Postcard from Charleston, South Carolina

The line pours out the door and down the wooden stairs of what appears to be the only coffee shop on Folly Beach. Lady and Nanny wait in line among tourists waiting for seats where hip locals will serve them some of the best looking food we’ve seen in awhile. The boys and I split off into our own faction in search of a frisbee, some flip flops for Tristan, maybe a shovel or two for Winter.

Surfers do what they can with the relatively tame waves the Atlantic Ocean has to offer. Fisherman cast their lines from the pier some thirty feet above the sea. Black silhouettes rise and fall in the ocean. Dogs chase frisbees and college guys play keep away flirtatious football with their girlfriends. Time passes slowly and faster than ever all at once.

Back in the city, Charlestonians sip cocktails and shop high end fashion while horse drawn carriages, defacto here in these southern coastal towns, usher visitors from colder lands on their Spring Breaks through the city’s history. The bars will pack with the über cool of local hipsters and businessers ready for their hard earned weekend alike. Children will be born, old men will die, the sun will rise. All the while our oldest Tristan lays out in the cool sand hoping to transform the sun’s rays into a darker shade of himself while his brother Winter digs matchbox cars into two year old imagination. The baby sleeps in his smiling mother’s arms and Nanny and I discuss the beauty of a sunny day spent simply on the coast.

The beach begins to fill up as we consider tacos and adult beverages around the corner, all the while the ocean seems unaware of our human trappings. Content with its endless in and out rhythm, a million pinpoint sunlight reflections dance over the top of the water like a prom for Jesus and his sailor buddies. I squint my eyes at the brilliance if it all and slowly fall into a sleep that can only be achieved in this rare moment of perfection when all three children and the weather come together in perfect quiet harmony.