Shaped by the Wind: A Thanksgiving Walk on the Barrier Island
Every tree tells the story. Pitch pines lean in permanent agreement, their branches swept eastward like brushstrokes pulled by an unseen hand.
On this breezy Thanksgiving Day, the real subject of the barrier island isn’t the trees, dunes, or shoreline—it’s the southwest-by-west wind that has shaped them all. You feel it the moment you step onto the sand: a steady, invisible force that has spent decades carving this narrow strip of land into its current form.
Every tree tells the story. Pitch pines lean in permanent agreement, their branches swept eastward like brushstrokes pulled by an unseen hand. Even the dead limbs bend in the same direction, a silent testament to years of salt-laden gusts. The dune grasses bow low, their winter-bleached blades trembling with each passing burst of air.
Along the high dunes, snow fencing lists toward the ocean, half-buried by wind-drifted sand. Flags snap sharply overhead, echoing the same directional truth etched into the landscape.
Nothing here grows straight. Nothing stands untouched. The wind is the island’s oldest sculptor—shaping, pruning, refining—and on this late-November afternoon, its presence is unmistakable. Through each frame, you’re reminded that on the barrier island, the wind is always the one writing the story.
