Past Hilton Head, SC – April 13, 2013
I don’t trust the water on the inside. It shifts too much and the tides are strong along the Georgia Bight, that long, inland curve on the southeast coast.
The sea rises ten feet in an afternoon. It covers football fields of dry land and turns calm marshes into rivers. It drops away into mud flats and oyster beds. Beaches appear and vanish.
Water seems to flow in every direction through too many channels to understand. A thousand arteries connect the inlets and bays, flushing in and out from all sides, filling and draining pools, pushing and pulling at the same time.
It feels like a maze that never stops shifting no matter how long I stare at a map. Sometimes it’s with me and sometimes against. I never know until I go, limping or flying through the salt marshes, never trusting the water for more than a bend.