Silent live oak grove projects itself, forest viridescent rather than solar incandescent. Nature's trick, a neat refashioning of light. Space defined horizontal, a thicket many-limbed and knobby, bearded grey by Spanish moss. Buttons of Resurrection fern spring from hidden nooks. Beneath this canopy flourishes a tangle of saw palmetto. Emerald fronds point and bend whispering in the dusky offshore breeze.

A peach of paradise Brickhill Bluff overlooks Cumberland Island's Georgia facing shore. A Saturday night to cherish.

Heaven and then some, particularly after being tossed out of the state park's pioneer camping area at 10 P.M. on a star-lit night for failure to possess a permit. Did the 20 mule team have it so tough?

Crooked River determines our course, bound by marsh and high bluff on 'tother, point of origination the state park's boat ramp. We four savor the river's quiet, remarking the surprisingly light Saturday powerboat traffic.

Long-necked ducks, leggy herons and gangling egrets startle skyward as we pass. Flying forward to settle only to be routed again and again. Pelicans figure the game quickly. Hulking and square in the distance, the submarine pens at Kings Bay naval base sound a quirky dissonance in this symphony of serenity. We continue out to the waterway,then rapidly traverse Cumberland Sound, wider and windy.

Curious dolphin interrupt their pursuits to angle over, a choreography so graceful and timed it appears rehearsed. The tuned ear can catch the dolphin invitation to game: odd sibilant whooshes of air whistled in rapid succession. Insight garnered from living at anchor in Hilton Head.

Soft as silk, we glide into the reedy protection of golden marsh transected by the Brickhill River. Terns, short of wing and long of spirit, kamakazi into the river in their eternal quest for dinner. Bossy kingfishers scold and fuss, gulls laugh and scree.

In search of a stretch and a gander, we pull out at Plum Orchard, grounds of the imposing mansion whose signs of disrepair cannot dim its splendor, where Kirk and I impale ourselves in a field of vicious stickers. Why were we barefooting...

Our first taste of barrier island live oak forest. Horizontally towering, gorgeous and serene. Bird calls and drumming wood peckers break the heavy silence. An armadillo steadily noses around a scattering of palms, guess he didn't read the fine print about being nocturnal.

History weighs heavy. Indigenous Indians hunting and fishing leaving middens in their wake, Spanish missionaries conquering a new land, British forts defending territory, plantation farming, then the onslaught of the moneyed. Hands of man fashion and work but leave little true mark on the elusive land of sand.

Back into the boats for fear of losing the tide, ebbing fast and powerful now. Onward and onward and onward we stroke as the Brickhill River twists and turns upon itself under the watchful golden eye of nesting osprey and fiddler crabs scurry on the oyster-studded mud lips of the shore.

Lovely paddling, but I wonder just where the campsite is. A growing concern as the light commences shedding its warm bright afternoon yellows for the cool blues that presage evening. At last the whiter trunks of the trees announce the site's location.

Around 4 A.M. a strong driving front rattled the trees stirring up the river. Memories of Cumberland Gorge and my sleepless attempt at being a human anchor in billowing kite of a tent. Eventually the front drove through allowing a return to peace and quiet.

Sunday dawned with a steady north wind, another following wind. The wind gods blessed us. We fairly skittered down the water ways except for the few times we had to beat against it.

Ever vigilant, Tazi stood guard the whole way, despite the wind driven spray in her black face, while the wiser dogs huddled dry and warm below. Grouper snores emanated from Nancy's kayak. That boy needs to learn how to relax.

The wind increased steadily during the return; back on Crooked River we head directly downwind. Maneuvering down the waves demanded more and more attention. At times we surf, savoring that uplifting gravityless sensation; that force made the take out at the boat ramp dock interesting to say the least. Out of the kayaks and looking windward, the wind's force could be reckoned at an honest sustained 20 knots. Yeowwwwzer.

A good time to be on land loading the yaks onto the vans.