It all starts with a tickle around the hairline.
You’re just sitting outside minding your own business, maybe watching your kid shred some turf on the soccer field or basking in the buttery cantaloupe glow of the setting southern sun, when you lazily flap your hand around your head.
It’s not even that hot, just a pleasurable toasting tempered by a light, jasmine-scented breeze. You’re lulled into thinking that this might be the finest place on earth, this coastal paradise where the marsh meets the sea, our own Lowcountry Shangri-la but better, because we have chewy ice.
Then the air slacks as if sucked away by Satan himself and suddenly, you’re surrounded by evil.
A small cloud has materialized from the ether to besiege exposed skin and propel into every orifice, welts appearing as you experience being chewed alive. Unable to detect any individual assailants, the casual hand wave becomes a convulsive dance resembling a drunk Muppet shadowboxing the apocalypse.
Lo, my frenzied compatriots: It’s sand gnat hunting season, and we are the prey. Forget Kierkegaard; in this land of polarized humanity, being assaulted by infinitesimal blood-sucking insects is the great leveler.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Savannah Sideways to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.