PIER PLEASURE – Catching a mess of memories…

Grand Strand image

(This piece first appeared in the April/May, 2018 issue of Grand Strand Magazine, and is re-published here with their permission, and my thanks.)

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Story by Gray Bostick / Original Photography by Judy Quick Sharon

Winter. Even the word is harsh.

Cold, damp, dreary day after dreary day that can drive even the most dedicated Palmetto Boy to ponder a path to warmer climes, a life in the little latitudes, lazing among the palms, rum drink in hand — as the Weather Channel predicts yet another Polar Vortex diving South, setting the stage for the next bout of cabin fever.

It’s nearly enough to make a man turn angry against life its ownself, make him become as bitter as those icy, Northern winter winds. In fact, it seems at times the only things Winter is good for Down South is Christmas and championship football games. Scrooge was only partially right: Bah humbug on the whole short-days, long-nights thing.

Then it happens: Mother Nature sneaks a few warm, sunny days past old Jack Frost and it’s as if the world reawakens, peeks out for a quick glance, and celebrates with a little dance before winter settles back in, a respite from the dark days behind and a quick sample of what lies ahead, a timely — and much-needed — reminder of the promise of Spring.

And a perfect pier day.

Aah, a Grand Strand pier. Few places can match the peace and serenity to be found in a sun-kissed, late-winter day spent out over the ocean, a fact many a Sandlapper learns at an early age thanks to DNA hard-wired to love the sea and all things coastal. Rare is a better opportunity than that afforded by a simple, sunny pier to kick life out of gear and, instead of watching it speed by, just letting it soak in, nice and slow, just as the Almighty Himself intended.

A scene truly Masterful in its simplicity. And given the season and the scarcity of other fishermen, it’s basically all mine.

A semi-private spot is exactly what I needed. Some personal space in which to set up a couple rods, set out a couple baits, and then set about restoring some seasonally-lost sanity while the world whips and whirls on by, unnoticed for a day, unimportant for a change.

A perfect perch from which to watch the subtle but steady rolling in of waves, each slowly building before ending in a subdued break against the shore, waves spreading forward, chasing sandpipers further up the beach, before they, in a game as old as the ocean itself, turn and chase the waters back into the sea. Wave after wave after wave, a continuous and calming certainty that in and of itself fosters a serenity found in few other places.

A nice place from which to watch a squadron of pelicans glide by in formation, just above the wave tops, enjoying the sunny day and riding the gentle on-shore breeze to their next marina port-of-call. Or to watch the gulls as they share the skies, rising and diving as one to battle for crumbs tossed skyward by the few beach-combers, while noisily pleading for more, more, always more.

A spot where watching the simple dance of a kite on the wind against a blindingly blue sky, dotted with puffy, white, cumulus clouds slowly sliding seaward, easily takes one back to a long-ago childhood along these same shores, now nearly half a century past, a coast not unlike myself, with a beaten and battered past — yet essentially unchanged by man or time. And better for having endured the storms, of both life and nature.

A point where a thousand memories might creep by with every passing hour. Of high-school-age lovers sharing an ice-cream cone — and dreams of the future — during a stroll along the pier’s planks. Of long-past fishing trips with friends, and frolics with long-lost fraternity brothers. Of a young man out for a day’s fishing with his dad, where he learns that going fishing isn’t as much about catching a fish as it is about unwinding your mind and catching up — with whatever you’ve lost the proper perspective of, of realigning your priorities.

Lost in about fifty years of thoughts and flashbacks, and pondering what-might-have-beens and what-must-bes, I noticed out of the corner of my eye my rod tip bouncing, a sure sign of a solid bite, and with a set of the hook the battle was on. And it was a nice one, tugging mightily as he fought for his freedom before finally wrapping the line around a barnacle-encrusted pier piling, causing it to part and allowing him to swim the sea another day.

A fitting end, I thought, to another blessed Carolina day, as I also recalled with a chuckle the wisdom of my elders, who noted that not catching any fish wasn’t really all that bad a deal: there’s none to clean.

Refreshed by my trip down Memory Lane and reminded that Spring lay just around the corner — or as close as the nearest sunny, winter pier — smiling at the memories and thankful for my blessings, my mind clear and my worries freed, the sun low and my spirits high, I gathered my gear and headed for home.

The long way.

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