I don’t remember when, exactly, I first learned to appreciate sea oxeye (Borrichia frutescens) in the way that I do (revealing on more than one occasion, unprompted, to uninterested friends, that it’s my favorite plant), or, for that matter, when I even learned to identify what it is. Perhaps it was during my many walks along the edges of Gadsden Creek over the years, especially those in June, when the bush’s bright yellow daisies bloom along the entire stretch of this natural hedgerow.
I assign a lot of symbolism to sea oxeye (also called sea oxeye daisy, bushy seaside tansy, and sea-marigold). Mostly because of where it grows: typically along the upper limits of our salt marshes, just above the mean high high water (MHHW) line, at that ever-rising border between land and tide. That’s to say that whenever (for the most part) you see naturally seeded sea oxeye, you’re provided with an interpretive marker of sorts indicating how high the nearby waterway can (and has) come. I say I’ve attached symbolism to sea oxeye because to me it serves as an indicator of our relationship with water in that place.
As is the case with such a dynamic, there are positive manifestations of this relationship and there are negative. Sadly, most of sea oxeye’s signaling around downtown Charleston convey a sort of comical hubris, a symbol to suggest our disregard for this boundary between “our” environment and water’s.
For example, the images in the above grid were taken over a two year period at Battery Beach (BB). Two years ago I spotted a tiny shoot of sea oxeye (SO) poking out of the Battery wall. For the next two years, during my irregular visits to the beach, I’d quickly snap a photo of the little bush to document its progress, always amazed that some City of Charleston operative hadn’t yet pulled it out or drowned it in poison. Yes, the seed could have traveled in the wind to its place on the Battery wall (unlikely) or dropped there by a passing bird perched on the rail overhead (possible), but I like to think (and I think a more probable story would be) that it was transported by water, settling comfortably between the granite blocks in a humus of saturated soils during one of our extremely high tides. A mighty symbol at only a few inches tall overtop our great defense.
June is firework season for sea oxeye—its bright yellow blooms fill the entirety of this salt marsh bush, contrasting against its silvery green leaves and attracting an array of brightly colored butterflies and bees. June, in my mind, is the best time to visit your local stretch of sea oxeye. It might be closer than you think. The most unusual place I’ve discovered sea oxeye (though certainly not surprising considering the “land” was formed by filling marsh) was in a storm drain on Wentworth Avenue, growing tall and proud until a nearby homeowner decapitated it with a power tool.
Last summer I convinced my friend Sully Sullivan to follow me around to photograph some of my favorite sea oxeye blooms. First because they’re beautiful, but also because in their presence they reveal a tragic and avoidable pattern that exists in Charleston: a pattern whereby creeks and marshes have been filled (and continue to be filled in the name of “progress”), expecting water to do as we say through the will of steel, sticks, and stones, and whereby, in the face of rising seas, those living in the most vulnerable places are often our most marginalized communities.
And so sea oxeye gives us an ever-subtle reminder that water doesn’t forget.