It is I find quite remarkable how little removed one must be from the Ocean before one stops hearing the crashing of the rolling waves. For that reason alone I prefer to travel au bord de la mer when bicycling. Many walkers on the beach do the same.  They too feel the magnetism of the sea.  Besides there is an element of game-playing in skirting the incoming waves as they spread unpredictably upon the shore (a characteristic which I believe is more pronounced when the tide is coming in than otherwise though I can’t imagine why it should necessarily be so).

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Hibernation is not an overwhelming fatigue, a capitulation to the relentless drain of living. It is a calculated torpor to conserve energy when sufficient food is unavailable. In its broadest perspective it is Nature’s signal to shut down all but the most essential functions to permit a time to recoup.

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There are some things we just don’t talk about.  Not necessarily because the topic is lewd or especially awkward – like bodily functions or marital problems – but rather because the subject is so patently boring, like a sleepless night.  It’s not exactly the fabric of either mystery or science. In fact considering what most people do to combat a sleepless night there really isn’t much of substance to observe.  The stock response to a sleepless night is to roll about in one’s bed, endlessly uncomfortable, drifting back and forth between resolve and resignation, unsure of the time, chilled by the damn night air, trepidatious about the future, perhaps punishing oneself for this or that.  All in all it is a rollicking distressful sensation.

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If one could rely upon the “puffery” of retailers we’d have no complaint with their products or services. Sorrily we can’t and we do. The emerging theme is that almost anything related to technology is fraught with towering promise and corresponding disillusionment. Unfortunately the battle ground for customer dollars is cluttered with so many companies and options that anything approaching uniformity is a distant dream. I am reminded of the struggle which formerly existed between VHS and Betamax, the “Video Format War”.

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There is it seems a wealth of Americans who have an undeniable – and mildly perverse – thirst for anachronism. We were reminded of this simmering perspective when visiting Palmetto Bluff today. Palmetto Bluff is 20,000-acre private residential community tucked away in beautiful and scenic Bluffton, South Carolina not far from Hilton Head Island. While the throwback is both entertaining and instructive it’s also a bit spooky. The Village amounts to a Disneyland re-enactment reminiscent of the 1939 American epic historical romance film “Gone with the Wind” starring Clark Gable (as Rhett Butler) and Vivien Leigh (as Scarlett O’Hara) which pointedly opened on the eve of the American Civil War in 1861. The plantation setting captures the magic of the era but the attempt to relive it is a reminder of the South’s shadowy past and its unwritten codes.

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When my iPhone started to beep at seven o’clock this morning I was awoken with a start.  Unusually I was in a deep sleep.  I recall I was dreaming about something and whatever it was, it wasn’t – for a change – upsetting.  Wouldn’t you know!  I deleted the alarm on my iPhone and flopped back into bed, partly draping the duvet over me, holding my iPhone in my left hand.  I began wondering whether I might fall back to sleep and drop the phone.  I thought of other things to keep myself awake.  At last I relented, peeked from under a corner of my eye mask to glimpse the dawn and then eased out of bed with a mournful sigh.  Saturday morning.  Breakfast at eight o’clock at Low Country Produce Market & Café.

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The first time I thought about losing weight was immediately after graduating from law school in 1973.  Three years of cooking my own food for the first time in my life had not been an improving culinary or dietary experience. There was an adage at law school that in the first year they scare you to death, in the second year they work you to death and in the third year they bore you to death. By the time I had reached third year at law school I was spending a good deal of time with my cronies at the Piccadilly Tavern where I regularly ordered quart-sized bottles of beer and afterwards contrived to absorb the liquid by eating sandwiches made of thick brown oatmeal/molasses bread and Cheese Whiz.

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Having to be anywhere at eight o’clock in the morning is not part of my routine. I won’t however pout about today’s regime. Though it involved an early morning start it was hardly an imposition. The theme of the day was a visit to Le Spa of Sea Pines for a haircut, manicure and pedicure. My first appointment was at 9:30 am.

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In an attempt to temper what can only be described as my school girl inclination to keep a  diary, and in submission to my urge to record the details of my littoral sojourn on Hilton Head Island, I have relented to the extent that I will attempt to capture the facts without completely contaminating the account with tiresome personal information. This is a project likely doomed to fail. Segregating individuality from the general landscape is virtually impossible. There may however surface in the slush of what I say at least an element of substance.  Such haughty aspiration!

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Generally speaking I don’t like old stuff.  I prefer things like “Cadillac all shiny and new” and clothing that hasn’t the dubious charm of a well-worn Harris tweed jacket. But I acknowledge there is a case to be made for a patina.

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