Category: Beach

Some of these beach haiku were written by random trips to beach.

Most of these are part of a series based on afternoons spent at the beach on Hilton Head Island with my pad out ( a real paper note pad), hoping for words with my iPhone camera handy to add illustration to my thoughts.
I wanted to see if I would be ‘inspired’ by what I saw, by what I heard, by what I smelled, by what I tasted, what I felt emotionally and what I felt tactilely.

Some turned out okay.

Some were too forced.

Some were just bad.

Some did involve some or all of those feelings.

As far as it goes, I guess I was inspired by by what I saw, by what I heard, by what I smelled, by what I tasted, what I felt emotionally and what I felt tactilely.

Please aware that most of these haiku were NOT WRITTEN on the date in the title – for an explanation of this please see The Series link in the navigation table.

4.17.2026 – low tide high tide date

low tide high tide date
location is H H I
what more need to know?

I ask again?

If you know where you are and you are on Hilton Head Island.

If you know where you are and you know when high tide and when low tide is.

If you know where you are and you know the date.

If you know where you are and know what the colors of the warning flags mean.

Red flags mean there is a high hazard of dangerous currents and/or surf – OR Sharks – OR lightning seen in the area.

And that’s a pretty good list of hazards to be aware of.

Yellow flags mean there is a medium hazard of moderate current and/or surf and it says nothing about sharks (though a good friend of mine says if you put your finger in the water and then taste it; if it tastes salty there are sharks in the water).

Purple flags mean there are Marine Pests Present. Marine Pests mean things that STING like jellyfish or stingrays while I include anyone on the beach that has to, and I mean HAS TO play some game that involves throwing something. I mean really, you put all this effort into getting to the beach and relaxing in the sun by the water and yet there are those who after one or two minutes of relaxing, jump and say, “who wants to throw something.” That includes baseballs, tennis balls, footballs, frisbees and just anything that can be thrown if any of those items were not brought along. It also involves kicking soccer balls, bumping volleyballs and golfing. It makes no matter if its low tide and there are acres of beach, they set up right next to you or high tide when there is no space for such games but these pests persist in throwing footballs or baseballs or kicking soccer balls through a crowded mass of people like their lives and their vacations depended on it. And as a good part of these pests are imbibing beverages of an adult nature, their accuracy steadily diminishes as the day goes on. These pests may possibly be the biggest hazard on the beach.

BUT I DIGRESS!

If you know where you are and you know the when high tide is.

If you know where you are and you know the when low tide is.

I ask you.

What more do you need to know?

PS: Do I need to mention I took this picture when … I was on my lunch break from work. Yeah, I guess I do.

April 1, 2026 – male of the species

male of the species
in spring gather at the beach
engage in displays

In the gentle warmth of early spring, we find ourselves along the sandy coastal plains, observing one of nature’s more curious spectacles: the seasonal migration of the adult human male. Drawn by rising temperatures and an instinct as old as time itself, these creatures gather in loose, sunburn-prone clusters along the shoreline.

Now, if you look closely, you will notice the males establishing their territory, usually marked by brightly colored towels, portable coolers, and the faint but persistent aroma of sunscreen applied far too late. Their calls, a mix of laughter, shouted greetings, and questionable attempts at music, echo across the beach.

Our cameraman, of course, did not dare get too close.

As the day progresses, the ritual intensifies. The males engage in displays of athleticism, tossing spherical objects with great enthusiasm, often with no discernible goal beyond the act itself. Observe the proud stance after a successful throw and the subtle nods of approval from nearby males. This is a key component of their social hierarchy.

Hydration, of course, is critical. You will see them frequently returning to their watering vessels, aluminum containers or plastic cups, filled with fermented liquids. Consumption appears to increase confidence, though it has been known to reduce coordination in later stages of the ritual.

And ah, yes, the sunburn. A badge of honor, it seems. Despite clear environmental warnings, many males will forgo adequate protection, resulting in a gradual transformation from pale to crimson. This vivid coloration may, in some circles, be considered a sign of endurance.

As dusk approaches, the energy begins to wane. The throws grow shorter and the calls softer. Some males retreat, while others linger, reluctant to abandon the day’s rituals. It is here, in this golden hour, that we see the species at its most reflective, sun-kissed, slightly unsteady, yet deeply content.

Indeed, the beach in spring offers us a rare and fascinating glimpse into the behavior of the human male, playful, social, and just a little bit ridiculous. They need little in the way of a reminder of what day it is.

3.24.2026 – small wonder that men

small wonder that men
hold boats in the secret place
cradle to the grave

Men who ache allover for tidiness and compactness in their lives often find relief for their pain in the cabin of a thirty-foot sailboat at anchor in a sheltered cove.

Here the sprawling panoply of The Home is compressed in orderly miniature and liquid delirium, suspended between the bottom of the sea and the top of the sky, ready to move on in the morning by the miracle of canvas and the witchcraft of rope.

It is small wonder that men hold boats in the secret place of their mind, almost from the cradle to the grave.

From the essay The Sea and the Wind that Blows by E. B. White and published in The Ford Times, June 1963 and re-published in The Essays of EB White by EB White (Harper and Row, New York, 1977).

3.21.2026 – where the sweep of

where the sweep of
the harbor tide comes in, I rest
dream, sit on the deck

Based on the poem, Waiting, by Carl Sandburg in Other Days as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, by Carl Sandburg, Harcourt, Brace, New York, 1950.

Today I will let the old boat stand
Where the sweep of the harbor tide comes in
To the pulse of a far, deep-steady sway.
And I will rest and dream and sit on the deck
Watching the world go by
And take my pay for many hard days gone I remember.

I will choose what clouds I like
In the great white fleets that wander the blue
As I lie on my back or loaf at the rail.
And I will listen as the veering winds kiss me and fold me
And put on my brow the touch of the world’s great will.

Daybreak will hear the heart of the boat beat,
Engine throb and piston play
In the quiver and leap at call of life.
To-morrow we move in the gaps and heights
On changing floors of unlevel seas
And no man shall stop us and no man follow
For ours is the quest of an unknown shore
And we are husky and lusty and shouting-gay.

On my first morning bike ride as an Islander …

I pass this way each day that I drive to work.

I would take a photo with my phone held in one hand as I crossed the bridge in the middle of the island.

Now I ride my bike to the edge of the marsh.

I can sit and I will choose what clouds I like.

In the great white fleets that wander the blue.

As I lie on my back or loaf at the rail.

And I will listen as the veering winds kiss me and fold me.

And put on my brow the touch of the world’s great will.

Oh for the life of an islander.

Still working though.

But a lot closer to work.

3.20.2026 – boxes on beach are

boxes on beach are
empty shake ’em nails loosen
they have been somewhere

Adapted from the poem Sand Scribblings by Carl Sandburg in Smoke and Steel as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, by Carl Sandburg, Harcourt, Brace, New York, 1950.

The wind stops, the wind begins.
The wind says stop, begin.

A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor.
The shovel changes, the floor changes.

The sandpipers, maybe they know.
Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell.
Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses.

The sandpipers cheep ‘Here’ and get away.
Five of them fly and keep together flying.

Night hair of some sea woman
Curls on the sand when the sea leaves
The salt tide without a good-by.

Boxes on the beach are empty.
Shake ’em and the nails loosen.
They have been somewhere.

This is special to me today as I know the boxes on the beach are empty.

They are empty because we emptied them.

We know they have been somewhere, because we filled them and moved them to the island … were we now live.

Got to go ride my bike to the NEARBY beach and scribble in the sand.