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Flippered Friends • Kelcey Crum We leapt out of our cars ...bounded for the beach...

I veered off the road, onto the sandy shoulder to claim my spot—mere feet from the entrance to Station 16 on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, off the south-east American coast. I had left my house hastily, shoving only the essentials into my trusty tote: my phone, camera, jacket, water bottle.

My friend, Emi, whom I invited to meet me at the beach, had found a beach access sneakily sandwiched between rows and rows of homes and the historic Revolutionary War Fort Moultrie.

We leapt out of our cars, glanced at each other excitedly, bounded for the beach. Emi yelped as she increased her pace, darting ahead. I hurried along, finally reaching the shore—a vast stretch of fine, silky sand crafted by the ceaseless sea. A stubborn chill lingered, unwilling to welcome spring. Clouds loomed in the sky, blocking the sun from view…anticipating the arrival of fantastic beasts.

We weren’t the only ones awaiting the magnificent show. Numerous pods of people were spread along the beach. Some strolled the shore, sinking into the tan, weathered particles with each step, leaving behind sprawling imprints. Some trudged through the deep expanse of sand closer to the dunes, pestering grains slipping into their shoes with an irritable cling. Some sprawled across blankets, chattering to each other. Some moseyed beside us, a dog yanking their owner towards the finest smell it could uncover. I weaved through them all, swiftly.

Riprap—placed on the shore to trap sand, allowing safe passage of large ships into and out of Charleston, S.C., harbor— jutted into the surf, battered from endless sea strokes. The stones were jumbled together in an erratic yet seamless arrangement, zigzagging into the ocean’s tumbling abyss. As I clambered across, the sun began to dip below the horizon, engulfing the skyline with its fading fiery orange. Waves lapped against the rocks, soothing me with their crashes. As dusk crept in, the day surrendered while drifting wisps of clouds captured the remaining rays.

Then, they appeared! Dolphins popped up from beneath the waves–dorsal fins appearing and disappearing — challenging me to a game of Where’s Waldo. My line of vision fought to see their every burst above the waves, their graceful backs arching onwards. I struggled to snap an image of the dolphins because they only bobbed out long enough for merely a glimpse—reserving their presence for just the naked eye.

The waterways of Charleston are often traveled by Atlantic bottlenose dolphins, up to nine hundred at a time, swimming along their annual migration or frequent feeding route. Only a select one hundred deem Charleston their permanent residence. Poseidon, god of the sea, claimed them as messengers of the ocean and sacred creatures. Centuries ago, sailors believed spotting dolphins was a good omen, protecting and guiding them toward land. I agree with them. Gliding in and out of the waves—their gleaming silver arches—dazzle me every time.

The conditions were ideal for peacefully spotting dolphins: low tide, breathtaking sunset, glass-like ocean.  Emi and I’s gazes lingered on the water, wishing to see another splash or fin disrupt the surface. The dolphins are not alone. Fish rippled ahead of the dolphins, speeding homeward like a human's daily commute. I wonder if any dolphins may be following, trailing their dinner? My head whipped towards the delightful splish of another dolphin gracing us with its presence, only five short feet away from us.

The initial disappointment at missing the photo op was now masked by my sheer exhilaration. Shrieking in triumph at our fleeting encounter, we likely scared the poor creature. I scanned the dolphin’s intended path—craving another peek at sleek, glossy fins meandering through the cresting waves. This memory is far stronger than any photo I could have captured.

The colder the air grew the more people departed, leaving just my friend and me, the sand, and the dolphins. The lingering hues of the sun—a blazing blend of tangerine, rose, indigo— effortlessly melted into the horizon. I stared into the tide, urging any speck of a flipper to magically appear so I could say goodbye. The salty gale ruffled us—crinkling my clothes and flinging my hair in every direction— chilling us to the bone, annoyingly ripping us from our stunned states.

As we ambled toward our cars, I glanced back every couple of steps toward the shore, yearning for the dazzling presence of my newfound friends. My dear flippered friends.

© Kelcey Crum April 4th 2025
Kelcey is a junior at the College of Charleston majoring in English, concentrating in Writing, Rhetoric, and Publication.

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