I'm like most Georgians who have felt grainy sand in their sandals, been tickled by ocean breezes flirting around their faces or inhaled the strong scent of saltwater marshes. The state's coast holds a special place in my heart, especially St. Simons Island and Jekyll Island.

As a child, this was the first spot where I spied the Atlantic Ocean, so vast and brown and murky from the silt of the confluence of the rivers —- the Hampton, the Mackay, the Altamaha —- that made this area essential to U.S. production of rice and long-staple cotton in the 19th century. This was the first place I tasted Brunswick stew made with a real hog's head. It was where I spent my honeymoon.

We've lived here on St. Simons nearly 25 years, long enough for my parents —- still living in Middle Georgia —- to stop being offended when I call it home.

So I guess I take especial umbrage at the mess some folks leave rotting and floating around my home when they come to visit. Although I am not a "from here" —- just a "come-here" (what real native islanders call folks who moved here in the last 100 years) —- I feel free to scold visitors who do not respect the water and land that make this area truly a Georgia treasure.

I don't think a week goes by that I don't hear a story from some visiting baby boomer about a fond memory of a summer trip to the Georgia coast when they were young. When I did a video essay for CBS News' "Sunday Morning" a few years ago on the joys of crabbing, I can't tell you the number of calls and letters and e-mails I received from folks in Maine, New York and Atlanta excited about seeing what they called "their pier" on the television screen. The Georgia coast, and in particular St. Simons, has that effect of ownership on people and their hearts. That is why —- especially in these times when everyone from car manufacturers to diaper makers have jumped on the "green" movement —- I am left so confused when I walk down by the pier near the St. Simons lighthouse and see what some of these same visitors have left as a thank-you on the otherwise pristine beaches of the Georgia coast.

Beer and soda cans are thrown from boats and wash up on the shore, along with disposable diapers. Cigarette butts and Styrofoam containers are left amid the granite rocks that line the otherwise pristine beaches. Fast food wrappers and zip-top bags are discarded right next to trash cans that the county conveniently provides for proper disposal.

My husband, Jonee, says he can't believe that folks travel to the Sea Island beaches, marvel at the beauty and cleanliness of the environment —- the ocean, the saltwater marshes, the rivers, the estuaries, the dunes —- and then leave their trash nestled in that same setting.

In Naples, Italy, where for years conflicts over trash disposal have led to some garbage dumps taller than two-story buildings, tourism has fallen by 50 percent. That image and those figures alone should be enough to prompt our visitors and residents alike to curb their lazy habits of tossing trash along our coast.

The coast is not replaceable (even though some developers would lead you to believe one can build on marshes and wetlands and just flood other dry lands and call them marshes. It's called "amelioration."), regenerative or infinite. This is it, folks, all the Georgia wetlands that we're going to get. Let's try to take care of them.

Take your trash with you when you leave. All we want to remind us of your visit are your good memories and some footprints in the sand.

> Tina McElroy Ansa is a writer living on St. Simons Island.