There I was back in the United States, sitting on a boat, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of salt and sand and sea. I had missed the ocean so much. Thirty minutes later we docked on the national seashore of Cumberland Island, Georgia, an island with only dirt roads mostly used for walking or bike riding and almost zero cars. We walked from the seashore into an enchanted Southern forest with her blanket of Spanish moss swaying overhead from the gnarled arms of centuries old live oak trees. And then like a beautiful, perfect white shell you walk upon on the beach, Greyfield Inn appears in front of you in all her splendor echoing a bygone era.
