The Shore
A reflection on why we return to certain places, and what they quietly give back to us.
By Clay Hipp
“Somewhere beyond the sea
Somewhere waiting for me
My lover stands on golden sand
And watches the ships that go sailing
We’ll meet beyond the shore
It’s far beyond the stars
It’s near beyond the moon
I know beyond a doubt
My heart will lead me there soon”
The place where land meets sea inspires so much literature, and song, and, it seems, the heart. We humans seem to yearn for a place apart. Some claim the mountains, others the sea.
I have sat and listened to vigorous conversations in which friends and family debate which is better. Just as we seem to break down as either “dog or cat people,” this divide feels deeper and richer, more essential.
The sea and land give us the sense of forever.
It should be this way.
Our lives are such that peace and quiet are a rare phenomenon. So we have crafted the idea of the formal vacation—a sacred time and place that even the “busiest” among us make a special effort to show up for, even as their minds are far away.
I write about “the shore” rather than “the beach” because my attachment is not just to a physical place involving sun, sand, and waves. Perhaps it is symbolic—this global reality of the edge.
No matter where we are on land, we came from the sea, and we carry somewhere in our deep cortex a common “memory” that tells us we are not truly this or that, but both.
Standing on the sand, with just my toes feeling the ebb and flow, if I let my mind go, there is a melding of sensibility.
We have settled into a grand routine of visiting just this one place twice a year—fall and spring. If we tell someone where we are going (“the beach”), they ask where. More often than not, our destination does not ring a bell.
It is a small lodge that stands on the boundary of two towns—one with a fairly well-known beach identity, the other mostly residential.
As we sit on our balcony, or at our small table, or on a comfortable couch, we see nothing but ocean about fifty yards away. Native shrubs and dunes covered with sea oats are the only things that separate us from the waves and sand.
There is a small wooden deck, virtually hidden, that provides a perch for those who wish to be more proximate to the elements.
That small wooden structure is where you can find us every morning at the beginning of the Blue Hour.
With our first cup of artisan coffee from a small local (very responsible) roasting company, we sit and wait for the main event—“Here Comes the Sun.”
But for us, the time leading up to the feature is the most precious.
Our chosen meeting of land and sea runs oddly east to west so the if we look left, we see a long stretch of sky over a pier at the “beach town”. From our view, we await “first light” as we try to assess the potential for an eye worthy display of color.
We have witnessed a few over the years that cannot be described.
Sometimes the clouds prevail, with only small rays breaking through the overcast. That too is satisfying (who could handle New Mexico-like sunsets day after day without eventually saying “ho hum”?).
Quite often, other guests arrive with cameras and cellphones to “capture” the arrival of “old Sol”. Good for them. At least they are not sleeping in and missing the best part of the day.
We usually return to our porch for a second cup and a little sustenance—enough to carry us to the obligatory trip to the purveyor of the perfect shrimp burger (yes, you heard that right), followed by a walk on the sand.
That usually calls for nap before a glass of wine on the porch or little deck, and then some fresh fish (from our favorite “Blue Ocean” specialty shop) from the surrounding waters, either grilled or pan sauteed.
The music cranks up about five.
Sometimes we go to a small “Island Grill” for dinner and conversation with familiar servers. Otherwise, we stay close to home.
(Oh yes, there are also sunsets to the right, due west. They are, more or less, optional. That separate version of the “other Blue Hour” is too full of other, more pressing events. Happy to announce though that some of our fellow guests urge us to go to the third floor, west facing, walkway to view their favorite luminary show. We try and be kind and considerate…..)
Postlude
Honestly, I tried my darnedest not to make this sound too idyllic. That seems to be elusive—or out of my control. I wrote this a few days before our departure and was probably not entirely in my right mind due to anticipation.
So I will just say this— I do not want to mislead you.
We do not simply sit on the porch and gaze at the surf and worship the sunrise.
Our lodge has someone who sets up chairs and umbrellas. On request, they will place them near the high tide line. We sometimes sit and read until our toes are tickled by the incoming water.
We walk and pick up interesting shells and smooth pebbles. We have an intimate relationship with the surf, and when the day is warm, we take a swim. Sometimes our feet encounter crabs and feel a fish brush our knees.
We live over four hours away in the Carolina Piedmont.
Each week here is a true retreat—a resetting of our personal rhythms.
Here is a glimpse of why and how—a few entries from my diary of the shore (including a freshly written entry of this mornings sunrise experience with a little video snapshot Joanie captured from the waves so you can join us in our revelry).
3/24/25
Yet another interesting sunrise.
A dark cloud bank on the eastern horizon. A break above and overhanging clouds.
Looked like a perfect setup for a complex light show.
Finally—some rising color-mostly shades of yellow with only a small hint of pink/red.
First the empty space between the cloud banks began to glow.
Horizontal bands of the shades of yellow.
Then the underside of relatively fluffy high, not cumulous, streams picked up the growing intensity of the rays building between the layers.
Finally, the true rays of the fast-approaching orb itself caused the deep surface bank to glow at its ridgeas if had been electrified.
At last, the intense first arc peeked above.
It is always a surprise to witness the speed with which the whole sun reveals itself—no mist or dust this morning to allow looking straight on.
Where is Strauss when you need him?
2/16/2025
Atlantis—our last morning until March. About the time we go out to check the sunrise.
Stormy, breakers start as far out as I can remember, almost too windy to stand against comfortably.
I stood looking for a patch of color—only a slight glow through a patch of deep cloud cover.
I closed my eyes to focus on the sound of the waves and noticed, underneath the thrashing of the tide, I heard a deep drumming, throbbing tone. It was magical, saying to the listener, “hear me, I am alive—you are too”.
We walked down to the strand to get a closer feel for the power of the ocean, to hear the sounds more deeply. The throbbing deepened and I fancied that I could feel it below my feet, through the soles of my shoes.
We had pretty much given up on the light show in the east when, suddenly, the underside of the clouds began to glow, first as pastels, then growing to a fiery orange. The glow extended from the eastern horizon to directly over our heads, and the bottom of the cloud cover was rolled and puffy, like the bellies of a herd of sheep.
It lasted for several minutes and faded very quickly.
The waves were coming in and breaking so fast that they were creating beds of foam on the sand and with the incoming tide we needed to flee to evade the threatening water.
Altogether magical, as wondrous as anything lately, we simply bathed in the surrounding phenomenon, with the fierce wind threatening to shear strands of hair from our tingling scalps.
The waning moon, just above, shared the glory.
In the east, the sun, mostly behind a cloud cover, struggled to match its preview.
3/22/2026
The first sunrise upon re-entry is always accompanied by a delicious sense of anticipation. We set the alarm for 6 a.m. to observe first light.
The pink hues illuminating the dark sky as we stepped out of our small studio apartment boded well for the show in store over the next hour.
Indescribable.
The sun rose with a foggy face making it possible to view it straight on as it ascended above the sea oats.
One could watch the world turn (into a new day).
We are simply grateful to be here.