to the landscape spread out before me.
My breath caught. A deep green carpet of trees and foliage reached out in a point between the wider marshland on one side and the nearby beach on the other. I could see the shoreline to my left, shockingly close, and directly across from the tip where I was, a stretch of open water before a hazy landmass in the distance.
There was another house near me, too, nearly hidden in the trees and brush, farther down even closer to the ocean than I was. I couldn’t tell much about it other than it was white and fairly large.
Leaning my head back, I reveled in the feel of the warm sun, soaking it up and enjoying the panoramic view. I felt like I could stay there all day.
But after a bit I had drained my glass and had to push myself up to fetch a refill.
I returned a few minutes later, lowered myself down, and then sat there as the sun travelled across the sky and the shadows grew longer. Eventually, a haunting cry floated up, the sound of it somehow mournful in the solitude, rousing me from the light doze I’d fallen into.
I raised my head from the seatback. The vista before me where I sat perched still evoked the same awe and wonder I’d felt earlier, only now I felt a twinge of uneasiness, of dread almost, at the vastness and power of the natural world and its elements. Of things unseen and unknown, and of what might become of me.
For way too long I had stayed with Bryant after my last breakup—a disastrous two-year relationship when I’d made the mistake of letting my then boyfriend Stuart (or “Stu” as he liked to be called, which to me sounded like something you ate) move in with me. I’d barely been able to afford the two-bedroom duplex with my pay from the local UPS store where I’d spent most of my time accepting and boxing up returns, but at least I’d had the place to myself after a long workday. Once Stu (Stew) moved in, there was no getting him out, and barely a minute of peace until that last fateful night when he’d gone too far, trashed the house drunk, popped me one across the check, and I’d finally had to act.
Counting my first boyfriend, whom I’d dumped after finding out he was secretly seeing another girl, that made three failed relationships. Free Willy (his name had been William), Stew, and then Bryant. And now here I sat, thirty-five, unmarried, with no kids.
Physically I was still holding up pretty well, at least. I would never be called thin; I wasn’t small enough for that. But I was slender. And my sandy brown hair, which I’d let go over the past couple of years, had straightened out as it grew and seemed to flatter my face better.
Not that it mattered. Who was I going to meet here in this lonely house by the sea? Did I even want to meet anyone yet?
The problem with Bryant hadn’t been anything he’d done. It had been what he hadn’t done. Hadn’t excited me. Hadn’t inspired me. Hadn’t wanted to explore, hadn’t aspired to anything (not that I’d done much better), hadn’t striven for more. It had begun to seem unfair of me to continue seeing him while secretly longing for something other than a lukewarm relationship in the same tired town, like he deserved better. And so I had begun to back away from him, spending fewer and fewer nights with him staying over, allowing us to drift apart until, aided by my increased busyness helping care for my mother, we had ceased to talk at all. For the most part, he had taken it well. Too well, really, which had both relieved and saddened me.
Another lamenting cry echoed upward, the same bird it sounded like, somewhere below in the darkening gap between the land and the sea.
With a small shiver, I took a sip of my remaining champagne, then grimaced. It had grown warm and flat in the sun and I had lost the taste for it.
~
I had barely eaten the day before and consequently woke up ravenous. I made a visit to the bathroom adjoining the primary bedroom I’d chosen, then clomped down the stairs to the kitchen. There was no handy Keurig but there was a regular coffee pot, and I soon had it going again with more of the splendid gourmet coffee provided.
Fifteen minutes later I was back downstairs propped against the counter, dressed in comfortable jeans and a tank top, finishing my first cup as I contemplated all the hours ahead of me.
The house itself was silent around me, but through the window I had raised to dispel some of the mustiness, I could hear the muted chatter of the seabirds and the rhythmic woosh of the ocean surging against the shore. I set down my cup and walked over to look out the wall of windows that faced the marsh.
Above the swampy span, a faint haze not yet burned off by the sun remained across an otherwise cloudless sky.
My intent had been to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and maybe just this once, a few slices of the bacon also thoughtfully provided. But I hadn’t anticipated how silent and still the place was without the usual background noises. There was only the steady breathing of the Atlantic and the occasional cry of a seabird. No ticking of a clock, no ringing of a telephone; no sound of traffic, or voices of nearby neighbors.
Just me—and the ocean. Suddenly I needed to see it. Up close. I wanted to stand under the vast sky amid the roar of the ocean and feel the mist coming in and the wind blowing against me as the waves hurled themselves onto the sand.
Spying the basket of fruit and other snacks also thoughtfully provided, I stepped over, snatched an orange, and took it with me through the living room and out the door.
~
Once I stepped off the oystershell driveway, it was no more than a five-minute walk along the narrow lane to a sandy path winding through the towering trees and brush.
And there it was at the end across from a wide expanse of pale sand—the gray-blue of the ocean past the froth of the waves below a deeper azure sky.
I moved down from the grassy dune I stood on to the shifting sand below. Cupping my hand over my eyes, I walked farther out into the wind buffeting me almost to the damper part above the surf, and then peered first one way and then the other. To my right, open beach extended far into the distance, but to my left—littered by weathered driftwood and the remains of a tree that had fallen out over the sand—only a short section continued before hitting a rocky bluff.
Swiveling back around to face the longer stretch, I peeled a strand of hair out of my mouth and started forward.
There were two more houses—one painted pastel pink and the other mint green—I hadn’t been able to see from my observation deck, both of them set up on the slightly higher ground but fairly close to the beach. And just offshore past the curl of the waves, a yacht with a baby-blue hull motored sedately across the surface. Otherwise the entire shoreline as far as I could see was completely deserted. Had the boat hailed from the larger white house I’d noticed the evening before?
I could make out the form of a man moving along the side of the vessel as it angled slightly inland. I was about to turn away, when the man—light-haired and sporting a Hawaiian shirt—raised his arm and swept his hand back and forth in a slow wave.
Surprised and pleased, I jerked my hand up and gave a smaller version of the same wave in return, and then resumed walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him continuing to stare my way as the distance between us increased. He seemed like a friendly chap but out of my league from the looks of him. Even a relatively modest yacht like that had to cost a pretty penny.
I walked on, enjoying my picturesque surroundings. Presently I could make out two dots farther down the beach. I had been about to turn around, but, curious, I decided to keep going.
After a bit the dots sharpened into two figures, one seated and one standing halfway between the water and a low rock wall where the sand met the hillside. Slowing my pace, I tentatively meandered closer until I could see the house—set slightly uphill behind a gate and a set of stone steps. It was older and somewhat less impressive than I’d expected but still lovely with its simple colonial design. Two stories tall with top and bottom verandahs, it too was elevated behind white latticework and had a peaked dormer window extending from the roof.
The person hovering in the periphery appeared to be attending to the one seated. It was an older lady with graying red hair sitting at a table in the shade of the attached umbrella. The owner of the elegant old home, I surmised, with someone she employed, possibly a local woman.
Afraid to go any farther and not wanting to intrude—for all I knew the beachfront there was private—I shifted my gaze away to the ocean, took a last glance at the two on the beach, and saw both the younger woman and older lady turn their heads in my direction.
Heat filled my cheeks at being caught looking. I gave an awkward flap of my hand, then spun around and clumsily started across the sand back the way I’d come..
I searched for the small yacht, but the horizon was empty; it had passed out of view.
Same as before there was no sign of life at the first house I passed, but a little farther on at the next one, I noticed there was now a black SUV parked to the side.
I kept going, slowing my pace a little. I wasn’t used to all the exercise and was beginning to feel it in my feet and legs.
Though I was ready to head back, I was uncomfortably parched by the time I reached the other end and decided to take a quick pitstop to eat the orange I was still carrying.
I ducked beneath the trunk angled across the beach, walked over to a waterlogged piece of wood lying on the damp sand, and lowered myself down. There, I thought, exhaling.
Extending my legs out in front of me, I punctured the orange rind with my thumbnail, peeled it back, and tore out a section. I bit into it and heavenly sweet tartness burst across my taste buds.
Well this is what you wanted, I thought, chewing. This private retreat of mine could prove even lonelier than my last situation. But at least it was different. And I was out in the world.
The waves were creeping closer. It had to be nearing lunchtime by now. I could have pulled my phone out and checked, but I was too content to bother. I had a little more time, I estimated, before the tide reached the line of gently swaying sea oats behind me.
Tomorrow, I decided, I would take a drive and see what else the island had to offer.
After eating my fill of the juicy segments, I stood up, kicked my shoes off, and walked out into the foamy surf to rinse my hands.
I picked up the sound of an engine as I was straightening back up and looked across the water to see the same blue-and-white boat gliding around the point.
He had come back around. But to what purpose? Somehow I doubted he had any association with the elderly lady or her old-money home. Purposefully ignoring him and his boat, I turned my back, moved out onto dry sand, and stuck my feet into my flip flops.
Mildly unsettled, I quickly navigated around the jagged limbs, ducked under the decaying trunk, and hurried over to the path between the trees.
~
Dinner that evening was roast chicken and salad, accompanied by sparkling San Pellegrino water, watching the falling tide on the screened porch off the kitchen. I had briefly considered eating in front of the television—I had been told the Wi-Fi was spotty, but so far it seemed to be working fine—but had quickly rejected the idea in favor of viewing the more enjoyable backdrop of my surroundings.
When I was finished I picked up my plate, making a mental note to send a quick email thanking the owner for everything, and carried it inside to the sink. One of the things I liked about the house was how bright it was at times despite being surrounded by nature. Like it was now with the last rays of the sun—still a vividly burning ember low in the sky despite the lateness of the hour—arrowing in through the tall windows.
I pulled open the refrigerator and looked at the half-empty bottle of champagne, then closed it back. I still wasn’t feeling it. But I wanted something.
I settled on hot cocoa made with milk and a packet from an opened box in the back of a cabinet.
Taking my mug of chocolate with me, I started to go back out the side door to the screened porch again, then changed my mind and carried it through the house and up to the bedroom I’d chosen.
Pausing inside, I made another mental note to check out the books lined up on one of the shelves at some point, then walked past the queen bed and stepped out onto the deck here.
There was another bedroom up a small flight of steps and through a door to my right in the loftlike area below the observation deck. The crow’s nest, I thought. But with only this deck allowing access and it not having a bathroom, I had decided against it.
Parking my cocoa on a side table, I stretched out on one of the padded lounge chairs and settled back contentedly. Framed by palmetto fronds, the horizon glowed orange below a sky gone pink.
You could see much farther on the observation deck above me, but at least this one was screened in. I already had one mosquito bite on my arm.
As I sat there, alone, sipping my cocoa, my thoughts inevitably turned to the dilemma of what I was going to do with myself once this little respite ended. It was all well and good to venture forth bravely in search of something better, but did I really want to settle here on the coast completely by myself away from everything familiar? I sifted through my best options if I decided to go back to Clayville. There was Aunt Clarice, my dad’s sister. I wouldn’t have to live with her, just not too far away so I had some kind of familial connection nearby. But we had never been all that close and there was nothing really there in the neighboring town she lived in either, which was even smaller.
And there was Madison. She lived in West Virginia now but we still talked. Mostly on Facebook or in the occasional text, but still … Out of all the girls I had hung out with in high school and had since worked and become friendly with, Madison was the only one that had really kept in touch. But did our friendship rate my picking up stakes and completely relocating?
And that was pretty much it except for cousin Reggie, whom I barely knew and couldn’t see myself forging a meaningful relationship with.
Like my mother, I had been an only child. And now here I was.
Enough, I told myself, putting a halt to my internal musings. I will not go running right back. Not until I’d given myself a chance to find a new life for myself … somewhere.
Swinging my legs over the side, I stood up and walked over to the wooden stairs. Grasping the handrail, I climbed the steps, pushed the door open, and moved into the loft. Other than the ladder leading to the upper deck, the space was empty except for a full-size bed with a built-in top bunk and a dresser below a mirror mounted on the wall.
I wanted one last look before I settled down for the evening, maybe with one of the books I’d noticed.
Lifting my foot to the first rung, I carefully ascended the ladder and emerged into the faint breeze sweeping across. With the coming of the evening, the air had grown cooler. Trailing one hand across the railing, I moved to the far side and paused in the corner facing the ocean.
Something flickered offshore, catching my attention. Not far out from the big house, as I was beginning to call it, a golden yellow light glimmered faintly.
It had to be some sort of water vessel. It could be anyone of course, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same guy in the yacht.
I eyed the amber glow, watching for movement, but it appeared stationary. I was about to turn away when I spotted a second flicker. It was another vessel, this one also close to shore just past the curl of waves.
Was this some kind of hot spot for night fishing?
But no, the new boat was clearly heading straight for the other one.
Bright white sprang out from the lurking vessel as the running lights were switched on, and I caught the low sound of its engine. A moment later it began to glide across the water.
Slowly gathering speed, it appeared to be moving out to meet the new boat in some perverse game of chicken.
Then I realized the yacht, if that’s what it was, was trying to beat the approaching boat in an effort to make it out to sea.
Just when I thought they were going to collide, the fleeing vessel made it past and continued moving outward.
The incoming boat immediately dropped its speed but chose to not give chase.
That was my first hint that it wasn’t all sunsets and seashells on Blue Island, that just below the surface ran a dangerous undercurrent not readily apparent to me.
End of sample