Cumberland Island

On February 9, with COVID shots in our arms, Millie Ravenel and I ventured by ferry to Cumberland Island, a sea island bordering Florida and Georgia, a United States National Seashore, home to protected live oaks that dip and curl in and out of the earth, to armadillos whose armor cries stillness as its tail swings willfully through the underbrush. Sea marsh waters protect oysters and crabs, feed herons and egrets, reflecting cloud-filled skies that simultaneously send the eye deeply downward and dizzyingly upward. Horses roam free, abandoned from circuses, they say, or descendants of Tennessee Walkers, American Quarter Horses, Arabians, and American Mustangs.  Feral now. A non-native yet historic species. Bobcats leave their scat but no other trace. Crushed shell roads and sandy paths enabled miles of walking. A nearly deserted beach yielded whole sand dollars and live conchs, soon tossed back into the sea. It was a magical day of breathing clean air, seeing nature at its most fecund, hearing profound quiet, and awaiting the return ferry, satiated and exhausted.