The sun’s shining, the sand is sparkling and the jade-green waves are gently rolling into the shore. All the makings for a booming summer tourist season are in place except for one key ingredient – people.

For over 20 years, we’ve spent a week on the beach in Gulf Shores, Ala. Long known for its relaxed atmosphere and sugary white sand, the city has become a paradise for families looking for leisure time at the beach without the often-rowdy college crowd.

We’ve watched the area grow from a few mom-and-pop establishments to major chains and dozens of outlet mall stores.

Over the years, Gulf Shores, like many Gulf Coast cities, has weathered numerous hardships — hurricanes, floods, droughts and economic recessions.

And then came April 20, 2010.

The Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, killing 11 workers and setting off an uninhibited oil gusher that released millions of barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico, the worst spill in America’s history.

The Gulf Coast community watched, agonized, screamed, protested and howled at the political winds about the inability of the oil giant, BP, to stop the gusher.

Photos of oil washing up on the once-pristine beaches and helpless animals covered with sticky oil were splashed across the fronts of newspapers and Websites, branding this area as practically uninhabitable.

Three months later, the well is capped.

The waters are clear, and the sands are clean.

But the tourists are gone.

Eerily gone.

Normally during the tourist season in Gulf Shores, there’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, a 45-minute wait at all the restaurants, and umbrellas practically touch along the shore.

This week, we’ve cruised through the city with ease, been seated immediately at restaurants, and there’s less than 50 people on the beach as far as I can see in both directions.

Beach Patrol workers, driving brand-new 4×4 utility vehicles, motor up and down the beaches all day while Coast Guard helicopters fly overhead, dutifully checking for contaminants in the water and on the sand.

Souvenir boutiques have few shoppers, and the most popular items are “Save Our Gulf” T-shirts with a spewing oil well design on the front. When we ask where the catch of the day comes from, our waitress answers “Texas.”

Seeing once bustling restaurants boarded up, brand-new “for sale” signs in dozens of store windows and parking lots that are normally overflowing with mini-vans and family sedans practically deserted, the economic impact of that oil spill becomes painfully real and personal.

Our first evening, we visited one of our favorite restaurants, and I noticed an elderly gentleman clearing off the tables. Often the wait staff in a tourist area is filled with teens looking to make money for the summer.

From the deep tan lines on his face, his lean physique and his weathered knuckles, it appeared this man had spent a lifetime in the outdoors, perhaps hauling in fishing nets or piloting charter fishing trips. Now he was folding napkins, refilling salt shakers and cleaning up crumbs.

That’s where the devastating effects of any economic disaster can be seen – in the eyes of those who’ve lost their livelihood, their dignity and their connection to the land or the sea.

But people are resilient. They’ll hitch up their britches, roll up their sleeves and do whatever it takes to restore their way of life.

Along the Gulf Coast, however, they need people. So come back. Have some fun building sand castles, splashing in the waves and fishing in the Gulf.

The water’s beautiful, the sand sparkles, and laughter, especially laughter, is sorely needed in these parts.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.