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This weekend I’m visiting Fripp Island, which is about forty-five minutes past Beaufort, South Carolina on US-21. If you’ve ever visited Hunting Island State Park, Fripp is the island just past it. One reason I attended the Yemassee Shrimp Festival last fall is because we always drive through Yemassee on our way to Fripp Island.
Fripp Island is also where I revived this blog in 2016. I harbor some romantic sentiments about writing (such as writing shirtless in a hot attic, a la every Stephen King protagonist in his earlier novels), and there’s something about being at the beach that brings out the literary side in me. Perhaps it’s the general sense of escaping from reality—and even from the Internet—for a bit that gets the juices flowing.
Regardless, I have come to realize how spoiled I am: since about 1988, I have enjoyed—through no effort of my own—mostly ready access to a beach house on relatively uncrowded beaches. Even now, the one-day beach trip—a summertime ceremony for most Americans—is foreign to me. Muscling through throngs of dad bods to grab a spot of sand at Myrtle Beach in August is my idea of torture, but that’s the reality for most beach-goers.
As such, my beach-going experience is far more cossetted and luxurious than the average American’s. I’m very thankful for my grandfather’s business savvy and years of hard work, which have made possible thirty-two years of beachy lethargy.
All that aside, Fripp Island is, truly, one of the most wonderful places on Earth. Let me tell you about it.
Last week’s post about my trip to Universal Studios is still in the works. I just haven’t had an opportunity to get it done. I will hopefully have it completed soon. My apologies for the delay.