“They’re a bit rustic,” K’s colleague said about the cabins at Edisto Beach State Park. “They’re okay if you like ‘roughing it,’” he concluded.
“If this is ‘roughing it’,” K said as we walked in, “then I’d hate to see what his idea of luxury is.” We quickly determined that in between the two visits there must have been some extensive renovations.
Surely no one could call this “roughing it.”
Hardwood floors and an interior done completely in unfinished pine — it is a welcoming space from the beginning. The living room has a Murphy Bed and an ample sitting area.
At the other end, a small television (hidden in the cabinet on the wall) and a leather couch.
There’s a small bedroom in one corner of the cabin — it’s L’s bedroom.
The kitchen is well light (in the day, anyway) and perfectly adequate for vacation.
The real treasure, though, is in the back.
A restful night is a simple matter there, with the wind blowing through the palms and the crickets all around.
We wake the next morning to visitors: a family of four deer that almost managed to scamper away completely before I stumble back into the cabin for the camera.
Still, we didn’t come to Edisto for the wildlife. We came for the beaches, eager to give L her first beach experience.
With the initial fear from the previous afternoon a distant memory, L is able to get down to some serious sand castle building. She carefully makes a ring of towers with an eventual moat. K, of course, only watches. Having grown up in southern Poland, she’s had enough beach time in her life!
The pelicans off the coast have breakfast while the architectural wonders rise from the sand. They hit the water with shocking impact. We later find out that the repeated impact can so damage their eyes that they can eventually go blind.
The Girls, somewhat oblivious to the masochistic fishing exercise going on just behind them, continue to build.
Eventually, I try to convince L to approach the water and let the waves lightly wash over her toes. She’s not receptive, and when I press the issue, assuring her that I’ll hold her the entire time, that she has nothing to fear, that I’ll never let anything hurt her (A lie? No: some things are out of my control, but those things that I can control I will control. Or will I? There is learning in pain…), that it will be great fun — all for naught.
The more I reassure her, the more she panics. At last, I calm her down and assure her that I won’t make her go to the water.
It’s like with many foods: I know she’ll love it as soon as she overcomes her distrust.
She should be glad that she’s not a pelican, I decide. Then again, instinct is frightfully powerful, as is conditioning.