A Moment in Rodanthe

     Heated car air always seems to add a toasty sleepiness to any day, but this time was different. It had been about a three hour drive from the inland of North Carolina, and we had finally arrived.  Following parental orders, we hastily ripped the ties on our shoes apart and peeled off our socks.  We needed to be barefoot, else we ruin the backseat of my aunt's sedan.  Feet properly exposed, jacket on, I took a breath and stepped out into the whipping, winter Outer Banks wind.

Shore House, by JessLaura on DeviantArt

     It had been three-and-a-half years since we'd taken the summer pilgrimage with extended family and friends to that long, thin strip of detached land with rough seas and sand dunes of unusual size.  Two of the best weeks I can remember had been happily spent chasing after sand fleas the size of silver dollars, flying kites, and playing brutal, days-long games of Monopoly.  What we saw now was a view I'd been anxious to revisit ever since we'd left.

     We scuttled excitedly across the sidewalk, then off, and between the wet, weathered, dark brown beach houses each on their four impossibly skinny stilts, the only thing that kept them from flooding and irreversible damage in rough seasons.  This relatively built up portion of the island didn't have the enormous dune you'd have to climb hand-and-foot if you drove further south into Waves or Salvo; it felt strange, now, stepping right off the sidewalk into the same scene we had been forced to work so hard to earn a few years ago.

     The wind was something I'd never felt on any other more southerly beaches.  This wind would blow the sand like tiny daggers or needles into the backs of your heels until you had a weird sort of patch of sand embedded beneath your skin.  I know that sounds absolutely horrific, but over time I've come to think that same wildness is a large part of what makes the Outer Banks so different from other beaches; even, at least if you ask me, so much more enjoyable.  Now, in the mid-December climate, the wind was even more piercing and refreshing.  Filling your lungs with that Carolina sea air again made it feel like you hadn't been breathing at all in the years prior.  This was breathing.

     There was less sand here than the area we had been before, and this time it seemed wetter too.  As we walked through the dry towards the drenched, our walk turned into a tiptoe as the inhospitable, damp sand sapped anything resembling warmth from our helpless feet like a vacuum.  Seconds later, we were reduced to hopping.  Anything to keep our skin from touching the ground; even for a fraction of a second.

     As I looked down at my feet, still hopping, I suddenly noticed a little glistening, black, leathery pouch with four handles.  I had seen pictures of mermaid purses here and there in books or articles, but hardly ever in person.  Glancing a little ways down the coast we could see hundreds of them had been washed up and now dotted the beach as a natural litter.  Through many of them was a gaping hole right in the center, where a baby skate had decided to make his world debut; but the sand that had found it's way into the more intact purses made them rattle like maracas.  These had never been around in the summer.  The beach had a secret life of its own during the other half of the year, unseen by the thousands of sun-loving summer tourists that would swarm in once the chill left the ocean winds.  Showing up now, in the off-season, felt a bit like walking in on someone before they had their pants on.

     Out to the east you could see the seemingly endless miles of stormy blue salt water doubling up on itself and barreling towards the border of earth and sea.  Crashing is a cliched term for waves; I'd like to say it was a swish, or a whoosh, or even a crackle; but the incredibly satisfying smacking, rumbling, crunching sound, like iceburg lettuce or what you'd imagine the slowed down sound of ripping paper would be, coupled with the soothing swish and hushing of the ambient background noise really is best described in one word as that...  crashing.

     Our feet were now sufficiently numbed and the aunts in the cozy vehicle a few yards off were getting restless.  Picking up the socks we had been standing on top of, in a pathetic attempt to create a barrier between us and the ice-cold sand, we high tailed it to the dry sand, and then back onto the concrete driveway.  The car doors popped, and after beating down my feet and shaking off my socks, I stole one last glance Eastward, and took one last breath of intoxicating ocean air.  It'd be another three years before we'd breathe it again.

     The Outer Banks have always carried a certain something about them I can only, very poorly, describe as a constant stormy wildness.  A wildness I've not really seen in other beaches, whether Florida, The Bahamas, or the Gulf Coast.  There's an untamable element to the Outer Banks that's constantly reminding me just how insignificant and small we are; but all the same, whenever we go it feels like visiting an old friend.  Changeable, yet constant.  Maybe in the future I'll get the chance to explore other Northern beaches in New England, the West coast, or even the borders of the United Kingdom.  They're all on my short list, but I'm not likely to forget, or cease to love, the breathtaking, heel stabbing, dune ridged glory that is the Outer Banks.