Rather than offering the usual metaphysical musings about the transcendent meaning (or meaninglessness) of the thesis or contemplations (read: gripes) about the process, it might be worthwhile to try to tap into a shared aspect of the thesis mindset: the anticipation of and desire for a time outside the world of the thesis and its attendant responsibilities, and for a place apart, somewhere utterly different from the confines of campus.
For me, that escape often comes in the form of recalling beautiful and memorable places I have seen. Unfortunately, I cannot claim to have visited any particularly exotic locales, but it is a mistake, I think, to reserve admiration for only the most extraordinary examples of natural beauty. It is one of the greatest blessings of our humanity that we can recognize and appreciate the beauty that is instilled in all of nature.
I am particularly fond of a region whose natural grandeur and tranquility I believe to be criminally underrated: the South Carolina Lowcountry. This is the area generally defined as encompassing the coastal plains between Charleston and Hilton Head Island, though I like to tack on Savannah, just over the border in Georgia. It is a desperately flat but diverse landscape of fertile farmland, dramatic tidal marshes and dense forests packed with tall, majestic trees draped with Spanish moss.
When I think of this part of the country, one particular series of images unfailingly comes to mind: I think first, briefly, of the approach to Hilton Head Island, which is never the same twice, as the tides inexorably but cyclically alter the landscape. Sometimes there is not a spot of land between the island and the mainland except for the solid ground of a small nature preserve, the calm seawater placidly lapping against the piers of the bridge. Sometimes the tides reveal clues as to what lies beneath, exposing the tips of tiny forests of tall grass and spits of saturated earth. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, the sea will be reduced to a network of channels, revealing entire fields of waving grass in all shades of green and dozens of rocky islands covered in live mussels.
The next image that comes to mind is that of the approach to the section of the island where my family and I stay. Immediately after turning off the main road, and even on the clearest of days, you are taken in by a dark, dense, natural forest. The tree trunks are narrow and the foliage is generally confined to a high canopy, so the forest does not confront so much as it comforts; it does not swallow so much as it gently envelops. The shaded ground, even in summer, is coated with long, amber needles and dotted with pinecones from the tall, spindly evergreens.
The most indelible image is, perhaps strangely, the one where man’s handiwork is most evident. Driving slowly down the wooded road, we briefly emerge at a clearing that, on the right side, seems to unveil a new world. The browns and subdued greens of the forest give way to the vibrant verdure of a golf course, accented by the pale sand of hazards. On a sunny day, this scene veritably explodes into view, and though the car passes it at the same speeds as elsewhere, in my mind’s eye we always slow to a barely perceptible pace, lingering at this scene as long as possible.
The fairway is a meandering one, an impossibly complex pastiche of mingling greens, yellows and browns. To the right are a few crooked trees of diverse variety and several creatively shaped sand traps, oriented on mounds facing the viewer in order to accentuate their size and intimidate the player. To the left, opening the scene even wider, is a man-made saltwater lagoon, perhaps 100 feet across. I would be lying if I claimed the water to be crystal clear, but its calm surface reflects the sky and the surrounding scenery, adding depth and, on a nice day, a splash of blue to the vista. Finally, on the opposite side of the lagoon, the forest recommences, allowing the scene to be perfectly framed, and yet ensuring that, like this escape, it is fleeting.
I hope that this attempt at a getaway from the often stifling responsibilities of thesis season was as worthwhile for the reader as it was for the writer. Now get back to work!
Brandon McGinley is a senior politics major from Pittsburgh, Pa. He can be reached at bmcginle@princeton.edu.
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