The wedding had to start exactly at 5:30. Not a minute later.

This was not a wish or a want or a “Momma will be mad if it doesn’t” kind of timetable.

The wedding was in sync with the tides. Mother Nature was the first consultant the happy couple conferred with a year ago when they set their wedding date and decided on the Folly Beach washout as the venue. Although the tide would be coming in, it would not have made too much progress.

We’d already weathered the 70 percent chance of rain predictions. The sky was brilliant blue framed by a dainty rim of clouds hovering on the oceanside horizon.

The house where our little family was staying was a few doors down from the wedding site, and all the men of the wedding party were there and dressed. I was in the land of the kilt-clad giants. (The only guy who wasn’t at least 6’3” tall was five-year-old Jonah, the ring bearer.)

Among those getting dressed at our house were my mother and mother-in-law, both of whom, despite their 88 years each, were game for the big beach adventure. To get them onto the beach, the men of the party had placed plywood sheets over the uneven, sand covered handicapped ramp that led to the beach and over which their walkers would roll. (It took some figuring to come up with that one) but all was in place and rehearsed the day before. The grandmommas were driven to the crossover and I went across the street to join the women at what had become known during the preceding eight days of beachside lead-up to the big event as “the  wedding house.”

The bride was on the front porch, and photos were being taken. She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen. Relaxed and happy – and ready to marry our manchild. Everyone eyed the tide as it inched its way up the sloped beach. Was it coming in too fast? We had been in somewhat of a state about it all week since there had been a lunar high tide that had the water pounding the dunes every day. But so far, so good. And wedding boy and his bride-to-be had a chart with lines and plus and minus this and that with which they tried to reassure us.

“It’ll be fine,” our Surfer Dude told us. So we kept the fretting to a minimum. But as we stood high up on the porch looking at the waves, my confidence began to waver. It was time to get this show on the road.

The women, except for the bride, walked to the scene. The bagpiper played as the grandmommas were escorted by Manchild #2 to the white chairs waiting for them down the aisle. (An aisle had been created with seven foot tall bamboo poles with white tulle wrapped around their bases, accented with bright green osage oranges to line the path. The tips of the poles had tulle flying free in the ocean breeze.

It was now the parents’ turn. The Hubster and the bride’s godmother made their way to the front where they would perform the ceremony. I and the bride’s mother were next, followed by the flower girl in her white dress and ring bearer in his mini-kilt.

As the rest of the wedding party made their ways to the front, all was well. The bride and her father appeared at the top of the ramp and made their way down as the assembled guests murmured at how beautiful she (and the back of her dress) were. The Hubster and Godmom did a great job, and the wedding couple said their vows sweetly as we all leaned in close to be part of the moment. I sniffed a little. And then it was done. They were pronounced man and wife, presented to the guests and cheerfully making their way back up the aisle together. The wedding party started their retreat, and halfway into it, Mother Nature took over.

Little squeals of laughter got everyone’s attention as a wave crested a little hill and washed just under the toes of the grandmothers. A hasty and festive retreat completed the wedding. It was the perfect accent mark.

The reception was about to begin. I’d heard snippets of chatter from the wedding couple that in anticipation of this day, there had been dance classes. Really. But after cotillion classes when he was 12 years old, he said never!

Next Week: So you think you can dance?

Wedding photos are posted at journalscene.com under galleries, editors picks; and follow the ongoing saga on facebook.com and twitter under jujujudy.

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