Matching Tracksuits

It’s probably one of the most famous roads on Edisto Island: a sand lane that runs under a canopy of Live Oaks, looking positively like something out of Gone With the Wind.

Botany Bay Wildlife Management area is actually made up of three plantations: Bleak Hall, Botany Bay, and Sea Cloud. All three grew sea island cotton, which has particularly long fibers and was used in France for high quality lace.

This morning, we’re going on a botany tour — appropriate, given the name of the site. One other family is joining us.

We walk among the marshes, stopping every few moments to learn a bit more about the island.

Along the way, one young lady catches a fiddler crab.

L gets her own:

We learn about the importance of the marshes as a protective barrier for hurricanes: they act as sponges and thus do much to minimize the effect of higher tides from hurricanes.

We find out that the English came to Edisto in search of riches and found a treasure in the huge Live Oaks on the island.

We learn that the use of palms in South Carolina naval fortifications were literally so effective at dissipating energy that canon balls essentially bounced off them.

We arrive at the beach, where our guide, Meg, gave us more information on loggerhead turtles and residents’ effort to help them.

It’s about the third time we’ve heard about loggerheads and the nest relocation activities of the Edistoians. They’re obviously proud of it, and rightly so: it takes a great deal of dedication among many people to keep the program going.

Meg shows us a loggerhead skull, and it’s immediately obvious how huge the turtles are. The females drag their bodies out of the water to dig a nest, and often enough, they don’t get beyond the high tide line.

The incoming tide destroys the nests; volunteers on the island, though, head out nightly and relocate the nests. Then the hatchlings only have to worry about birds and raccoons as they make their way to the surf.

After Meg leaves, we explore the beach a bit on our own, and what a beach it is — like something from a tourist brochure. In fact, it is.

The ocean is slowly reclaiming this portion of the shore. It creeps inward at a relatively steady pace, turning everything into beach, and hence killing all the flora that cannot handle an intensely salty environment.

K takes the camera and goes for a picture walk;

I stay with the Girl, hoping to talk her into the ocean,

unsuccessfully.

Wednesday afternoon, Nana and Papa arrive for a short stay on their way down to visit friends in Florida. It’s lovely to see them, but just as lovely is the prospect of having sitters for the Girl.

The day begins as it usually does: breakfast and the beach. This time, L makes a friend. They dig in the sand together, build things together, destroy things together.

Then the girl heads to the water. We’re hopeful: maybe L will see her friend playing in the surf and think, “Hey, maybe I’ll give that a try.” Maybe, but not likely.

Still, with L occupied and Nana and Papa there to keep an eye on her, K and I do something we hadn’t done all week: go swimming together. Papa obliges our photo request and does a fine job.

The afternoon brings more babysitting — what to do? It’s not that we’re thrilled to be free of L, but we are. In a sense. Every time we’re without her, the same things happen: a strange sense of freedom from obligation followed very quickly by a quirky little tinge of emptiness.

Before the tinge sets in, we get in kayaks for a quick tour of the marshlands.

It has been over ten years — closer to fifteen — since I’ve been in a kayak, but I still keep my arm straight by my side when the guide asks, “Who has little to no experience in a kayak?” Surely it’s like riding a bike. What’s there to worry about? The greatest danger in a paid tour would be raising my paddle too high, dripping water onto my lap.

We set off, and sure enough, K and I are pros.

Lindsey, our guide, stops frequently to explain the flora and fauna about us.

“How many think that’s mud on the banks?” she asks. Some of us would probably raise our hands if we weren’t so busy paddling. Lindsey explains that it is, in fact, hundreds of years of decayed marsh grass (I can’t recall the name of the grass). It’s also floating about in the water, and this is the primary component of the mussels’ diet.

A couple of times, Lindsey has us back our canoes into the bank while she discusses the environment in detail, and answers questions.

The pressing question: Alligators? Generally, none in the marshes — they stick to fresh water and keep themselves as far away from humans as possible.

It’s from Lindsey that we learn about pelicans’ potential for eye damage due to diving for fish.

As with the spider wasp, that lays its eggs in a paralyzed, still active spider so that its young can feast on the still-living spider, it strikes me as a particularly cruel twist.