During a fall vacation to the barrier islands of South Carolina, I stumbled upon something hauntingly beautiful — beaches filled with the skeletons of trees. Locals call it The Boneyard, one of the most striking examples of coastal erosion and driftwood beaches along the South Carolina coast. The aftermath of a recent storm had reshaped the shoreline, scattering trunks and roots like forgotten relics. Some trees lay half-buried in the sand, others reached out of the water like desperate hands, and a few still stood — stubborn, spectral, unwilling to fall.
I visited these Boneyard Beaches again and again, searching for compositions that captured their strange rhythm. It wasn’t easy. Everywhere I looked, branches overlapped and tangled — a wild snarl of lines that refused order. Each image became a puzzle of roots and limbs, indistinguishable and infinite, much like memory itself. The place felt almost alien — something out of a dream or a faraway world — familiar yet utterly foreign.
I took these black and white coastal photographs in the fall of 2022 while vacationing with my wife, family, and close friends. When I returned home, I did what we all do — backed up the images, filed them away, and moved on. Life filled in the spaces, and the photos drifted into digital oblivion.
Until last week.
While sorting through an old memory stick, I found a single image from that trip — a ghost from a forgotten folder. That discovery led me down a trail of drives and backups until I finally unearthed them all. These photographs had waited patiently, like driftwood at low tide, for me to come back and see them again.
The Fallen Giant
I found this one at low tide, its roots splayed like open hands. From above, the form felt human — not broken, but resting.
Once proud and rooted, now humbled by the tide — a tree reborn as sculpture.
Defiance
Still standing. Still reaching. Even as the earth beneath it disappears.
It was the only one left standing in that stretch of sand — a skeleton of strength, quietly refusing to bow.
The Quiet After the Storm
Looking at them now, I realize these aren’t just images of fallen trees — they’re meditations on time, resilience, and return. Nature breaks, rebuilds, and reclaims in her own rhythm. These trees once stood tall, then fell, and in their stillness became art.
What I once saw as chaos now feels like a kind of order — not the order of composition, but of memory. These ghost forests of the South Carolina coast tell stories of change and renewal. The Boneyard isn’t a graveyard at all. It’s a place of transformation — where land meets sea, where what once reached for the sky now rests in the tide.
Landscape Gallery
Wander Through Quiet Horizons
Seascape Gallery
Dive Into the Seascape Pool
Still Life Gallery
Bite Into the Beauty
Icons Life Gallery
Icons & Oddities
Night Gallery
Wander Around in the Dark
Your Journey Awaits
I’ve wandered the shorelines, captured the light, and yes—I drink way too much coffee. Let me help you create your story.
