Sands Beach, photo by Luke Frazier
At first we thought we were going to live smack down in the deep part of the town that billed itself as Cool, Coastal, and Far From Ordinary, but things didn’t work out lease-wise for the house on 13th Street. So instead I visit Port Royal from just up the road in Beaufort.
There’s much to enjoy—super cute coffee spot, new library with Spanish Moss views from the window seats, sunning alligators and squawking birds filling Cypress Wetlands, and occasionally a Sunday morning spent in a cozy second floor room at The Arts Port Royal, basking in meditative sound baths with like-minded spirits.
Port Royal vibes as funky-town diverse with a touch of Mayberry RFD. Golf carts tooling up to the ice cream shop and a boatyard sitting behind City Hall. The ZenDen crystal shop anchors the lower end of its main drag Paris Avenue, oui oui to the body eclectic. Just past the shop, mounted off a brick wall about twelve feet above the sidewalk, is a small blue sign heralding the direction to Sands Beach. And when the road ends a half mile later you will see the scenic merger of Battery Creek and the Beaufort River. And while what you’ll feel is entirely up to you, there is an opportunity presented, and it seems like it has to do with the power of the water at that spot.
Sands Beach itself is small, and it’s protected by a parking lot that acts like an obstacle course of craters and dips. High tide sometimes creates a wading pool near the entrance, keeping the cars and trucks mostly to the paved area adjacent to the boardwalk. There’s an area for oyster shell recycling and an active boat ramp. No matter what tide, its reputation as a source of treasure-worthy shark teeth attracts scanning scavengers with intention. Besides them, good weather usually brings out a few sunbathers, roaming family units, the occasional seated solo reader, and perhaps a wishful fisher or two. But the opportunity I’m talking about has nothing to do with any specific function or activity. It has to do with surrendering to a formless state of consciousness and battling the tyranny of linear thought.
Let me first admit my propensity to over–thinking everything. Armchair psychoanalysts and real life therapists agree that my default to intellectualize experiences over dealing with feelings was self-protective in the face of childhood chaos that included close views of suicide, psychosis, sudden death, and drunken desperation. I thought myself right into a decades long whirlwind of my own drug and alcohol abuse, lousy behavior, and questionable decisions. Thankfully I made it out the other side almost 20 years ago and have embraced what amounts to a second wave of living. And that’s what brings me to the consideration of rhythmic waves at little Sands Beach on a recent Sunday afternoon.
Heading down to the water seemed like a good idea after the recent cold snap, and Sands Beach was selected because the ride out to Hunting Island seemed onerous. We sat down and immediately were greeted with a pair of dolphins gracefully arching their way seaward. There was a gentle breeze and the screeching of a couple of dozen gulls were somehow a pleasant frequency for a change. My wife played a guided meditation off her phone, and we settled in.
There isn’t too much specifically I recall from the content of the meditation, the woman had a lovely voice and a soothing cadence to her encouraging statements to breathe and relax. For me, these kinds of recordings are about clearing the deck and giving yourself permission to let go of the brain loops and over thinking I’m prone to. After it ended I just sat there, and that’s when things got weird.
All I can say is that the action of the waves generated by boats speeding up and down Battery Creek took on a shape and dimension that transcended sound. And the sparkle glints off the water were absolute diamonds of desire, suggesting interstellar connections of the highest order. Things got non-linear, yes, but formless without being nothing. Everything was all about itself all at once, and I briefly was just an extension of everything that ever had been, is now, or will be. Rapture erupted, right there in the shifting sands.
Days later the feelings linger, and description has not gotten easier. I came across the poem Backbend by Diane Mehta that somehow helps. The end stanza reads: I almost look away, thinking / we pay for each performance / to sit there in our vanishings / life is cold, the stage is hot / you backbend to eternity / half in air, and firmly on your feet.
Something about the water at that spot on that day back-bended me to eternity, and I sat there in my vanishing. I realized that in this version of my life it’s about letting go, as often as possible, of everything but the primacy of moment. Trying to embrace time without so many questions freewheeling through my brain. Hard to do.
What is possible to do, for certain, is to seek out spots like Sands Beach and just sit there. Who knows what may happen when you give the universe the opportunity of your attention.
