I am genetically predisposed to beachcombing.  Six generations of Harrisons, Coopers, and Givens, and all associations by marriage, have ensured that.  And while it is more or less accidental that I am rooted in the dune here on Skinny Island, less that a hundred miles down the same coast from the original family digs on Amelia Island, there does seem to be some pattern in this behavior, some push or draw, that made this happen.  My old Webster’s Dictionary somewhat quaintly and archaically describes a beachcomber as “1: a white man living as a drifter or loafer, esp. on the islands of the South Pacific  2: one who searches along a shore for useful or salable flotsam and refuse.”  Not entirely accurate in this case, but not far off either.  I can relate to the loafer part, and I am white most of the time, but usefulness in this case, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, or beachcomber. You start with shells, of course, and they remain the standard, but any idea of doing anything commercial with them, even on a minimal scale, soon fades, as it should.  No self-respecting beachcomber, (drifter, loafer,) can long sustain any association with business.  It is, as we like to say on the beach, anathema.  And beachcombing is about more than shells, anyway, as it turns out.  Oh, you will continue to fill house a yard with them, as we have, but the draw, I think, is something more nebulous.  There really is no purpose to beachcombing; no intent, no expectations, and thereby it is open to any and all possibility.  You never know what you’re going to find.

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Paddled out today into what looked like just wind-blown junk from shore.  Water cloudy and smelling strongly of fish, two-foot chop expectations, but going anyway for the exercise.  Got out and was pleasantly surprised yet again.  (This is, if not a common scenario, something that happens frequently enough to have a rule attached: If there’s white water, go! It’s breaking.)  Two foot junk turned into three-foot and better, well-formed juice, made dicey by all the chop and side action caused by the on-shore winds.  The kind of wave that, while small, is challenging, and requires focus and concentration. Smallish wave faces jacked on the sand bar, making for a stair-step kind of drop, and then a decent, workable wall to the inside shore break.  Hour plus, mucho fun, and stimulating.  The feeling coming out of the water after one of these sessions is unmatched.  First time this season in the outdoor shower, (no hot water) gazing at the crotons finally coming back after the December freeze.  Okay, then.

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Squash Blossom

We had Squash Blossom Soup for lunch today here at the little hacienda.  Squash Blossom Soup, for the uninitiated, uninformed, or just plain slow, is soup made from squash blossoms, the bloom that occurs on a squash plant (yellow crook-neck, of course,) preceding the development of the individual squash itself.  The blossoms remain attached for a while as the squash matures, and you want to take them in this period, before they wilt, but after the squash appears.   You pick a few, and make a soup.  This had garlic, black pepper, a little turmeric for color and flavoring, and Bulgar wheat for substance and thickening.  Deliciosa!  The first squash will be ready just in time for this Sunday’s dinner.