Howling Winds

We are nomadic. Perhaps I am a bit more nomadic than my traveling companions. Momo is very content to sit in the sun or curl on the end of the bed inside the TinCan. WFS is just happy wherever we land. He is easy that way. Me, I have the "bear goes over the mountain to see what he can see" syndrome. There are places that truly lure me, call me back again and again. My home in the hills of KY, Paris, the Pacific Ocean and this little jewel on the Atlantic, Hunting Island. Nestled about 16 miles from Beaufort, South Carolina in Gullah low country hidden splendor; Hunting Island isn't exactly undiscovered but certainly wild and secluded enough to perk all my senses. The boneyard of tress lashed by the wind and waves is mystical and otherworldly. At low

tide, blackened tree skeletons stand sentinel along the shore. At high tide, a scant finger of blackened limb reaches toward the sky. Truly inspiring and eerie at the same time. I am mesmerized. The beach was particularly beautiful on this moonless night. Not even a sliver dared peek through the clouds. Perhaps the howling wind and the crashing waves were enough for our senses tonight. There is something extremely comforting about sleeping by the sea, wind and waves just outside our door. Sleeping with the promise of bright skies and the tree boneyard to greet the morrow is all this girl could ask for.