But the World Goes Round

It's hard to leave the beach on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon.

Beau and I did our final beach walk, spotting more than a few sandpipers in search of their fling. If we have accomplished nothing else this week while lounging about, it was researching and learning the plural names for birds. Sandpipers are what started it and someone guessed their group name would a be a "flute," which isn't all that far from a "fling."

At various times, we learned about a scurry of squirrels, an unkindness of ravens and a stand of flamingos, but my favorite remains the fling. For obvious reasons.

I took the longest possible outdoor shower I could manage, knowing I won't be soaping up outside with a view of the sky and the sound of the waves for some time to come.

After bidding goodbye to Pru, Beau and Queen B, I made my way up the beach road toward home. "Prayers for down south," read a heartfelt sign on the Nags Head pier. Another hurricane reminder was the sign on the Quality Inn in Kill Devil Hills, proclaiming, "Very open."

Further  up Route 158, I passed a sign advertising an upcoming event: "Boggin' for Boobies." Talk about knowing your audience.

Around the time I crossed the Virginia state line, the beautiful sunny day I'd left behind on the beach gave way to a gray and cloudy sky that made it a lot easier to keep driving north. No one wants to leave the beach during prime time, least of all me.

Driving past the Disputanta Baptist Church, I saw their sign calling to my people; "Women's Empowerment Seminar 9/29" and wondered what kinds of things would be taught at such a thing and if I didn't already know them all anyway.

And then I was back in the city again. And much as I'm a city person, it's always a tough transition away from the constant sound of the surf and the mesmerizing attraction of watching the ocean. In J-Ward, it was business as usual.

For me, that meant a change of clothes and a walk over to the Basement to see TheatreLAB's production of "Significant Other." As you might imagine, the subject called to me.

My seat was in the front row, next to the theater critic I seem to run into just about every time I see a play. I laughed when he asked if I'd ever acted - there were a couple of amateur films made by a  friend in college, but all they did was prove I have no acting talent - but was surprised when he said he had. Apparently he'd only given it up to study journalism in college. The things you learn when you're elbow to elbow.

Grownups live alone.
I keep forgetting we're grown up now.

The play told the story of a group of friends, one guy and three women, as they navigate adulthood and find mates.

At the center of the action is Jordan, played by Deejay Gray, who is not having nearly the good luck at finding his forever person as his girlfriends are. He's about to turn 30 and is convinced it's not going to happen to him ever.

You know, because he's so old.

And if ever anyone was born to play this role, it was Deejay, who managed to convey the frustration of being supportive because your friends are happy while beginning to give up on your own possibilities and fearing a life alone. Because if anyone can play sweet, earnest and sad, it's him.

Life is finding someone to go through it with.

What struck me about the story was how premature Jordan's reaction was. I'd say a person is incredibly lucky if they manage to find their life partner as early as 30. Realistically, many of us aren't even formed enough to know who we are at that age, much less be ready to take on the responsibilities of a live-in relationship.

He's also Jewish, so we can talk about our Moms and it's not weird.

Al three of the female leads nailed their characters. Always impressive no matter what the role, Kelsey Cordrey as Laura shone as Jordan's best friend and partner in single life. As Vanessa, Jessi Johnson walked the line between being a negative Nancy and reveling in finding an adoring partner. Mallory Keene as Kiki embodied the ditzy, "it's all about me" persona, always in a tight dress and the highest of heels.

You know I'm not a happy person. I like foreign films.

Matt Polson and Dan Cimo (his way of saying "Hey, girl!" every time he saw Jordan was a guaranteed laugh) each managed to make their three different male characters distinct from each other. Honestly, I've never seen Dan without being impressed with how he owns his time on stage every single outing.

If I had to come back from the beach, having such a well-directed production to come home to made my landing a whole lot softer.

Mingling after the show, I overheard a man talking about how sad the play made him with its unresolved ending. I talked to a favorite artistic director who admitted that the Jordan character had been him 4 1/2 years ago, before he met his true love and they had their first dog-child. I reminded him that some of us took far longer to achieve half that.

The final part of my return to city life was right in the same place I'd just enjoyed the play. The Ghostlight Afterparty, recently resurrected after a hiatus of several years, is essentially a piano bar with a roomful of actors and audience members busily drinking and socializing while anyone who wanted to could get up and sing a song to piano accompaniment. And when no one was drunk enough ready to sing, he played alone.

When he began playing "All That Jazz" from "Chicago," a woman took to the floor to dance a part she'd probably danced before. Soon after, he began playing "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" and half the room was singing along.

But it was when the incomparable Debra Wagoner approached the mic to sing "And the World Goes Round" that the magic really began. She warned the room that she was doing a slow, bluesy number so they'd have to listen and when many kept talking as she sang, she yelled, "Shut the f*ck up!" and some of them did.

Afterward, someone stood up and scolded the talkers for having the nerve to gab through Debra's singing. telling them nothing they were saying sounded a fraction as good as what was coming out of her mouth. Truth.

You gotta love the Ghostlight Afterparty because no one holds back. Also, there's a whole lot of drinking, so people often forget their manners. But you know when the pianist began playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," it got people's attention.

Some time around midnight, my combination beach and city day was enough to send me home through the streets of Jackson Ward - admiring the Pride flags hanging in J Kogi's window - and to my own bed for the first time in a week.

Flings of sandpipers may be in my rear-view window, but that's okay. At least I've checked "find my significant other" off my to-do list. That it happened decades past 30 should be reassuring to the Jordans of the world.

Don't stop believin', kids. Life really is about finding someone to go through it with. Dog-children optional.

Under a Waxing Gibbous Moon

Being at the beach in September is a completely different animal than being here during the high season.

It's not just that there are fewer people down here, though that's part of it (which makes running into my sister's family twice even more bizarre). And while there are no lifeguards stationed along the beach, we do get the occasional drive-by from the Beach Patrol, so somebody's still on duty.

The funny part is, when we go into restaurants, it's a different story. If people are here, they're eating in restaurants for dinner, not at home. Last night at the venerable Sam & Omie's, we parked ourselves on the wooden benches with strangers for nearly 45 minutes for the sake of being served before the kitchen closed down at 9 p.m. sharp.

Shoot, by 8:45, a roving bus boy was going table to table in an attempt to gather any dishes that had been finished so he could get on with his dishwashing.

We'd gone out for an old-school beach meal, a fact which Beau found tough to grasp after looking at the menu online. He'd been hoping for a place with a more creative, perhaps more modern, take on the menu while those of us who are lifelong beachgoers wanted nothing more than the familiar.

For me, that was local steamed shrimp and vegetables, while Queen B and Beckham went directly to fried flounder. Beau was appeased with a special of grilled swordfish and Pru was committed to her usual clam strips and onion rings, but only after she'd had a massive salad. In fact, onion rings were on more than half the plates at the table, convenient for those of us who love a good onion ring but had none on our own plates.

Always a good sport, Beauty, who eschews the bounty of the sea and refrains from kissing Beckham once his lips have touched any, made do with cornbread, black beans and rice and any onion rings she could cadge.

Pru was aghast to learn that I have no history with Sam & Omie's beyond going there last year with her posse. Having always stayed in Kitty Hawk, I was never inclined to drive 20 miles to check it out. If I was going to cover that kind of distance, chances are I was eating in Manteo or along the causeway, whereas she remembers being a kid and spending entire days at Sam & Omie's with her uncle.

But what's really different about being down here so late in the year is the light and not just the fact that the beach is dark not long after 7:00. Even the afternoon sunlight lacks the brilliance of June or July light. When it shines on the (mostly empty) cottages during our afternoons on the beach, it's not nearly as bright or blinding as it was a few months ago.

It's almost as if there's no promise of more to come in September's sunlight, and of course, there's not because we're already ankle deep in hurricane season (the post-storm jellyfish arrived a couple days ago) and even I have to acknowledge that Fall is hovering, ready to descend (and harsh my mellow).

Make no mistake, I'm thrilled to be sleeping to the sound of waves through my sliding door and window and waking up to see the sun splayed out on the ocean, even if it's nowhere near as blinding as it had been. But I'm also smart enough to store away the memories of it all because I know this is it for life on the OBX this year.

And lest any of this sound like a complaint, be assured it's not. I know how lucky I am that there are unexplored beaches in my immediate and short-term future and that it's nowhere near time to pack away my Summer wardrobe yet.

Once I pluck it from the clothesline on the porch anyway. What's not to love about the drip-dry life?

Chillin' and Grillin' Shack

Beach life is apparently exhausting.

Even allowing for an extended beach happy hour and last night's birthday dinner party with the attendant over-indulging that unfolded (never mind the series of unfortunate events that accompanied steak grilling) over many hours, everyone should not be so listless. So blasé.

Tuesday when I walked, Beauty was at my side. Yesterday, Beauty brought Beckham and Beau made us a foursome. Today, the only person who could be bothered accompanying me for a walk on a gorgeous beach day with roiling crowds overhead was Beau. And honestly, I think he just wanted to force himself to walk away from the bag of caramel corn he was hoovering.

When we got back, it was to an unmotivated household lousy with the stench of eau de ennui.

"I'm going to take a nap," Beckham announces after he and the Beauty wear themselves out eating a breakfast of steak and eggs followed by lounging in and next to the hot tub.

"I might be willing to walk after I take a nap," Beauty decides, heading downstairs after detouring for a cookie break.

Queen B hasn't even put in an appearance today and Beau and I have already finished lunch. It's exactly five minutes past noon.

"I really don't have any desires," Pru says in a resigned voice from her perch on a bar stool nursing her second (third?) cup of coffee. A nap, or even just quality time in her bed with her devices and more coffee, seems imminent. "What time were you hoping to go to the beach?" she muses as she passes me en route to her sanctuary.

Oh, I don't know. On a day where gray storm clouds have completely given way to blue skies with only a lacework of clouds along the horizon, I should think 2:00 would be an ideal time to convene this group on the beach and see what happens.

The only problem with this plan is that high tide arrives about 4:30 and this house is on a ridiculously narrow stretch of beach. We try to compensate by setting up chairs and umbrellas against the dunes that rise to our walkway, but rogue waves inevitably reach a cooler or someone's chair.

With any luck, everyone will still be a bit groggy after nap time and not mind too terribly that ocean and sand are going to happen at the beach. My plan is to lull them into submission with a well-packed cooler and just the right nibbly bits to get a base down for the evening ahead. Vacations are a marathon, not a sprint.

And if rest times are part of the marathon these days, so be it. To paraphrase Beauty while eating chips and laying in the hot tub, "Blogging from a porch facing the ocean while others nap isn't terrible."

Not a lot about beach life is. And please pass the caramel corn.

Rise Above or Sink Below

The beauty of the beach is that nothing much happens at the beach.

Oh, sure, the Beauty and I headed north for a walk only to be showered on repeatedly. The sun was either beating on our backs or the rain was dripping off our hats. While other people began to pack up to leave the beach, we kept walking and talking.

The sky was full of ominous-looking clouds on the sound side, but I ignored them for the sake of the abundance of seashells washed up on the beach, probably a function of last week's hurricane. This is my fourth time down here this summer and I picked up more shells on today's walk than on the other three weeks combined.

On the way back down the beach to the cottage, a man planted himself in the middle of the beach so Beauty and I had to both walk around him. "Really, you're going to make us split the difference?" I joked as we made our way on either side of him.

"Karen! It's me!" my now-bearded brother-in-law said. Seems Sister #6 had spotted Beauty and me walking down the beach and instructed her husband to flag us down. I'm not sure who was more surprised at the accidental meeting, me or the Beauty.

You just never know who you'll meet on the beach.

When the menfolk headed out to do hunting and gathering, Pru and I used the lull to set up camp on the beach. She brought a stainless slotted spoon from the kitchen, the better to dig a hole for the umbrella, while I was in charge of seeing that the bottle of Moet et Chandon made it safely to the spot between our beach chairs.

Earlier, when we'd walked, the "Dangerous Current" flags had been up all along our path to Jeannette's Pier, but by the time we returned, Beau said the swimming ban had been lifted. Given how mild the ocean temperature was, it was practically an invitation to hit the water.

After the guys returned, they (and Beauty) joined us at the beach for Domaine du Loriot Menetou-Salon and a cheese and charcuterie break while we watched a group of surfers take advantage of the better-than-usual wave action. The encroaching high tide overtook my chair while I was in the water, resulting in a soggy book (what's a beach week without baptizing your reading material?) and forcing us to relocate at one point to a more protected perch.

Our biggest accomplishment of the afternoon was killing a third bottle, this time of Whispering Angel Rose and making a group commitment to leave for the restaurant at the Outer Banks Pier by 7:30. An evening out necessitated elevated hygiene, so Beau kindly removed the chairs that had been stored in the outdoor shower during Florence so I could have my first outdoor shower of the week.

I won't even deign to comment on the fact that I was the first. I'm not here to judge, only to relax.

Our caravan set out for the pier barely half a mile away, secure in the knowledge that we could walk home if we needed to, assuming, that is, that we could find the beach house from the ocean side under cover of night.

It's a glorious thing to enjoy a breezy 76-degree night at a table on a pier over crashing surf. A trio was playing songs like Duncan Shiek's "Barely Breathing" and strings of lights overhead made things feel festive. We'd discovered this place last year and so enjoyed our dinner al fresco that we decided to do it again.

Choosing what to eat was easy as far as I was concerned because what's better pier food than a basket of fried shrimp with slaw and fries? Queen B's burger maybe? Or Beau's fish tacos? All good, all made better by a day of salty air.

Nope, thinking back over the day, I can't say much of anything was accomplished. As someone said on the deck this morning while they were all sucking back caffeine, "It's never too early for drinking or napping on vacation."

And never too late to be doing nothing at all. Ain't beach life grand?

Snap Out of It

When my course is set for the beach, don't get in my way.

It was just about the time I finished all the writing I had to do that I first heard the tornado sirens wailing. To be honest, I wasn't sure what the sound was, but that's what Facebook is for, right? Once I realized that there were tornados in the vicinity and that most of my friends at work were hunkered down in basements and interior rooms, I took the warning seriously.

While my disdain for the suburbs is well-known, no one wants to see photos and video of overturned cars, destroyed houses near Brandermill and swirling debris over the Huguenot Bridge. Scary.

But the main effect of the tornados on me was the warning not to drive for an hour.  By the time that was lifted, it was time for me to head to the Library of Virginia for Modern Richmond's kickoff event for Modern Richmond week. I'd had my ticket for the Haigh Jamgochian - the architect who designed the tin foil Markel building over at Willow Lawn - symposium for a few weeks now.

I wasn't at all encouraged when I arrived at 5:20 for a 5:30 event and only four people were in the auditorium. I heard two women discussing how their kids were still at school, having been held by the school system for fear of sending out buses into a tornado.

Around 6:15, an announcement was made that the start of the event was being delayed so that all the people who'd bought tickets had time to make it there. "We hope this isn't too much of an inconvenience," the Modern Richmond spokesperson announced.

Actually, it was. I'd only been planning to stay until 7:00 anyway, so that was my cue to exit stage right and head eastbound, where I promptly ran into a fierce thunderstorm directly over Shockoe Bottom. By the time I got to Rockett's Landing, the roads were dry and the sky looked sunny and clear. Proof positive that I'd escaped at just the right moment.

Driving away from the city and the scary black clouds hovering over the western skyline, it occurred to me that I couldn't remember the last time I'd driven to the Outer Banks at night.  And while my goal was noble - who wouldn't want to fall asleep to the surf and wake up to the same? - I'm terrible at recognizing landmarks in the dark, so this was bound to be an adventure.

In Waverly, the Tastee Treat we'd eaten at a few months ago now had a "Closed for the season" sign out front. When I stopped at a Stuckey's for a bathroom break, the first thing I noticed was a sign reading, "NO LOUD MUSIC," which necessitated me turning the Pet Shop Boys down considerably. Inside, they had showers as well as bathrooms for weary travelers. Fortunately for me, I was already clean.

Crossing the state line, I saw several signs, all with the same ominous message: "Avoid travel in North Carolina. Major roads are impassable," not the most reassuring of greetings.

Despite a lifetime of coming to the beach, finding a house I've only been to once in an area (South Nags Head) I don't know well was, hmm, how shall I say, challenging to say the least. What made it easier was that there was no traffic to speak of on the beach road, so I could back up easily when I finally realized I'd reached my destination: Moonstruck.

It's a poetic name for a monster of a house, but it's oceanfront and nothing's better than that.

And while all appeared to be quiet at the house on my arrival (despite prolonged door knocking and tooting my horn), my hellos were finally met with two male faces with glowing cigars in their mouths from the deck on the third floor.

Beau and Beckham helped me bring my stuff into the house where Pru had assigned me the same oceanfront room I'd had last year. If anything proves that she loves me, that's it. I was given the news that Hot Dog won't be joining us after all, having opted out of making the trip from Arizona. His loss.

The three of us reconvened on the porch where the guys were doing some serious damage to a bottle of Scotch whilst puffing on their stogies. At one point, they switched cigars (also known as swapping spit), the better to compare flavors.

All I know is I heard something about "thick wrapper, delicate leaf" and knew I was out of my league.

I give the guys credit, though, because after all that Scotch, they had to be tired, but were gracious enough to sit up with me. Not that it was much of a sacrifice given the most excellent breezes, practically perfect temperatures ("It feels like nothing," Beau observed) and a view of foam on crashing surf. Even the stars were remarkably clear, at least until some wispy clouds moved in toward midnight.

Truth is, I'm sorry I missed hearing Haigh Jamogochian talk about architecture (who doesn't like to hear an architect go on and on?) but the delay in starting was enough for the siren call of the beach to drown out any remorse I had about not waiting around indefinitely for the lecture to begin. Besides, it's common knowledge that I hate it when the punctual are punished and the tardy rewarded.

Maybe I was just ready to leave my inner nerd at home and let the beach frivolity begin.

Hot Dog's going to be sorry he missed this.

Toothpick in Hand

Either the heat was affecting our brains or it was a drive to read the newspaper, take your pick.

All I know is that after Mac and I did our usual walk on the pipeline, we were climbing the hill to the Capital when we touched on the subject of how we were each going to spend the day. She was off, so her plan was to clean house. I'd knocked out several deadlines the day before, so I had a light day with no writing to do.

Next thing you know, we've decided to spend the day at the beach, a decision that miraculously caused us to walk far faster than usual the rest of the way home. Hell, if our bright idea had come sooner, we'd have eschewed an urban walk entirely for a beach stroll later.

En route to Sandbridge not long after, Mac asked if I'd brought any reading material. Only the Washington Post from Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, I told her. "Oh, boy, I was hoping you would!" she gushed as if I'd made a brilliant decision.

By the time we got within spitting distance of the ocean, we were both starving, making a pit stop at Bandito's Taco Truck non-negotiable. In fact, we were so hungry we wound up eating our fish and beef tacos at one of Bandito's picnic tables under a canopy of shady trees instead of trying to make it to the beach to chow down.

Although it had been less than two weeks since I was last at Sandbridge, there were some changes. Instead of every life guard stand being manned, only every other chair held a bronzed millennial. The beach was populated, but not nearly as crowded as two weeks ago. Even the ocean temperature had come down a couple of degrees, moving from tepid to refreshing.

Every one of those things hurts my heart a little because they're all signs that summer is winding down. It's that acknowledgement that has had me looking for as many ways as possible to enjoy summer - the weekend at the river, the trips to Sandbridge - before it slips into fall and and my mood goes south.

It's not like we did much of anything for the six hours we were on the beach beyond read three days worth of newspapers (the things we learned about McCain, Neil Simon and the 1968 Democratic convention were enough to fuel good conversation for days) alternating with long periods cooling down in an ocean with only the slightest of waves. There was one walk, but I'd bet it didn't total a mile.

Mac spent some of her time on a dating app - soliciting my opinion on why guys would post bad photos - without locating the man of her dreams.

One of the afternoon's highlights was the arrival of an enormous school of fish which entertained beachgoers with an acrobatic show, jumping and flashing in the sunlight, right in front of us. They were followed by a pod of dolphins too big to count, who also cavorted in between snacking on the jumping fish. Both fish and dolphins were so close in that people lined up on a sandbar a few feet away from them to watch the spectacle.

My favorite ocean palette is the iridescent metallic blues of early evening and they slid in far too quickly for me. So we break camp, change clothes and move on to nearby Margie and Ray's Crabhouse for dinner, a shame only because the last thing I wanted to do was abandon the beach.

Mac kept the party going when, despite the many times as I've been to Margie and Ray's (and she was the Sandbridge virgin), she was the first companion who insisted we get crabs. Plus shrimp cocktail (really sweet and fresh), broccoli and Hatteras clam chowder, which she said her grandma would have liked. Also, because we're pros, the moment the crabs arrived, the quality of the conversation plummeted. Actually, became non-existent. It was glorious to eat with a crab equal, much the way she is my walking equal. Helluva package. I don't know why some guy on that dating app hasn't scooped her up.

Or, maybe I do. Sometimes it just happens in real life.

The practically perfect meal closed out with a dessert special I can't imagine finding in Richmond: an old-fashioned orange creamsicle icebox cake and while it could have been cloying and awful, instead it tasted like something Grandma might have made. The cake and frosting combination perfectly mimicked creamsicle flavors, the cake crumb cold and dense, and we agreed there could have been no better conclusion to our beach day than this.

On the 1964-esque placemats was an illustration of two sharks - a he and a she - seated at a restaurant table covered in a red checkered tablecloth with a candle burning in a Chianti bottle (my parents had the same thing when I was growing up). The caption reads, "Send more tourists...the last ones were delicious!"

And I'm betting that no two tourists could possibly be tastier than me and Mac.

Dance Card Filled

Beach vacation over, I have sacrificed two prized possessions to the gods of the ocean.

A towering wave claimed my prescription sunglasses with a smack to the back of my head while my favorite sunhat, that relic of 1998, finally succumbed to years of sun, salt and washings, arriving home a tattered shell of the SPF 100 head covering that has saved my face for two decades. That would be the same chapeau that causes strangers to regularly tell me that they like my hat as I traipse around the streets of Richmond.

A moment of silence, please, for a hat life well lived and traveled. That hat shaded me in places ranging from South Africa to the Loire Valley with a whole lot of seaside locales - Barbados, Bermuda, Pismo Beach - in between. With any luck, a replacement will be ordered post haste to carry me through the next 20 years.

My sunglasses, which had been chosen not because I thought I could pull off aviator frames (I had serious doubts but eventually decided that anyone who lived through the '70s could) but because they were on sale will also need replacing and now I've just got to decide whether the universe was trying to tell me to step away from the aviator frames or just to wear a leash to keep them attached to my big old head.

Those two incidents aside, my beach week finished out in a blur of sunshine, waves and the best possible company once the girlfriends had returned to RVA. In addition to the flowers that had preceded his arrival, my final guest arrived with yet another gift, this one a contribution to my beach reading: "Women Writers of the Beat Era."

I'd like to say I got around to reading it at the beach, but pretty much non-stop conversation and activity ensured that didn't happen. Fortunately, it'll read just as well now that I'm back to real life and fewer distractions.

Water temperatures hovered between 75 and 79 and most afternoons, the surf was so clear we could easily see our shadows on the ocean floor, right through the water, at least when we weren't being knocked down by waves.

Given my lifelong lack of hand/eye coordination, it should also be noted that when I was put to the "catch a football while in the ocean" test, I made a left-handed catch on the first throw. As the Bo Deans would say, ain't that what dreams are made of? At least to this thrower anyway.

Thursday night we devoted to the full moon, sipping Patron and settling in on the porch swing in time to catch the moonrise. In between dancing on the porch to a mash-up of '70s slow jams and pounding surf, we followed the moon's progress from low, small and red to huge, white and overhead, which is where we left it when we finally abandoned our watch.

At dinner Friday (a gorgeous and refreshing gazpacho with lump crab, a Mediterranean platter of bread and 3 kinds of baby carrots with olive tapendade, tzatziki and curry hummus, a crab-stuffed avocado and a Thai chopped salad with peanut dressing followed by German chocolate cake) on the screened porch of the Salt Box Cafe, we were seated across from N.C. restaurateur/chef/author Vivian Howard and four local women who were discussing work/life balance and other hot button estrogen topics before having Vivian sign copies of her first cookbook "Deep Run Roots."

And while I haven't been to her restaurant The Chef and the Farmer in Kinston, Mac has and we've talked about a pilgrimage back at some point. You just don't expect that kind of literary star power at a little soundside restaurant in Colington, N.C.

Saturday was devoted to last day beach pleasures (loss of glasses aside) and the night to a full fireworks display coming from the Avalon Pier area, a bonus considering it was still June, but a fitting sendoff after four practically perfect beach days with himself.

And that's with only having finished one book, an all-time beach low. Everything else about the trip, though? Glasses and hat be damned, easily an all-time beach high.

I'm also thinking of having that football bronzed as a souvenir. Who am I kidding? Like I'm ever going to forget any of this...

Getting Out of the City

And so it ends, as all truly great beach trips must, in an epic manner.

Unless, that is, you don't consider a two-mile trudge through driving rain on a mostly deserted beach epic.

The ocean was warmer than the rain. On the way up the beach - pre-deluge - I chatted with a guy reeling in a string of croakers and on the slog back - soaked through my shirt and bathing suit to the skin -  a guy gave me a high-five from the dry security of his deck. By halfway home from the pier, the rain had so saturated my new orange hat that drips from my hair ran down my face despite the straw brim.

It was glorious. It was elemental. It was so much better than not risking a walk at all because of the intimidating look of the clouds. Any seasoned beach-goer would have done the same.

I'd driven down, windows open, Tuesday morning, much of the way behind a rattletrap delivery truck that smelled like sour milk when I was downwind of it.

My soundtrack was all beach mixtapes made for me by fellow beach-goers, so reflecting their states of mind. From 2003 came a giddy paean to love, heavy on female voices, and the other from 2008, all about heartbreak and mostly sung by men. Both have beach associations for me beyond the givers' intents.

My stellar beach read was a birthday gift, Sherman Alexie's memoir/poetry pastiche, "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" and while I finished it, it's a little worse for the wear after this week.

Sand clings to a circle where a sticker once read "Autographed copy" and the book jacket is inexplicably stained brown in places. It's also mildly waterlogged along the edges, as if a particularly bold wave lapped it at high tide.

I can't be watching my book every minute, you know?

In what is surely a first for at least the last decade, the cottage where we stayed had no wifi. Not even any available wifi to steal from a neighboring house. And while my online needs are minimal when I'm at the beach, technically, I'd be a fool not to check given that I work for myself.

My solution was to drive to the closest wifi hot spot, check my email quickly, respond only when absolutely necessary and return to the cocoon of non-digital access.

It only made this beach trip sweeter.

The big news was all the progress made on the beach replenishment since I was in Kitty Hawk in late June. Then we'd seen the dredging boats far out in the ocean, even at night, but no activity onshore.

Now it's full-steam ahead, pipes have been laid and sand is already widening the beach in places I've been walking for decades. An enormous - four story? - contraption glides in and out of the water, looking like a gargantuan metal spider, while measuring the ratio of water and sand with its sensitive feet.

On Wednesday, I tried walking past the construction site on the beach and a guard sent me back the way I came, but by Thursday, he was gone and I could get closer to the Kitty Hawk Pier to watch heavy equipment operators moving sand around at Southern Shores.

The collateral damage of all this reshuffling of sand seems to be the horseshoe crabs whose carcasses littered the beach every morning this week like used firework casings on July fifth.

At night, the dredging boats are strung with white, red and green lights until they resemble a colorful riverboat (or, if you squint, like a Chinese dragon) as they move up and down the coastline, out to sea and back to shore.

Not everyone is a fan of all the hustle and bustle activity when they're on vacation, but I'm guessing it'll just be one of the beach details I'll probably always associate with 2017, like the noticeable after-affects of Hurricane Isabel in Summer 2004.

Eating crabs at I Got Your Crabs one evening, I turned to my companion, as fine a crab picker as I am, and asked if we couldn't be 100% certain we were the most adept pickers in the entire place. Without so much as looking at me or the people who surrounded us, I got an impatient, "Duh."

Not that we went to dinner to feel superior, but we also know our strong suits and aren't ashamed to admit them.

But that was our only foray into the commercial beach world and all the other meals (which for me alone seems to mean breakfast, lunch and dinner) were taken on the porch with a view of the ocean while I slept my usual nine hours to the best of all possible soundtracks: crashing waves.

Don't get the wrong idea. I know how incredibly lucky I am to have landed back at the beach again for the fourth time since Easter. Or, as a favorite beach-lover put it:

Wow, another trip to the beach! Some summer, eh?

Some summer indeed. It's turning out to be epic in a whole lot of ways besides browner legs.

Speaking the Same Language

The transition can be tricky.

Saturday was a practically perfect last day at the beach. Blue skies, clouds of every type and temperatures that never felt unpleasantly hot would have been sufficient to ensure a good time but when you add in an ocean temperature of 67 degrees, well, it was almost like someone ordered up a fabulous finish to my week.

And while it was a two nap-day (I make no excuses), we managed a nice long walk in the morning and an hour in the ocean at low tide before deciding that what we needed was to move camp (one umbrella, two chairs) to the water's edge and finish out the day there admiring the bands of ocean colors: olive, aquamarine, sea green and dark blue.

In the laid back spirit of the day, we went no further for dinner than the local raw bar where I decimated a half dozen blue crabs while we eavesdropped on the two guys next to us, one of whom seemed bent on establishing his drinking cred.

This is what happens to me, man. With three Long Island ice teas, I'm out and with four, I'm speaking another language.

Hmm, seems like it should be the other way around.

For the first time in the many decades I've been vacationing at the beach, I got up at the crack of dawn (7:05) Sunday so that I could take my walk on the beach before having to check out at 10 a.m. Who knew there would be so many people out walking and fishing at that hour?

It's always sad closing up the cottage and knowing it'll be another year before I'm back in it. Sure, I'll be back at the beach in July, but not in this magical space. It's like a friend noted as we luxuriated in our beach afternoon, "It's hard to accept that all this goes on when we're not here to experience it."

The drive home Sunday was pleasant enough - it should be noted that while I stopped at Granby Farm Market, I did not bother to stop at Gale Force Guns - with my favorite beach radio station entertaining me with bands like the Secret Sisters and their gorgeous harmonies on "He's Fine."

The problem with being ripped from the beach and set down in the city is that nothing can replace the sound of waves 24/7. I'm a city girl and I love my apartment, my neighborhood and my town, but I go through some fierce beach withdrawal when I first get home.

To the rescue was a fellow beach lover (or should I say beach convert?) who showed up with a bottle of Nero d'Avola and a desire for conversation.

We ambled over to Saison Market for dinner - fried chicken, Bibb lettuce salad - where the patio was full and I ran into a couple of favorite beer geeks waiting for their fried chicken dinners (it was Sunday night).

We settled at a high table to admire and dissect the Virginia map on the wall until our meal came, drinking Eden Imperial 11 Rose, easily the funkiest (as in barnyard, like a good stinky cheese) tasting and most tannic cider I've had. That it was served to us by a woman named Eden was icing on the cake.

Although nothing replaces the sounds and sights of the ocean, we made do quite well on my balcony, where a steady breeze ruffled the nearby treetops and the music inspired observations about guitars and guitar collecting from the bearer of the Nero d'Avola, who also claimed to have conjured up the unusually pleasant weather to welcome me home.

If I had to come back to the city, I couldn't have asked for a better reentry evening. Seems that transitions aren't so tough with the right welcoming committee.

Cue the Cypressata

If this isn't like vacation, I don't know what is.

First, sleeping in 'till 10:30 and then walking on the beach. While epic puddles still abound - in yards, across streets, between houses - the solution to that is as simple as removing your shoes every time you need to (follow Mother Superior's advice and) ford every stream.

Because the island is protected by shoals, there isn't much of a surf, but I can get over the lack of crashing waves when the February sun is shining and I'm walking on sand.

Bonus: I found a sand dollar so fresh and unbleached by the sun that it's still purplish. That's a first in a lifetime of beach-combing.

The group of us drove into Charleston shoehorned in the birthday girl's Audi convertible to have lunch at chef Craig Deihl's Artisan Meat Share, trend-settingly situated in an industrial chic part of town where I'm willing to bet most tourists won't walk at night.

Inside, the deliciously meaty smell alone was enough to guarantee I'd picked the right spot. The counter was full of bearded men two-fisting sandwiches, so we settled for a generously-sized booth and dove into the menu. For all of us, choosing what we wanted was the hard part.

My final decision was a hot fried chicken and biscuit slathered with 'nduju sauce, black pepper mayo and a thick layer of pickles, a sandwich resulting in the server handing me a knife and warning, "You might need this," a safe prediction given that it was Dagwood-like in its thickness.

Choosing a side dish was equally as tough, at least until we all conferred and agreed to get different ones so we could taste around.

No matter what they tell you, my local bean salad with sweet onions, herbs and Parmesan vinaigrette was the best, although that's not to say that the pea and peanut salad with radishes and green goddess dressing wasn't tasty or that the sweet corn and okra salad couldn't have made a convert out of an okra hater (maybe it was the summer ranch dressing) because it did.

I didn't even get to the cheese grits and sausage gravy, but judging by the birthday girl's moans of pleasure, they were every bit as pleasurable as a foot rub. A bite of the Italian sub put to shame every other Italian I'd had.

Behind our booth was a print of local artist David Boatwright's mural done for Mira Winery depicting a South Carolinian take on Renoir's "Luncheon of the Boating Party," but featuring chefs. There was Deihl, Nathalie Dupree, Hominy Grill's Robert Stehling and Gullah Cuisine's Charlotte Jenkins, Fig's Mike Lata. Sean Brock was conspicuously MIA.

Once in full food coma mode, we left for the Battery and a stroll along the waterfront admiring the architecture of houses with porches bigger than my entire apartment. As if that wasn't ostentatious enough, none of these homes had merely one porch, it was usually three.

Fiddle-dee-dee, sugar, sometimes a girl doesn't want to have to take the stairs to go out on the veranda.

As the birthday girl put it, "If someone gave me one of these houses, I wouldn't give it back," but I felt no such coveting. The water views - with Fort Sumter the centerpiece - were fabulous, no question, but I've got no interest in that much living space.

Invite me down for a stay, though, and I'll be the ideal guest.

After a drive through the island's downtown Mount Pleasant, a grouping of maybe eight businesses, we trolled the neighborhood admiring fanciful Victorian-looking cottages like the converted church compound currently on the market for $2.4 million. Nice pointed Gothic windows, though.

Since it wouldn't be a true beach vacation without taking an outdoor shower, I grabbed a beach towel and headed outside shortly before sunset, sharing the trapezoid-shaped space with a small sink (something I'd never seen in an outdoor shower) and a brown skink, or some kind of lizard lazing in it.

Sprinkling water on it to check for life, he slowly looked up at me as if to say "what the hell?" and went back to chilling while I turned the hot water on full blast and enjoyed the sound of the wind rustling palm tree fronds overhead while steam trailed upwards.

I don't care what the outside temperature may be, there is nothing quite like an outside shower to remind you of the pleasures of beach living.

Truthfully, I could go home now a satisfied woman. But I won't, not quite yet...

Pass the Old Bay

I wonder if I could live at the water.

In theory, I feel like I could. Every time I visit people who live at the river or when I spend time at the ocean, I seem to come away just a wee bit green with envy of their proximity, not just to water, but to a more relaxed sort of lifestyle.

I'm a person who can sit contently in front of a body of water and wile away whole parts of the day. There is no more enjoyable walking than along the water's edge. It's tough to be stressed or unhappy listening to the sound of lapping water.

This is very much on my mind at the moment because of today's visit to a favorite couple's new digs in Ocean View. Back story: Two surfing types found a fantastic house, both loved it, but he still felt the need to ask of her, "Are you serious about moving?" Unequivocal yes.

The two-story house sits back on a big shady lot, tucked into a neighborhood where many of the older, smaller houses have been bonged down and replaced with much larger, showier houses. Not this one.

Theirs is compact and charming, with blue trim on both porches, seashells instead of handles on the screen doors and entire walls of windows. The downstairs floor plan is completely open, much like my favorite beach cottage, for easy interacting no matter what room you're in. The radio plays music for the entire floor.

Step out in the verdant backyard and you see a patio and a lattice storage unit for their many surfboards. The upstairs porch off the bedroom is the dog's favorite place to nap. Photographs of trips to Nicaragua and California fill the walls.

They're one block from the Chesapeake Bay, up some wooden steps and down a few more to the beach. That's where we spent most of the day, beach-clad, under an umbrella, in chairs. Because of the proximity to the ocean - the Bay bridge tunnel is easily visible to the east and the eastern shore beyond that- there were plenty of waves.

I'd brought my book but never got to it. A pod of dolphins entertained us with tail splashing and high diving. Tumblers of wine kept the conversation flowing, a walk to Little Creek for a view of the Joint Expeditionary Base (I heard my first hovercraft) took us as far east as we were able to go and the bath water-warm bay provided the setting for a solid hour in the waves.

Because they've only been Ocean View residents for two weeks, they're still learning the 'hood. Fair enough. But when they told me there was a waterfront restaurant within spitting distance, I was amazed they hadn't yet checked it out. You've got  a bayside bar you can walk on the beach to?

That was the point at which my plans to leave before dinner changed. We were all three showered and strolling down there within 20 minutes.

Although they'd never been, they'd heard some scuttlebutt about the place - rowdy tales of pool games, an unlikely piano and, most  intriguing, a tree growing in the men's room. Inquiring minds wanted to know.

Despite arriving at the bay-front patio, we dutifully walked to the front of the restaurant to enter. The place turned out to be huge, very deep and definitely a little long in the tooth. We spotted a shuffleboard table, but no pool table, an upright piano and several private dining rooms. Not a soul was eating inside.

The crowd was out on the patio, of course, where half the tables sat in full sun and the other half under an awning. I'd have been willing to bet that I was the sole non-local. A band was setting up. Our tentative server told us it was happy hour and encouraged us to drink up, so we did.

Trying to decide on what to eat, we spotted some sumptuous looking sandwiches at the table next to us. Turning in our seats, we inquired, only to learn that they were lobster rolls, which both couples at this table were having.

"It's so good," the one guy said, explaining that it was a special and not on the menu. "But hurry up and order before they run out." Tragically, they already had.

But our new friends were there to do more than tease us, offering up the full scoop. Fridays are lobster roll special days. Mondays, everything is half-priced, food and drink. For decades, the place had been a high end restaurant that attracted people for miles around. After the owners sold, the place went through a succession of owners.

The current incarnation, Mac's Place, has only been open for "four or five weeks," they said. And they should know. The handsome guy told us he'd come to Ocean View in 1959 and watched it grow. The other guy, hearing I was from Richmond, shared that he'd graduated from RPI. "Not VCU, RPI," he said, as if we'd never heard of the school's predecessor.

They'd discovered the lobster rolls last week. "There were 15 people here last week at 5:00 for them. This week, there were 30 people here by 5. You need to show up at 4 when happy hour starts," they advised. Duly noted.

After thanking them for their assistance, we turned back to our table, every few minutes hearing one of them say loudly for our benefit, "Boy, this lobster roll is so good!" to rub it in.

Nothing we ordered wowed us like the lobster rolls had the locals, but as my host reminded us, "We didn't come for the food."

That much was true. The drinks were cheap, the early evening light made the water and sky a brilliant blue and the view of sailboats, powerboats and a Navy ship (the one we'd heard firing earlier) created a picture postcard view.

"I am so happy to be here," my host said, beaming. "You started something, Karen. We're going to have to bring all our guests here." I told him if my neighborhood bar was a quarter mile walk down a beach, they'd have a stool with my name on it.

By the time I left, I'd seen an "I LV OV" license plate, met three beagles on one leash and been invited to return for an overnight visit, an offer I will undoubtedly take them up on. If nothing else, I need to return and verify that tree in the men's room story. It was occupied when I went to check.

But could I live there? Could I give up city life like they did and move to a place absent so many of the things I like to do? Would I miss being able to walk to venues and theaters, the grocery store and restaurants?

Being a block away from such a lovely beach is powerfully appealing. The ocean is within sight or a 15-minute drive. Everyone I met - on the street, at the beach, in the restaurant - was incredibly friendly and all of them very much sending out "I love my life and where I live" vibes. Small, old, affordable cottages still sit between McMansions. Tempting, all of it.

According to the happy couple, it just depends on how serious you are about moving.

One Fish, Two FIsh

It might be the best October 28th I ever get.

With a forecast of sunny and 81 (and it actually made it to 84!), I got up resolved to address the last thing on my Fall 2014 to-do list (after having made it to Chatham Vineyards last month): visit Sandbridge for the first time.

As a life-long annual visitor to the Outer Banks, I could never get into the Virginia Beach experience. It just wasn't my thing. But earlier this summer, a loved one had assured me that I'd be happy as a clam at Sandbridge because it had a lot in common with the N.C. shore.

Surely there wasn't going to be another day as ideal for beach-combing this year as today. At least I wasn't going to take a chance on it.

So I packed a bag of essentials for a day at the beach, setting out five minutes after eating breakfast with a handful of past beach vacation mix CDs for my soundtrack. My only stop on the drive down was as a directionally-challenged visitor at the Virginia Beach visitor center to make sure I knew how to get to Sandbridge.

Even so, I didn't hesitate to ask a guy in the car next to me at a traffic light if I was on the right track. You can't miss it, he assured me.

He was right, I couldn't. I found the municipal lot with no problem and joined the mere seven other cars parked in it. Near the back of the lot was a line of tall, white lifeguard stations in off-season storage. Yes, I climbed one.

Doing my best pack animal imitation, I loaded myself up with an umbrella, my beach chair, the bag of supplies and a small cooler and crossed the street to the beach.

A woman was walking toward me nodding approvingly of my day trip supplies. "Can you believe this day?" she asked incredulously. When I told her it was worth driving from Richmond for, she lit up. "Good for you! It'll be worth it!"

I was counting on it.

Since it was fairly breezy, I did my best getting the umbrella in the sand but before I even finished setting up the rest of my camp, a guy walked up and asked, "Can you use some help?" and handed me his stainless steel thermos (I didn't presume what might be in it). "I used to do this a lot as a kid."

As he was working it well into the sand, he shared that he'd seen where a beach umbrella had blown away and killed someone in California. That would ruin my day, I told him. "I think it ruined theirs, too," he said with a grin.

Once he was certain I wouldn't be killing anyone with my shade device, I returned his drink and he walked on down the beach.

I was halfway through my lunch and the latest Rolling Stone when he returned to take stock. Looking at my "Rebuild New Orleans" t-shirt, he asked if I was from NOLA. Nope, I explained that I'd been there the year after Katrina, hadn't bought it then when these t-shirts were everywhere but found it in a thrift store the next year. So it had all worked out.

He praised my foresight in bringing a lunch and asked if I'd be staying on to see the rocket launch tonight. Duh. Could there be a better viewing point than where I sat? "Smart woman," he said and walked on.

After lunch, I did what I usually do after breakfast: left for a good, long walk. I headed north on the beach walking along the water's edge, surprised to find that it wasn't colder. Hell, it's been colder than that in July some years.

I wound up walking a couple of miles north, looking at the houses that lined the shore to get a feel for the area. While it was a huge improvement over Virginia Beach because there were no hi-rises and hotels, just about every single home was a McMansion.

Worst part? I didn't see a single beach house with a screened porch. I guess rich people don't use such things. The most impressive thing I saw was one house that had its windows open. One. Meanwhile, it's so gorgeous I'm out in the ocean up to my waist.

As I was walking back to my campsite, I saw that someone had set up only a few feet from me. Really? There aren't two dozen people on this beach and you're going to put you chair, cooler and three fishing poles within spitting distance of my stuff? Interloper.

Of course I just sat down and took out my book, the one from the ex-cop that I hadn't yet started, while my new neighbor went back and forth between the three lines he had in the water, once pulling in something small and saying, "I thought it was a flounder at first. Dig it!"

It was hard to believe November is four days away as I wiled away the time reading, lounging on a beach towel doing nothing more than listening to the surf and overhearing snippets of people's conversations as they walked the beach.

Eventually I got up and headed south for another walk where I was rewarded with three (small, older) houses with screened porches. By then the tide was well on its way out, leaving a massive sandbar that allowed me to keep going further out without ever getting more than my calves wet.

When I got back, the fisherman offered me something to drink: Gatorade or a PBR, both of which I declined. Suddenly, he spotted something on one of his lines and took off to grab the fishing pole.

All of a sudden, he turned around and yelled to me, "Come quick! Come down here and reel this fish in!" Now why a stranger would presume that I could handle a fishing pole is beyond me, but I was out of my beach chair in a flash and the pole was transferred to my untrained hand.

Like a sensei, he stood nearby coaching me every step of the way. "Keep reeling him in...pull back on the line occasionally...step to your left a bit, he's going this way...that's it, you're doing great...your husband's going to be so proud when you tell him you caught a fish!"

Now don't get me wrong, my Dad was an enthusiastic surf fisherman long before I came along and cut into his leisure time and as my five sisters and I got older, he continued to fish. Some of my sisters joined him, learning the intricacies of bait cutting, throwing and reeling. I was not among them.

My first fishing lesson learned today was that I needed to anchor the pole against my body because this fish was seriously challenging me. I put the end of the rod on my hip bone and hoped that would keep it steady.

Second realization about fishing was how much strength it was taking to hold the pole in my right hand against the moving fish and constant surf. And, honestly, after the first ten minutes, even my left hand was getting fatigued with the constant reeling.

I'd have thought I had a bit more fishing skill in my DNA than was proving to be the case. Sorry, Dad.

After what seemed like eons, I pulled in a great big, wriggling stingray, its tail whipping side to side menacingly. Well, that was a lot of work for nothing.

But my teacher didn't see it that way and quickly pulled the hook out of the stingray's mouth and directed me to get my camera so he could take a picture of me. Although I'd looked for it, I hadn't brought my camera because I couldn't find it. "Well, get your phone," he said.

When I explained that I didn't have a cell phone, his jaw dropped. "Really? You don't have a phone? I mean, that's cool. Really, no phone?"

His solution was to grab his own phone and instruct me to stand, pole in hand, next to my catch. He was pleased as punch that he'd gotten to see someone make their first ever catch, saying over and over again, "That was so great seeing you reel that in!"

But everyone has their talent and when it came time to e-mail the picture to me, he had no clue how to do that. Oh, sure, he knew how to text it to a cell phone, but I had to walk him through the steps to get it sent to me. "There, now you've got proof!" he said, as proudly as if I'd caught something worthwhile.

Hardly surprisingly, he was a local who'd played hooky (ha!) today to fish. He was impressed that I'd driven down from Richmond and understood my distaste to Virginia Beach, saying despite living nearby, he hadn't been in Virginia Beach for 25 years.

"Now this, this place, is a different story," he said, spreading his arms to encompass the wide beach and bright blue ocean and sky. His ten-year old dog, a white-muzzled sweetie who got worried every time her master ventured too far out on the sandbar to cast, looked like she enjoyed it just as much.

When I mentioned I'd be staying for the rocket launch, his face lit up and he thanked me. He'd forgotten about it and immediately began calling friends to tell them to come down and join him for the spectacle.

I tried to go back to reading but apparently reeling in a fish for the first time gets your adrenaline going so I gave up and went down to the ocean, trying to stay out of the way of the several fishermen around me.

It was already after 5 but people were still arriving at the beach despite the sun heading lower in the sky. As I stood in the water on the edge of the sandbar, my shadow was distinct on the relatively placid ocean surface, stretching all the way to the breakers.

As I was marveling at its length, the fisherman came down the beach toward me and when I looked over, he told me to stand still, shooting a picture of me against the blue of the ocean with the golden light of sunset illuminating me from behind.

When I came back up to my chair, he hurried over to assure me that he wasn't a creep who collected pictures of strangers. "The sunlight looked so beautiful and I thought it might be a nice reminder of your day here." Assuming that he wasn't a weirdo, I also sent this one to myself.

I've never known the pleasure of a late October afternoon with ocean water drying on my legs as the sun sets, but I gotta tell you, it's pretty magical. Clearly the salt air and sound of the waves had been just the thing.

As it got close to 6:00, friends of his began arriving (including a guy who used to live in Richmond), many with beers in hand and everyone faced northeast for the rocket launch. When we'd seen nothing by 6:24, someone started hollering that there'd been an explosion and the mellow group on the beach thought it was a joke. Sadly, it wasn't.

I started packing up my stuff, saying good-bye to the people I'd met, giving a chaste hug to the man who'd given me my first fishing experience and making a stop in the PortaPotty to change out of my damp bathing suit.

On the way into Sandbridge earlier, I'd noticed a little place called Margie and Ray's Seafood and my new friend had mentioned it unsolicited as a terrific place to eat. A day on the beach had given me an appetite.

I'd been told that the restaurant had begun its life as a general store and tackle shop on a dirt road in 1964 and become a restaurant in 1997 (with a paved road and everything).

It was bright, it was loud and it was full of locals. Plenty good enough for me.

I took a seat at the bar next to a couple eating fat, steamed shrimp. After ordering fish and chips, I asked the bartender what the fish was (telling him it didn't matter, I was just curious) and he said it was pangasius, a warm water fish from the Gulf. Very tasty, he assured me.

"Pangasius?" the man next to me said quizzically, looking at me and the bartender. "That sounds like a Greek god not a fish!" I suggested that it was the god of fish. Soon the three of us were chatting up a storm about political correctness and Halloween.

The problem was that they always chose "couple costumes" for Halloween parties. Last year they'd gone as Sonny and Cher, but since he's taller, he'd been Cher. Yes, I already liked these people. This year, they'd planned to be a priest and an altar boy but friends were saying that wasn't PC.

We talked about how half the comedians that came out of the '50s, '60s and '70s wouldn't be acceptable today. And how you could make yourself crazy worrying about offending people now.

Oh, and the bartender was right, pangasius was perfectly delicious as was the obscene mound of fries that accompanied it, all of which got dipped into housemade cocktail sauce.

When I finished and asked for my check, the couple offered to buy me a drink and continue our conversation. Much as I hate to turn down perfectly good tequila, I knew it was time for me to hit the road.

There were so many ways a day by myself at the beach could have turned out. Mine couldn't have been better. Sometimes the best thing you can do is take direction from a stranger.

Dig it!

Say What You Need to Say

All good things must come to an end.

So after breakfast, I did what will (sadly) probably be my last beach walk of 2013, stretching it out for as long as I could.

And by that, I mean I walked all the way to the Kitty Hawk limit and beyond, savoring the clear skies and 75-degree air.

Once back, Pru and I made one last trek to the beach, stretching out our beach towels for one last hour of people-watching, leg tanning and girl talk.

After packing up the car, I headed up the beach road listening to my favorite local radio station, the Dj's voice totally familiar from so many summers down here.

With all the windows down and salty air blowing across me, the moment crystallized when John Mayer came on.

I say that because I first heard him on this very station back in 2002. This was a newer song, but the effect was the same.

Have no fear for givin' in
Have no fear for givin' over
You better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than to never say what you need to say again

It was a fitting way to head up the road.

But I only got as far as mile post 2.5 when the car insisted on turning in to Art's Place for lunch.

This little bar and grill has been around for 30 years and I've been staying within a half a mile of it every summer for at least as long, so it was a visit long overdue.

It's a place that advertises right on its menu that they're open 6 a.m. "till you let us go home" and that "Locals welcome, tourists tolerated...sometimes."

With my long time Kitty Hawk attendance record, I was ready to fight for my right to stay.

I took the last seat at the small bar, next to two guys deep in conversation about their guitars and the bands they'd played in.

When a server saw my purse in my lap, she pointed to the hook under the bar, but in front of one of the guys.

Saying I didn't want to crowd him, she  insisted I use it, saying, "Maybe he'll talk to you then."

I ordered Art's signature burger and eavesdropped as they segued into how much they'd liked Split Enz.

Without so much as looking up, the server behind the bar ran her hand through her cropped hair and said nonchalantly, "I got the Flock of Seagulls hair swoop."

She did indeed.

While eating my burger, I listened to Rolling Stones and Hendrix and admired the old black and white photos of the beach after numerous catastrophic-looking storms.

Once my plate was empty, she asked if I wanted anything else.

By then I'd spotted the Patron behind the bar, and while not my favorite tequila, it'll do in a pinch.

Ordering one got the result she'd expected from hanging my purse.

All of a sudden, the guy next to me wanted to chat. We talked so long that his friend joined in.

They chided me for waiting so long to try Art's and for not barging into their conversation earlier.

By the time my tequila was gone, they sounded really sorry that I hadn't wandered in nearer the start of my visit down.

Ah, well. There's always next time.

It was time for me to get home to do some work.

Coming up 158, I passed a tractor pull with a line of cars half a mile long waiting to get in.

I breezed past the Currituck Wildlife Fest with a big, bird-adorned sign for a "calling contest."

I have to assume this means grown men imitate fowl, but I'm really not certain.

Time to get back to my real life.

Do it with a heart wide open
A wide heart

Always.

What Will Be, We'll See

To stay or not to stay, that was the question.

I almost had a date tonight, which would have ended my sojourn at the beach this afternoon.

But that didn't pan out (que sera, sera), meaning I could stay over an extra night and sleep to the sound of the surf again.

Life is full of trade-offs. Luckily.

When Pru and I woke up this morning, it was to an ocean that had gone from docile and inviting to chaotic and intimidating.

The good news was, the water temperature was still a thing of beauty, so when I left for my walk (and she caffeinated), it was just along the water's edge to enjoy the foam blowing off the roiling surf.

I didn't get a mile down the beach before the beach patrol sped by, inserting red "NO Swimming" flags all along the shoreline.

That's one way to ensure that I finally finished my beach read rather than spending another day pruning in the water.

So I'd been mistaken. Apparently we had pissed off the reading gods Wednesday by not so much as cracking a book.

Despite the unavailability of the main attraction, the weather was magnificent, moving from a morning sky filled with clouds doing their best to block the sun to an afternoon one of almost solid blue with a few wisps merely for decoration.

The gusty breezes that kept the waves out of reach for us mere mortals brought a series of para-surfers, hanging on with all their might to brightly colored, comma-shaped sails and whizzing down the shoreline at an unbelievable speed while hurtling through the rough water attached to their boards.

All I could think was that if it were me, I'd make sure someone was picking me up at the other end because i sure wouldn't want to traipse back up the beach to where I started after that wild ride.

But then I don't really have an adventurous bone in my body, at least not that extreme kind of adventure, so I won't be needing to make those arrangements any time soon.

My concern, as always, was food.

We did a lovely beach picnic for lunch, spreading out Olli salame, two kinds of cheese, heirloom grape tomatoes, watermelon (a beach requirement), a baguette, plus the house-specialty dip (of which I'd heard so much but never actually had it cross my lips) and chips on a towel and grazed happily, until napping on the beach seemed like a better idea.

What better place or time to give myself over to such indulgences?

To sleep to the ocean's lullaby, perchance to dream of dates to come.

Out Playing In It

It's at the beach that you separate the men from the boys.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Breakfast eaten, I was ready to go walking on the beach but my companion had other ideas.

They involved a slow wake-up period, extended coffee drinking and who knows what else.

I don't but that's because I went ahead and walked on a morning too inviting not to experience as soon as possible.

There were loads of fishermen out, so I eventually asked one of them what he was after.

"Trout mostly," he said. "But I'd take drum or flounder. Problem is, the water's too nice and they're all further out playing."

I was as happy as the fish with the water temperature and told him so.

"I expect you'll be out playing in it, too, then," he said, all handlebar mustache and aviator sunglasses.

Further on, past the Avalon pier, I saw a kid skim-boarding and put on my truancy hat to inquire why he wasn't in school.

"I'm home-schooled," he said, grinning. "I've got a lot to catch up on, but we always come down this week cause it's cheaper and less crowded."

Clearly he'd already mastered economics.

Between the clear, blue skies and bathwater-warm ocean, it was a perfect day of beach-reading and ocean-going.

There's a giant sandbar in front of our condo, making for an ideal place to cool off, float over waves and observe the endless stream of aviation overhead.

I can't recall the last time I spent so much of a day in the ocean or a day I enjoyed spending so much time water-logged and prune-fingered.

Other than taking a a break from the breakers mid-afternoon to cook some steaks for lunch, it was pretty much a beach day start to finish.

We watched some idiot spend twenty minutes shredding bread for sea gulls and sandpipers, causing a rabid flock to assemble in front of us and look hungrily at the small children in the vicinity.

Too bad the beach patrol doesn't keep an eye out for beach idiocy.

There was some beach napping, a gin and tonic I tasted but did not share and more water time before heading up to get cleaned up for an evening out.

Our destination was Ocean Boulevard a few miles north and a safe bet for good wine and food.

We took the last two bar stools at the end and ordered a bottle of Villa Wolf Pinot Gris, a favorite at home and away.

I ordered sauteed shrimp succotash, a deep bowl of butter beans, roasted fresh corn, squash, tomatoes and N.C. shrimp in a light cream sauce, tasting like a bowl of summer.

If only succotash had tasted this good when I was a kid forced to eat the pathetic canned version.

My companion got shrimp, too (steak for lunch pretty much having killed any desire for blood), a dish of sauteed shrimp with a crab and cream cheese fritatta, and a tomato salad with dill and cucumbers in a citrus vinaigrette.

A woman next to us gave up looking at her menu to ask what we'd ordered and take recommendations from us on what she should eat.

What did we know, a couple of pruned out beach bums with no more accomplishments than new tan lines to show for this sunny Thursday?

We finished out the meal with dark chocolate gateau complemented by Graham's "Six Grapes" porto, a stellar pairing of the dense and slightly nutty wine with the deep chocolate.

Despite the hour, my companion finished with coffee and espresso, not all that different from how her day had begun.

Well, except for how fat and happy we were now feeling.

Another beach day well done.

Little Talks, Surf Version

Just when the summer was winding down, I got extraordinarily lucky.

I got an invitation to go to the beach and who's going to turn down a chance to fall asleep to the sound of the surf?

So I gathered up the essentials - bathing suits, steaks and a hat - and hit the back roads for a drive to the coast.

On 460 east, I got behind a truck touting, "Fresh milk! Free samples. Oberweis Dairy. Milk delivered!" surprised to learn that milk delivery was still happening.

Further down, I passed a church with a sign saying, "Rethink church with us!" while knowing perfectly well that I'm not rethinking church with anyone.

What I was thinking about was getting to the Outer Banks and enjoying a few days of post-season bliss overlooking the ocean.

It's never a straight shot, though, so I stopped at Weeping Radish Brewery to pick up their I.P.A. for my favorite hop-head and at Wink's for vintage postcards.

There's something to be said for sending postcards that look nothing like what they depict due to their age ('60s, I'm guessing).

Once I arrived at my home for the next few days, complete with seahorse-adorned lampshades, I did a quick unpacking before hitting the beach.

"That's the most undressed I've ever seen you," my host told me, hopefully admiring my Adrienne Vitadini suit, the most unlikely beach attire I've worn in fifteen years.

Although it's only been eight weeks since I was here last, it's worlds apart from my last sojourn down.

Gone are the crowds, replaced by childless and older couples for the most part.

I was happy to find that the ocean water had warmed up significantly since July, but then it was an unusually cold ocean we endured earlier this summer.

The two of us took beach chairs, an umbrella and our drinks to the beach, setting up camp mid-afternoon and having far too much to talk about to ever crack open our books.

I figured the reading gods would cut us a break since it was the first day of our holiday.

It was the laziest of afternoons - some beach-walking, a little shell-collecting, mostly watching the tide come in - and we stayed outside until well past the start of happy hour.

Back on the screened porch, we broke open a bottle of Sancerre and she set the Pandora station to Of Monsters and Men.

We had a good laugh about the woman, Olive ("You can remember my name if you like martinis"), on the beach who'd said, "I'm looking for a man with his own plane and all I've found is a man with a parachute."

There are so many possible ways to take that, most notably that it's wise to keep your eye on what matters most to you.

Olive, you're my hero.

Under a Thunder Moon

Holmes always guarantees a good time.

After getting over being mad because I stood him up (for the best of reasons), we had our post-vacation rendezvous tonight.

He was full of vacation stories - alternate routes, vaporizers while grilling, 68 (count 'em) shrimp, eating at Ocean Boulevard.

We discussed the importance of an enclosed outdoor shower, the challenges of returning to clothing and shoes and why sometimes, the second time is cursed.

We met at his house and motored to Acacia, where they were doing a booming Tuesday night business.

After a patient wait in the "lounge" with a bottle of (half-off) Domaine Michel Thomas "Si'lex" Sancerre, not to mention an over-abundance of Proctor-Silex jokes, we scored seats at the bar.

While music like Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" played, we whittled down our meal choices.

Holmes and beloved were unable to resist the siren song of Chef Dale's soft-shells, but I held fast, starting with salame, heirloom tomato jam, pickled fiddleheads and grainy mustard.

I'm a fool for cured meat and besotted with fiddleheads when I can get them.

The beauty of eating with friends is the opportunity to eat their selections and one of tonight's was white anchovies, grilled marinated radicchio and romaine, fourme' d'ambert, pine nuts and a creamy garlic dressing.

Sublime.

Prosciutto and melon delivered my daily dosage of sweet and salty.

Holmes and girlfriend moved on to crabcakes and soft shells, sharing both the obscenely buttery crabcake and the perfectly fried softshells with me.

Chef Dale is nothing if not a master of seafood.

My local jumbo lump crab with rice noodles, fresh corn and peppers and creamy Vidalia dressing looked like a mound of summer, red and yellow and bursting with crab and corn.

Over discussions of beach meals, the importance of 151 rum and fondling under bars, we entertained our bartender and each other.

Holmes likes nothing better than to give me a hard time.

About everything.

When he made a break for the men's room, his beloved and I did some plotting, opting for the chocolate hazelnut dacquoise with caramelized bananas and brown sugar ice cream to go with our young, vibrant and crisp bottle of Jeio Prosecco.

Holmes took the manly route, enjoying some Ardbeg single malt while giving us a hard time about our weakness for dessert and bubbles.

And the problem with said weakness is...?

Enjoying a scotch whiskey seemed only appropriate since we had earlier met a Scotsman named Scott, a man with a slight burr still audible in every word.

I have to admit susceptibility to such things, because a Scotsman had once tried to use that accent to woo me even while I was falling for someone else.

Yes, I'm a language geek, but brains, wit and kissing ability trump all.

Especially if he instinctively understands the beauty of an outdoor shower.

We'll Always Have Scuffletown

Some people have Paris, some have cicadas.

A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.

I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.

When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.

I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.

The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.

With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.

Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.

"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.

It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.

Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.

A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.

White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.

The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.

We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.

Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.

We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.

When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.

Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.

That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.

Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!

Can I!

I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.

Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.

She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.

Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.

Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."

He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.

Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.

It was hard to imagine there was anywhere more pleasant to be at that moment than in this little pocket park hearing live music.

As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.

He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.

Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.

Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.

The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.

Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.

Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"

By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.

It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.

You have to love it when people tell you secrets.

Ghost Clouds

Beach log, day three

Water temperature low sixties
Current book: Manic Pop Thrill by Rachel Felder
Best random song heard: The Posies' "Dream All Day"

Ghosts of the past: On my walk this morning, I passed a woman who could have been my Washington grandmother's doppelganger. Half an hour later walking back, I saw a guy who could have passed for a former boyfriend, George. Coincidence?

Doing it local style: Went to old school favorite John's for lunch (with a nod to GB), waiting at a shady picnic table for 20 minutes for flounder sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes (the best kind of sweet and salty lunch) which we then took back to the house and enjoyed on the back porch overlooking the ocean.

Science lesson: The wind, which managed to come from multiple directions all afternoon, challenging the beach umbrellas, and the cloud variety: cirrus, cumulus, stratus and nimbus, all in the sky at one time. While we'd been at John's, 3 miles away, it had sprinkled on us. Driving home from John's, parts of the road were all but flooded with rain. Back at the cottage, bone dry. Microclimates abound this year.

Cruising Manteo: Taking advantage of a lovely late afternoon, we drove over to Roanoke Island, first to stroll and then to take a sunset cruise on a schooner. Waling down Queen Elizabeth Street, a familiar figure approaches, squealing, "Karennnnn!" It's the lovely Matt, host of the Ghost Light Afterparty and currently playing Sir Andrew Agucheek in "Twelfth Night." We marvel at the randomness of seeing each other as he and his group seek booze on land while mine set out for theirs at sea (okay, sound).

Onward and upward: Bidding him so long, we peruse an open air craft mart where one of us buys leather sandals hand made and even hand tanned in Haiti. On the way to board the Downeast Rover, I note a sign saying that the Acoustaholics are playing at 8 at Poor Richard's. Alas, we will be out on the high seas then.

Bird's eye view: Our little group takes seats on the bow of the schooner while the other ten passengers take bench seats in the middle. From our perch, we can see hang gliders diving off the dunes, enormous bird nests atop channel markers (and filled with gaping mouthed young). a half rainbow piercing a cloud and dolphins frolicking just in front of us.

Ahoy, mate: We chat up the first mate who, it turns out, grew up in Goochland, went to Steward School and used to live in the Fan. It is the smallest of worlds on the Outer Banks.

And the loveliest of sunsets from the water.

Driving home, one of us asks, "What day is it?"

Does it matter?

Under a Blood Red Moon

A heat wave isn't much of a heat wave when you're staying on the oceanfront.

We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.

One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.

"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.

The grill came back to life and we were saved.

As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.

Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.

"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.

Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.

An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.

He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.

It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.

Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.

With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.

But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.

We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.

Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.

Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.

After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"

Don't worry, we didn't.

One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.

Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.

"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.

Sadly, no.

But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.