BIG TALBOT ISLAND STATE PARK

The Boneyard Beach

Nestled along the northeastern coast of Florida, Talbot Island State Park harbors a hauntingly beautiful boneyard beach. Visitors would find the famed stretch of shoreline— a stark and mesmerizing landscape strewn with the arboreal remains that the relentless Atlantic has sculpted over the years to create a ghostly forest of fallen oak and cedar trees. These weathered sentinels, once proud giants of the maritime forest, now lie scattered across the beach like the discarded bones of mythical creatures.

You can find these dead and dying trees standing or lying alone or embracing each other with their rotting roots or spindly arms. Their gnarled roots, exposed and unmoored or barely holding on along with their twisted trunks, create otherworldly specimens. Their silvery remains stand in sharp contrast against the dark, erosion-sculpted cliffs and the expanse of the Atlantic.

The ever-changing light throughout the day paints this natural canvas in a myriad of hues, from the soft pastels of dawn to the fiery golds of sunset and high-contrast shadow-filled scenes in between. At low tide, tidal pools form natural mirrors, reflecting the sky and doubling the surreal beauty of the scene. Whole of the landscape is in continual flux. A few new trees appear, others disappear, and the wind and water move around most. As one surveys the area, it is impossible to escape the signs of the passage of time.

This scene of arboreal sparring against the elements mirrors our lives and is as old as the earth itself. These trees—bruised and battered brothers-in-arms—are unmoored and uprooted. Their scattered remains stoically bear the indignities of being trodden upon by visitors and climbed upon by the children—a playground of the dead and dying. I honor the brave but futile resistance of these falling and fallen trees.

By making their images, I document and bear witness to their struggles. This one once stood there. That one was recently rolled over by the tides. There yonder, the newly fallen still has its dying leaves. Farther still, the advancing erosion has exposed the roots of a few more trees. It is just a matter of time. Presently, vigorous trees, seemingly oblivious (maybe terrified with existential dread), are verdant and staring at the sun. All the while, the waves, crashing, ebbing and flowing, at times gentle, and other times aggrieved of being blamed for the clutter, but always unflagging, keep removing the dirt and sand right from under the trees’ feet. Soon, they too shall fall and, over a while, be scraped, sanded, washed, and weathered into silvery arboreal scragged remains, sad remnants of once spectacular specimens.

Some inhabitants in this wasteland lie in repose—tranquil and accepting. While others are restless and are rolled around in this purgatory. They pine to be rid of unrelenting beatings. Their bleached bony appendages stretch towards the sea as if longing to be submersed and carried away or reaching the heavens, pleading for rebirth. Yet their demeanor—bowed limbs and ashen complexion—betrays what they already know: it is of no use.

Abandoned by gods, or perhaps embraced by them, they remain there, slowly atomizing, remitting what they borrowed from the universe as they came into being and once flourished, returning to the eternal churn. They came from the Epicurean nothingness and shall return to it—their lives but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

They are I. They are us. I am them. We are them. Their images don’t just capture their forms but are reflections of our transient existence.

I have seen sandy beaches turn white with foam brought in by the tides.

At dawn's first light, I've dipped my toes in cooling waters.

I've watched noon's silvery sunshine dance upon the waves.

Near the shore, I've built my studio, lulled by ocean's rhythms.

I've heard the piercing calls of fowl and witnessed fauna wither.

Will my soul, like the oceans, grow deep? Will yours?