By Lynne Cope Hummell

Moving to Hilton Head Island in 1984 was the first time I would be living more than a few miles from my family home in Columbia, SC. I knew only one person here – the woman who hired me for my new job.

Though I had no friends here yet, it didn’t take too long to get comfortable in my new locale. After all, it was an island – with a white-sand beach and beautiful weather year-round. I took my chair and a book to the beach nearly every weekend, to sit, relax, and maybe get some sun.

Palmettos, our state tree, were everywhere. Gigantic and graceful live oaks stood like sentries guarding the island. Birds were plentiful, especially seagulls, and deer wandered aimlessly through the natural forests. I could see Broad Creek and a marina’s boat yard from the balcony of my condo. Traffic was minimal except during the summer.

I later moved into a house on the beach with two roommates. My bedroom was on the second floor and offered an incredible view of the ocean just outside my window.

This was truly paradise.

I started to discover the natural treasures of living on an island. The tides were constant, yet not always the same. Some days, in some seasons, the high tide spilled over the rock embankment into our yard. A full moon over the ocean at midnight was simply stunning.

I learned about local birds and came to appreciate their majesty and agility. I discovered how to identify the great blue heron and wood storks and got excited when I spotted my first painted bunting. I also became informed about island wildlife, from loggerhead turtles to raccoons. During one late-night stroll on “our” beach, my roommates and I came upon a mama loggerhead on her way back to the ocean. 

I learned about the marshes and the luscious pluff mud, teeming with small creatures and visible only at low tide, its definitive musky aroma overwhelming an afternoon.

For those not familiar with pluff mud, it is the thick, dark, gooey base of our tidal marshes, the sediment in which the tall spartina grass grows.

Lowcountry author Pat Conroy described it thus: “the bold, fecund aroma of the tidal marsh, exquisite and sensual, the smell of the South in heat, a smell like new milk [and] spilled wine, all perfumed with seawater.”

When I was new here, I was a frequent traveler – usually just up the road to Columbia to visit family. In those first months, I would drive home every other weekend or so.

It was springtime, and the colors and aromas were intoxicating. Upon one of my return trips back to the island, on a mild Sunday evening, I had my car windows down to enjoy the pleasant weather. As I neared the bridge to the island, a unique smell filled my car: It was the unmistakable fragrance of pluff mud.

I inhaled deeply, inviting the pungent scent into my nostrils and my lungs as if it were some sort of airborne elixir. I felt revived after the long drive, knowing I was just minutes from home.

That was the moment I realized my definition of “home” had changed. Hilton Head Island was now home.

Since that first realization of “home,” every time I have taken a road trip for whatever reason, upon nearing the Hilton Head bridge on my return, I put down the car windows and breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of the pluff mud in the marsh.

I have lived on this beautiful island for 42 years now, and likely will be here the rest of my days.

I know that because the pluff mud still welcomes me every time I cross the bridge.