Like a young child, clinging to his parent’s leg, sheepishly peering around the side as a stranger bids a salutation, the shyness of the morning sun peeks through the shroud of clouds as if its courage is yet to be mustered for another day. The sun’s hues are but a blush one may feel when afforded an unexpected compliment. As the moon drops below the horizon, it tips its hat as if to bid adieu to its daytime friend.

On this morning, it wasn’t the view that garnered my attention, but the sound.

Several summers ago, the First Lady and I rented a vintage 1930s beach cottage on Pawley’s Island named, ”Eaves Drop”. It was a special place where gobs of families had gathered over the decades to share their lives together, break bread to celebrate their connections, and were certain to build new memories worth writing a book about someday. It is a no frills type of place. No paint had ever adorned its rustic exterior shell. It appeared as if only a few gallons of varnish had graced its cedar scales. The salt had grayed its skin, rusted its joints, and laid low the limbs of its youth. Some may say this place was undesirable, void of the trappings found in most vacation homes. We thought a little benign neglect should never douse the dream of a charming beach cottage. We found it perfect.

Its rear porch was connected to the island’s sandy shore by a long, splinter riddled boardwalk. Like a stone, rounded by the friction of the stream that runs over it, each board had been whittled by the blowing sand that crossed its bones. Silence on this island is a commodity, peace, an amenity, and people are scarce, but polite. No buildings rise above the horizon there, only shore birds as they search for their next meal. Maybe old bait left by a solitary fisherman or a Nabs cracker dropped by a child.

There’s not much to do on the island. No putt-putt, go carts or arcades. Only water, sunsets, nature, and lots of time to read books.

For some, reading is a pastime best enjoyed resting along the shoulders of water. Whether it be beside a pool or on the precipice of champagne foam as it runs up the beach and tickles your toes. Books are the foundation of education. Most are good in training our brains how to think, behave, and do, or not do, what others have done who’ve come before us. Fiction can entice our imagination and tease our senses. But, among the many things a good book is useful for, propping a window to invite the ocean in, is undoubtably one of the best.

The sandy beach, just outside our bedroom window, sat all night like a faithful wife awaiting her sailor to return home from battle. The shore, scattered with shells and ghost crabs, welcomed the roll of each wave throughout the sky’s slumber. It was like comfort food for my ears. As my eyes began to focus that morning, I was drawn ever near to my old, salty friend. The air was still and the birds were just beginning to rise from their night’s rest. The ocean beyond the break was remarkably calm, unfettered by the wind. The sound of the incoming tide hitting the beach was familiar, one which I enjoyed as I periodically awoke while the moon was still on watch.

I’m thankful for that book which lent its strong spine to conspire with the window to welcome the ocean in. It laid steadfast on the sill as we slept through the night.

Melville, Lee, Twain, Steinbeck, Faulkner, O’Conner, and E.B. White could have all worn the yoke of service well.

But, I thought, the next night I should choose another spine, one also well known, upon which to press the window sash upon. It wasn’t fair that just one book serve to indulge our senses as we slept. I was sure jealously would soon creep from the shelf upon which they perched. Not just one book should lie in servitude to lift my spirit and galvanize my salty soul. So, who received the nod on night number two? If I recall, Hemingway was next in line as his book, ”The Old Man and the Sea”, fit the moment and the scene as well as any.