Crooked Island Beach

There lies a desolate coast along the eastern edge of Tyndall AFB, where one must traverse through woods filled with wildlife - bear, fox, deer, all manner of nocturnals, bobcats too - to reach the water's edge. Over a boardwalk weathered by the winds and sand and time, through the dunes, the sound of the water comes to you, whispers at first, then louder, a soft sound, calling to you, causing your breath to catch in anticipation. Boardwalk's edge, you kick your flip flops off - no one will take them, they're safe there along with all the others left behind - and over the low dunes you go, forging ahead into the whiteness, the crystalline sands sent here a million years ago through lakes and streams born out of the Appalachians. Emerald green waters greet you, pull to you, sweeping upon the shore inviting you in for a cool stroll. Sand dollars and conch, olive shells and the beautiful multicolored, opalescent inside of the clam, cast upon the moist sand like so much jewelry strewn across a wet blanket. This land, this shore - it is an ever growing, constantly evolving, living creature, never the same from one visit to the next, always holding back a surprise for the next. I love this beach, more than any other in the world. It calls to me, whispers to me, "come, come again...I'm here for you. come find your peace within my sands."