❛❛ 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐒. But it remembers you. Every time you leave, it pulls something from you — a laugh, a scar, a name whispered into the tide. And sometimes, it gives something back. Not answers exactly, but quiet. The kind of silence that makes you realize how loud you’ve been living. I’ve spent half my life chasing that silence, and the other half pretending I didn’t need it.” ––––––––––––
name. beckett foster
nicknames. beck
pronouns. he/him
age & birthday. february 29, 1992, thirty three
zodiac. pisces sun, sagittarius moon, scorpio rising
hometown. briar ridge, south carolina
sexuality. heterosexual + heteroromantic
residential area. beach front
relationship status. single
occupation. surf instructor and shop owner of the railhouse
length of time in briar ridge. age 0-19, 27-present
MUSINGS | CONNECTIONS | PINTEREST
❛❛ 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 ━
MOTHER’S NAME. Mara Foster (nee Graves)
FATHER’S NAME. Jonathan "John" Foster
SIBLINGS. Sister (tba)
COUSINS. tba
❛❛ 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 —
trigger warnings: death, boating accident, injury, drowning
Beck Foster was always half in love with leaving. While the other kids in Briar Ridge learned how to mend nets, gut fish, and ride the tide, Beck was scribbling lyrics in beat-up journals and tracing maps to places he'd only ever seen in surf mags and daydreams. Golden-haired and soft-hearted, he never fit cleanly into the weatherworn mold of his coastal hometown. Sensitive, restless, and too full of feeling, Beck learned early how to slip through cracks and chase horizons.
By nineteen, he left Briar Ridge with nothing but a backpack, his surfboard, and a head full of songs. He bounced along the Pacific coast for years—bartending in dive bars, crashing in vans and hostels, working odd jobs at surf shops, and chasing swells like they carried all the answers. He fell in and out of love with places, people, and promises. Always moving, always searching.
But not all waves carried him forward. There are pieces of Beck scattered across the state of California—San Diego, Santa Cruz, Monterey—chapters he won’t talk about, scars he refuses to explain. Something happened in Fiji, too. Something almost final.
He won’t confirm it, but ever since, there’s been a quiet shift in him. His smile still comes easy, but it doesn’t linger. His eyes carry the undertow in them everywhere he goes.
Six years ago, Beck returned to Briar Ridge, worn and waterlogged. He set up a humble surfboard workshop down by the docks, crafting boards with calloused hands and taking moody ocean photos he sells to tourists and dreamers. Locals say he doesn't speak much unless it matters. Some remember when he was a rising name on the amateur circuit. Others whisper about what he left behind and what he saw out there—especially in Fiji.
His mother, Mara Graves, still lives in that old, weathered cottage right above Driftwood Lane. She used to run the town’s best crab shack; now she runs a metaphysical shop called The Tidal Veil, where she sells sea glass, Tarot readings, and stories that blur the line between myth and memory. Mara claims she saw the moment Beck nearly drowned—that the sea stilled and a gull cried out three times to her.
Beck neither confirms or argues. He simply brings her coffee, fixes her porch swing when it sags, and lets her call him Beckett, the name he hasn’t used in years or really at all outside his family home.
Their relationship is full of silence and second glances—both of them orbiting a truth neither quite names. But Briar Ridge, for all its salt and secrets, has a way of pulling things back to shore. And Beck, for all his running and avoiding, might finally be ready to stay—if only for a while.
Beck's father, John Foster, was a third-generation commercial fisherman—broad-shouldered, quiet, and carved from the same hard edges as the sea he worked. The kind of man who believed in tides, hard work, and keeping your head down. He captained a trawler called The Wild June, and by the time Beck was seven, he was rising before dawn to watch his father push off into the fog.
John Foster was the town’s steady hand, a man who gave more than he asked for and didn’t waste words. He taught Beck how to tie knots, how to read a storm before it made the news, how to tell when a man was lying just by the way he held his eyes.
However, John never quite understood his son—the golden-haired dreamer who wrote songs, chased light, and asked too many questions with no clear answers. Their relationship was complicated: quiet love, unspoken disappointment. Beck adored his father, but he also feared becoming him—anchored to one harbor, weathered by routine, slowly eroding under the weight of unspoken things.
When Beck was sixteen, John went out with a skeleton crew before a storm that came in faster than expected. The Wild June capsized off Cape Romain. Two crewmen survived. John didn’t. They never recovered his body—just the cooler lid with his initials burned into it and a soaked life jacket that wasn't his.
Mara swears she knew the moment he was gone. Says it "came to her in a vision." But, Beck? never truly recovered. His leaving at nineteen wasn’t just about wanderlust—it was escape. From grief. From ghosts. From the fear that the ocean loved him the same way it loved his father: enough to take him someday.
But now, years later, with scars of his own and the weight of near-misses behind him, Beck has begun to understand the silence his father carried. The ache of responsibility. The pull of the tide. He works with wood and water now, like his father did—only he crafts boards instead of hauling nets. It's quieter work, but it still demands reverence. Precision. Respect for the sea.
Some nights, Beck swears he can still smell salt and diesel, like his father just walked in. He doesn't know what it means, doesn't like to face it.
❛❛ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ━
He was born on a Leap Day, so his celebrations usually take place on Feb 28th or March 1st.
Drives a beat-up 1987 VW van named Loretta.
Taught himself to play guitar on the beach, but won’t play in front of his family.
Has a busted shoulder from a surfing accident he never properly treated. It acts up in the cold.
Drinks too much when he's feeling lost, which is often.
He never stays in one place too long unless something or someone anchors him. Even then, he sleeps with his bag packed for months — just in case.
He’s terrible at texting back, but he saves voicemails and rereads old messages. Sometimes he never replies because he doesn’t know how to say goodbye again.
Terrified of hospitals. He’ll stitch himself up before stepping into an ER. The scar on his side? Self-treated. There’s a story. He’s never told it.
He has commitment issues, not because he doesn’t want love, but because deep down, he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be chosen.
When he’s anxious, he disappears for hours without telling anyone—usually to the water, even if it’s just a muddy creek or an old cattle pond.
He doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he still remembers the exact color of the sky the last time he felt like he was in love.
He smells like ocean salt, worn leather, cedarwood, and occasionally clove cigarettes he swears he "doesn’t buy, just bums."
He has a nervous tick: pulling at the leather bracelet on his wrist or rubbing the pad of his thumb against the inside of his ring finger.
He can fall asleep anywhere—van, hayloft, porch swing, roof—but he always sleeps curled in on himself, like he’s guarding something.
He plays guitar left-handed, despite being right-handed, because the guy who taught him was a lefty and Beck never questioned it.
His relationships never last more than a season. Summer flings, autumn breakdowns, winter escapes.
His love language is acts of service—he’ll fix your sink at 3 a.m., but he won’t tell you how he feels unless he’s scared he’s losing you.
Drinks his coffee black but always adds honey when no one's looking.
Tattoos: Has one on his ribs (unfinished). One on his forearm in fine line script—lyrics from a song he never released. And various others scattered about.
Vinyl guy. Blues, outlaw country, old soul. No matter how digital the world gets, he likes the scratch of something real.
❛❛ 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ━
He has dreams about his father — vivid, detailed ones. Sometimes they’re mundane: fixing a net, standing on the dock. Other times, John speaks in riddles or stares at him without saying a word.
He pretends to roll his eyes at his mom's moon rituals and “ocean magic,” but he never throws away the little bundles she leaves at his door — sea glass wrapped in twine, dried rosemary, notes scribbled in her looping script.
His sister is the only person who can get him to show up to things, like impromptu family dinners with their mom. Sometimes she'll says things like, “Just come for me,” and he’s there. They look and act like twins even though they are not.
❛❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 —
Childhood Best Friend: Lucas Attean.
Friendly: Other Friends/Childhood Friends. Good vs Bad Influence. Partners in Crime, Drinking Buddies/Surfing Buddies.
Romantic: Exes, One Night Stands, Friends with Benefits or even Enemies with Benefits. Unrequited Crush? Anything, really.
Estranged Cousin/Family Member: Someone tied to the Graves or Foster families—perhaps a cousin Beck barely remembers or had a falling-out with.
The Affair That Unraveled Him (Will be a WC): Beck didn’t mean for it to happen. Not really. He was working at a beachside bar in Monterey—bartending nights, surfing mornings, sleeping in his van parked just out of sight. It was supposed to be temporary. It always is. Then she walked in —elegant, smart, late 30s, early 40s, with a quiet sadness she carried like perfume. The kind of woman who doesn’t have to say she’s married—you just know. Gold band. Soft-spoken. Eyes that say help me feel something again. At first, it was just conversation. Then longer glances. Then she started coming in when she knew he’d be working. Then it became more. It wasn’t love. Or maybe it was, but not the good kind. It was need. It was escape. She told him her marriage was cold, her husband always gone—distracted, controlling, maybe even cruel. Beck, always aching to rescue something—someone—stepped right into it. Maybe he told himself it was just physical. Maybe he believed it. Until it wasn’t. Until she told him she was thinking of leaving her husband. Until Beck found out the man she was married to had power—influence. A business owner in town, a donor to the sheriff’s office, a friend of the local politicians. The kind of guy you don’t cross quietly. When the affair was discovered—or confessed—Beck was threatened. Maybe the husband came to the bar and promised to make his life hell. Maybe he found slashed tires. Maybe he got arrested on a bogus charge and spent a night in a cell he didn’t deserve. Worse: she stayed. She went back. Told Beck it was a mistake. Said he was a phase. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she lied. Maybe she broke his heart. Whatever the truth, Beck fled Monterey like a ghost was chasing him. And in some ways, one still is.
