We are back in Evanston, but the photos were taken from or directly in front of our room in Hilton Head, South Carolina.

      

The island is shaped like a foot, twelve miles long and four miles at its widest, sole toward the ocean, running northeast to southwest, toe down. Thirty years ago 5,000 people lived there. Now there are 40,000 full time residents and two million visitors a year. Still the development has been restrained, if somewhat repetitive and bland. I don’t believe any building is more than five stories high, and most, including the hotels, blend in well with the trees and surroundings.

       

The sole is a long, almost straight, wide white sand beach, uncrowded at this time of year. Excellent for walking, bicycle riding, running dogs, and sea gulls.

        The worse thing about the island is that you can’t see most of it. For reasons of ego and paranoia, the permanent residents hide behind security gates that block you if not at every turn, then often enough to be a significant irritation. I’m not sure just what they are afraid of. There is no sign of impoverished hordes gathering to deprive them of their possessions.

       

Saturday was overcast and cool--in the 40s; but the next two days were perfect for winter--around 60 and sunny.

        Although we are obviously infected with flatness and carry it with us--the sound of surf that reached our room was caused by nothing more than 8” wavelets--there was color and space.

        I can’t see across Lake Michigan, but my mind knows that land is only fifty miles away. Looking at the ocean in Hilton Head my mind knew that the nearest land was three thousand miles away. It makes a difference. My spirit soared.