Photo and text by Susan McKinney Gunn.
The sunset from this beach on 30A is hypnotic. I look into the last light, awake and dreaming of this place in a time from long, long ago. Closing my eyes, I visualize a different version of myself sitting on a forested sand dune, waves rolling in over an evening's foggy beach, 532 years back in time. Staring out from my hiding place in the brush, I watch as white-tailed bucks and young does with their fawns frolic along the shoreline, investigating the surf in the misty twilight. I hold, keeping my arrows quivered, my bow still and quiet on my back. I have had my meal for the day — fish caught in the clearest, coldest springs not too far from where I am resting now. I stare in gratitude for their previous sacrifices, and I silently rejoice as I watch them play.
I hear the whispers of my father and grandfather, and their fathers before them, "Take only what you need."
The last evening cries of the ever-warring eagle and osprey sound overhead. They have almost settled their arguments for the day. I am surrounded by thick rows of young sea oat shoots and a plethora of purple lupine, just beginning to bloom. The beach mouse is still skittering through the foliage here, tripping quickly over my worn moccasins. The tides and time have not yet eroded the naturally-graded high, hilly dunes. Morning glories lay low in the salty breeze, closed tight while they wait for the oncoming night to end. They prepare to welcome the sun as they creep down toward the beach, vining in the fading light with a foothold on the sugar-white sand.
The great-horned owls have begun their deep-timbered calls to one another from the tallest trees up and down this pristine beach and its greenest wilderness. I listen as the cacophony of smaller owls, cicadas, crickets, and young frogs begins to rise from the nearby coastal dune lakes, the rarest of rare wildland jewels. From my spot on the dune, the sound is loud and rich, singing in unison with the strong gulf waves — a song written by nature thousands of years old, in this moment, still unaffected by man.
The waning moon is on the rise in the east. My heartbeat is regular, strong, and steady. My eyes are relaxed and acclimated to the dwindling of the beautiful evening light, now transforming into a softly moonlit night. As the evening cools down, the moisture builds on my dark skin. The night has all but fallen. My body is calm but still on guard. I have been looking behind me, hearing sounds from the thick brush — palmettos, mossy oaks, and long-leaf pines. I think I might not linger too long after the golden sun — newly set at the horizon's edge — ceases the remnants of its burnt orange glow.
I know that here in this time, the night belongs to the wild things — the black bear, the panther, the coyote, and the bobcat. It is time for my little orphaned red fox companion and me to go. But not before I turn my face to the emerging galaxy of stars, so many millions of lights in an endless twinkling sky. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, taking it all in.
My soul is peaceful and gracious, abundantly thankful for another day here in this perfect paradise of Wild. I wish I could stay forever on this dune, frozen in time.
I wish this place could have forever remained the same.
Photo and text by Susan McKinney Gunn.
Follow Susan's photography and writing on Instagram (@sgunnphotography) or visit her online gallery at susangunnphotography.com.
Originally published in Beach Happy Magazine, Issue 12 — Spring 2023.
