From Beaufort, I crossed the Harbor River to my destination, Harbor Island. My condo came equipped with its own golf cart. I've never golfed, never liked watching golf, but I was weirdly stoked about getting to drive a golf cart around.
Okay, the thrill wore off after the first couple of outings, but still it was a bit of slow-paced goofy fun. I actually found myself laughing out loud as I drove. It really doesn't take much to amuse me.
Because I stay off the beach between 10 or so in the morning and 4 or so in the afternoon (peak sunburn hours), I decided to first drive around a little and get a feel for how the island was set up. On the side facing the mainland were wide expanses of marsh.
I liked the curvy, shaded roads through the neighborhoods, some of which had golf-cart-only parking areas.
On my way in, I'd stopped to pick up some boiled peanuts, a treat I always get when I'm in the Low Country. I was chatting with the man at the store where I bought these and told him that my ex-husband, who was from Detroit, thought Southerners were crazy for eating them. The man and I both laughed at my ex's foolishness. This salty treat was brought over from Africa (where they are called groundnuts), and they are delicious and best with cold beer. But only the fresh ones. Canned boiled peanuts are an abomination.
When it had cooled down a bit and the sun wasn't so high, I headed out the door and over the boardwalk through the dunes.
It's the kind of place where you can leave your flip flops by the end of the boardwalk and know they will be right there when you get back.
Because on the beach, who needs shoes? Just me, the sand and the water that seems to go on forever. This is my idea of heaven.
Each night I was there, I stayed put until it was dark. Each night when I walked back to my temporary home, I felt a little lighter.
