Remembering a Surfer, a Writer, and Friend
by Lorne Chambers | Editor
I never set out to be a journalist—if that’s even what I am. I just knew I wanted to write. Community newspapers were a way to earn a paycheck while stringing words together. Still, I always held onto the dream. So a few years ago, after nearly 25 years working in newsrooms, I returned to the classroom to get a master’s degree in creative writing—to see if I could finally write that Great American Novel. (That part’s still to be determined.)
I was 46 years old when I walked back onto the College of Charleston campus and sat down with nine other aspiring fiction writers. They were brilliant, driven, and immensely talented. Most were in their 20s and fresh out of their respective undergrad programs. I wondered if I belonged. But one classmate immediately put me at ease. Despite the age gap, we clicked. Ben was unlike anyone I’d ever met. He was wise beyond his years and possessed a genuine kindness. I later learned he’d beaten cancer as a child. He rarely mentioned it, never used it to define himself. But I can’t help but think it shaped the way he saw the world—with grace, wonder, and a joy for the simple magic of everyday things. I admired him for that.
Ben and I had more in common than I expected. He was born and raised in Charleston—a place he loved fiercely. A place I’ve now called home for more than 30 years. We shared a reverence for the Lowcountry, liked many of the same books and authors, and shared a passion for craft beer. We also both loved being near the water—whether on a boat, a surfboard, or sitting on Folly Beach.
Throughout our two years in the MFA program, we were in all but three classes together. Whenever I got overwhelmed, Ben had a way of talking me down. It came so naturally to him. And after graduation, we continued to get together regularly for beers and talk about writing, encourage one another, and critique each other’s work. He had just finished his debut novel—a beautiful story set between Morris Island and Folly Beach. I was honored to be one of the first to read it. It was graceful, thoughtful, and courageous—just like Ben.
Benjamin Robertson Schools passed away on June 16. His cancer had returned. He didn’t tell me, or any of the other writers in our cohort. Just a few weeks before, he’d texted me, asking to read what I was working on. I told him he’d be the first to see it when it was done.
“Good,” he replied. “I’m excited, man.”
That was the last time we spoke.
He had just started a new job he was enjoying. He’d recently celebrated his third wedding anniversary with his wife, Sarah—a brilliant artist and illustrator (www.sarahschools.com). One of her paintings, Paddle Out, features two surfers paddling toward a glistening sun that’s just out of frame, its golden light shimmering across the water. She said the inspiration came from something Ben had written:
“I had forgotten how holy it feels to let the water lap your body on the shore like a bright new shell from somewhere else. And my eyes closed as time left me alone.”
Last month, while working on this issue, I attended Ben’s funeral in downtown Charleston. The church was packed. Hundreds showed up to honor him. I wasn’t surprised—Ben touched everyone he met.
This month, that same small group of writers will gather at the far east end of Folly Beach, walk together out to the end, and look across the inlet to Morris Island and the lighthouse, and remember Ben.
As I worked on this issue, The Folly Current’s first-ever “Surf Issue,” I found myself thinking about him constantly—about how much he loved the water, surfing, and this island.
For me, this issue is a tribute to Ben.
