The lightness along the packed sand between Fort Moultrie and Fort Sumter--its three flags flying straight out in the wind blowing from Charleston harbor. As a matter of course I notice that the tide is going out. Thinking of myself as earth-bound, drawn to roots, I realize that the sea has become familiar. The endless salt pulse—I wonder if my fear of it has to do with a fear of giving myself up to the vast, uncontrollable flow that is, always, underneath it all. (Even the feel of the wind filling the sail of the dingy, attached to my arm by a thin line, is unreasonable, a pure element.) We’re on Sullivan’s Island again for a week, in four hours back where we started months ago. Meanwhile, from here to Nassau I feel I have seen every inch, experienced the truth of distance.