I drove to the end of an ancient peninsula on the Potomac River yesterday. The roadsides were riddled with dense clusters of pine forests, intermixed with vast expanses of open water. Time seemed to halt its march, in a place that moved at an outdated pace. A sign that read “British Landing Prevented,” headlined the final bridge leading to St. George Island.
The winding road seemed to be sitting in the water; as if we were driving down a stretch of beach. Waterfront houses of varying size and age hugged the water’s edge at every turn. The further we traveled, the more sparse the dwellings became. Our speed slowed as we crept past magnificent houses with turrets and panorama windows encircling entire floors. My mind drifted to days spent in writing rooms at their peaks; producing countless works of art inspired by a mesmerizing view.
We came to the end of the island, arriving at a house that was concurrent with Fitzgerald’s taste for luxury. Marble steps ramped up to a tall, pristine, white-brick home that sat atop its own private beach. No other homes were in sight. It sat as solitary royalty on the most desirable throne of the island’s entirety. We sat and stared admiringly, and slowly backed out of the driveway, our minds racing to come up with methods for acquisition.
We explored every nook and cranny of the island; most of which seemed ready to be swallowed up by rising sea levels. This created a sense of relaxation rather than anxiety. It was as if all of the inhabitants knew of the impending destruction, but the worth of a life in such a place, regardless of timeframe, outweighed the risk. It was a drive that altered perspective, and which quenched thirsty dreams in search of a swig of solitude and serenity. Oh well, a person can dream. One day…