The morning I was to leave Beaufort for my seven week venture abroad in Europe and Africa, my father held out his hand with three small, white and black-speckled pebbles, asking me to choose one. "Take it with you wherever you go and bring it back," he told me. The other two were for him and my younger sister Chloe who was coming with me for the first three weeks in Europe. My parents have always supported our passion for world travel, but with the message of never forgetting where we come from.

Four locals eager for hunting season reveal the differences among deer hunters.

One hunts deer with a bow and arrow high in the camouflage of a tree. One is a sheriff deputy and taxidermist who hunts by rifle with his three daughters. One hunts in fellowship as the president of a hunting club. One is a local good ‘ol boy who hunts a country road by foot with a keen eye and lives off his land. These huntsmen may have different styles, but all of them cultivated a devout passion for hunting as young boys. All of them have been waiting for August 15, the first day of hunting season, in great anticipation.

I’ve been an “outsider” since last August, listening to the locals echo “Water Festival” in all its glory since I moved to Beaufort about a year ago. Man, it’s the best time of the year… Just wait ‘til Water Festival…The sandbar is crazy! etc… Well the notorious Beaufort holiday has come and gone—live music was danced to, new friends were made, old friends embraced, and sandbar debauchery had. By the time Water Festival was over, in a way I would have never anticipated a year ago, I had a newfound understanding of sandbar summers and southern nights.