I'm standing in the sand between Charleston Harbor and miles of yellow grass growing in shallow water that sparkles in the afternoon sun. The sea is calm at its edge, but 50 yards out between my island and the peninsula, it fights, swirls and sputters dangerously.
Nearby stands a long dead forest, sun-bleached and half-buried in the sand. The sand blown trees are now smooth enough to shine and incapable of giving a splinter. When I walk among them, I feel like I have stepped into a Salvador Dali painting.