By Luke Frazier
One of my prized possessions is a small, red and black plastic radio that I got for my birthday a few years ago. It plays AM & FM stations, and can be charged with a cord, the sun, or a hand crank. The real value, however, is the NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) weather-band capability. This means I get a 24/7 loop recording made by the National Weather Service from station KEC85 (162.400 MHz) in Savannah.
The computer-generated voice (nicknamed “Paul” according to the guy who answered the phone at the NWS office in Charleston) takes you through current conditions, short and long term forecasts, marine conditions, and more. The marine data includes details about rip tides, temperatures, and wave conditions.
Regarding waves, you might hear something from Paul along the lines of: “wave detail…southeast three feet at 8 seconds…,” which I’m assuming references the direction it’s coming from, height, and at what time interval it breaks and dissipates. The loop is hypnotic in its own way, and it’s a special little thrill when I have it on long enough to hear the updates and new information. Paul’s voice is not overly artificial, though he does mispronounce or emphasize the wrong syllable on occasion (like Sapelo Island).
Actually, his voice is like what an ocean wave itself often is: rhythmic, steady, comforting. And as I sat there listening/not listening on a recent morning, it got me thinking about the broad range of waves that surround us all the time here in the Lowcountry—in the sky, among the trees, or swelling across the Atlantic.
I thought about the cloud formation I saw driving over the McTeer Bridge the other night around sunset; it looked like the crest of an ocean wave about to break, complete with some froth already ahead of it on the sky-beach in my mind. I thought of the wet strands of Spanish Moss hanging from the Oak trees in a nearby alley, and how they wave in the wind and give the impression of falling streams of water. I thought of the other clouds out at Hunting Island I saw that were like gentle ripple-row waves that whisper ashore. From there it was a short leap to other kinds of fresh emotional waves.
I recently saw my son graduate college after a few bumps and bruises along the way, some of which are still being sorted out. Pride was accompanied by moments of anguished worry and fear. Right after there was bad news about a good friend’s health, then good news about another friend’s return to addiction recovery from a relapse. Juxtaposed in the usual way of things were the tender mercies and expectational insults of a hundred daily situations: the flotsam and jetsam of life among humans. It recalled a quote from the writer Dan Millman:
Life comes at us in waves. We can’t predict or control those waves, but we can learn to surf.
We’ve been surfing here in Beaufort for coming up on a year now, and it’s starting to feel like home. Coming back from a recent trip overseas I was a little
By Luke Frazier
surprised by the internal wave of certainty that I was headed home. There is something comforting about feeling rooted in a place where we can then navigate the life waves that arrive, sometimes crashing, at our shore-door. Trips to the beach always help with perspective.
When I body surf, the best rides come from letting go at just the right time and granting the wave permission to carry you. Twenty or thirty yards later you’ve arrived exactly on time and in fine style. Rise up and do it again, like the call of a new day.
We’re all out here riding along and searching for equilibrium day by day, juggling the happenstance of waves beyond the water, seeking balance amid a daily reprieve against the inevitable low tides. I only recently learned about the dancer/musician/writer Gabrielle Roth, but her story of overcoming injury and depression and creating the ecstatic dance approach 5Rhythms amazes. Her videos are like kinetic missives complete with instructions on how to retrieve your soul through dance. This Roth quote pulls together waves, energy, and a renowned Italian poet:
I know that if a wave of energy is allowed to complete itself, it yields a whole new wave, and in fact that is all I really know. Riding these waves means joining the cosmic dance that, as Dante says, ‘moves the sun and the other stars.’
All I really know is that every day the wave energy of the sun moves in, among, and across Beaufort’s world, through the spindly swing bridge, across Chambers Park and along the Plough mud in the marsh parallel with Bay Street. But it doesn’t stop there. Every day it reaches you, wherever you are in the Lowcountry, with an invitation to partake in life.
Some waves are made of water, and some are not. Regardless of its substance, the quality of our lives consists of the responses we make to the surf, right here on our own turf.
