Luncheon at Sea Shack, Executive Park Drive has been an immutable custom throughout our 13-year history on Hilton Head Island. Most recently I recall having congregated at table inside because one of the guests was stodgy about submitting to such pedestrian enterprise as Sea Shack (which categorically lives up to its intended social vernacular of austerity, modesty and originality). But today we were alone and the sun shone brilliantly. We therefore sat as we normally do outside at one of the several picnic tables under the towering sea pines.

It is assured that whenever we lunch at Sea Shack, dinner is redundant. Though I hesitate for fear of lapsing into a purely retail account to itemize the meal we had today, given the superlative quality of the chow, it would be irresponsible of me not to do so.  The walk-in beanery has strategically adopted a preference for daily specials which, in view of the limited hours of the place, no doubt makes things easier for the kitchen staff and, from the guest’s perspective, likely stimulates the certain quality of the ingredients and their production.

Today (as is so so frequently our prevalence) we both had the identical order: A cup of She-crab soup and soda crackers to start; then a combination of blackened Snapper, grilled Flounder and Tilapia with Hush Puppies and double sides of Cole Slaw all constructed in-house; followed by a. miniature homemade Key Lime Pie and a fulsome Chocolate Chip Cookie. The measure of a good feed can be the contemporaneous groans of satisfaction (which today were numerous); or, as I am now feeling an hour afterwards, perfect contentment.  Appetite is indubitably no longer a viable medium of absorption; instead it is the placidity of a rewarding meal. It inspires one to loosen the belt and to pine for a late afternoon snooze on the deck in the warmth and willing imposition of the setting sun.

Before escaping our luncheon today, permit me to relate that Joining us were two stalwart crows, one perched high above in a tree, the other clutching onto a nearby stationary bicycle.  The birds squawked repeatedly.  I suspect they too are accustomed to dining at Sea Shack, picking up the occasional crumb judiciously thrown to them. We didn’t bend to the culinary circus routine, choosing to avoid stimulating an incompatible acquaintance. Our reluctance didn’t diminish the shatter.  Nor did it interrupt our gratification. Less abrasive but equally abstruse was the soft spoken exchange of two gentlemen sitting at another picnic table apparently taking their midday break from their Friday employment.

We concluded today’s casual outing by leisurely wending our way home through the Sea Pines plantation to the toe of the island where our cottage by Braddock Cove is located on Lands End. The car’s gasoline engine (which by the way we thought to fill at the Sea Pines outlet) purred effortlessly. We haven’t any longer any amusement from the nearby plantations or shopping centres.  At our advanced age we have previously addressed our retail needs (though I confess a simmering interest in the Atlas tricycle I have rented and which parenthetically I employed to advantage this morning for half an hour before luncheon). Otherwise ours is a smug and replete material curiosity. I actively seek my inspiration from the natural world about me. I doubt I’d have the time to dwell upon anything new. The atonement of my erstwhile possessory dialectic derives from the inanimate sphere.

On the deck the universe was subdued among the sparkling tweets of tiny birds; the slap of a fish jumping upon the now burgeoning tide water of the cove; the whisper of the critically pure air in the tall sea pines; the faint drifting sound of a human voice competing with a quacking duck far along the distant coastal sea grasses. Everything here bespeaks maritime including the weathered looking furnishings.  These moderate inducements cultivate an interminable nautical enhancement.  The well-built fauxwicker deck chairs surround my ample languishing corpus as I melt beneath the rays and endless parkland setting. The subliminal radiance of this astounding setting is narcotic until at last subdued and tranquillized by the immoderate warmth of the blazing sun setting behind the sea pines onto the ocean horizon as a red molten orb simmering to its ultimate descent. My woollen socks, thick white cotton knee shorts, white cotton polo shirt and leather boat sloes blend with the nautical fabric surrounding me in the final blaze to dismissal like an evaporation of a lighted match. Then a sudden shadow of supreme tranquility. Hilton Head Island is indeed a rapturous environment.