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?
Showing posts with label south nags head. Show all posts
Showing posts with label south nags head. Show all posts
Friday, September 21, 2018
Thursday, September 20, 2018
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
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.
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.
Thursday, September 21, 2017
No Way, Jose
I didn't buy the t-shirt (of course there was one), but I did survive Hurricane Jose.
Which means when I got back tonight and saw a photo online captioned that it was Jeanette's Pier on Monday as Jose was bearing down, I could scoff. I was on that stretch of beach Monday and while the waves were fairly furious and creating all kinds of wild sea spray, it was nothing as dramatic as in that picture.
By the time I got home, the internet powers-that-be had already decreed the picture to be photo-shopped, but all they really had to do was consult with any of us in the Moonstruck cottage posse. Had they, we would've commenced imemdiate scoffing.
And while Monday and Tuesday were as gray, soggy and cloudy as you'd expect from a hurricane, yesterday and today were perfectly glorious: sunny, breezy and perfect except that Jose's grip on the ocean - unlike the skies - continued.
The red "No swimming" warning flags have been a fixture for four days now. My bathing suits never got wet above the waist. The heartbreak of that was how ridiculously warm the ocean water was, not that we could do more than walk along the edge of the breakers and hope for unexpected crashing waves to come to us.
On today's walk coming back from Jeanette's Pier, we watched as a lifeguard in an ocean rescue vehicle began blaring his horn to alert a man and child that they'd ventured too far into the surf. The guy looked angry at being called out and the child looked grateful to be saved from this idiot.
We also walked through a surfing competition, complete with a grandstand of judges and scores of people manning cameras with telephoto lenses. We were so caught up in our conversation that we didn't immediately realize that everyone but us was staring out at the ocean watching skilled surfers take advantage of Jose's leftovers.
But then, part of that conversation centered around peeping toms.
Let me explain: when I first went to use Moonstruck cottage's outdoor shower Monday, I was impressed because it had a small dressing/undressing area separate from but enclosed in the shower area. At least I was impressed until I looked up as I was undressing and realized that two upper windows in the house next door had birds' eye views of me or anyone else in the dressing area.
Fast forward to the next day as we're walking to the pier and critiquing cottage architecture, quality of (or absence of) screen porches and the like. I spotted a small, old school cottage in the shadow of a much larger house, but what caught my eye was that the small house's outdoor shower was so low and so open that there were at least 5 vantage points from upper windows next door where a peeping tom could get an eyeful.
That's when it hit me: maybe there's some creepy website somewhere where people who want exactly that situation can rent those two houses and indulge their, um, peccadilloes, with willing strangers.
Voyeurs rent the big house, exhibitionists rent the small one and everybody gets a little extra fun out of their beach trip this year. Twisted, but kind of brilliant, right?
As our first full day on the beach, yesterday was a day to indulge ourselves after Jose's damp start to the week, which means that by the time happy hour rolled around, we did it up right with an oceanside cocktail party.
That meant Schramsburg "Mirabelle" Brut (because a day at the beach requires good bubbles) and Pierre Prieur et Fils Sancerre Rose (and not just because it reminded me of being in the Loire last summer, although that certainly didn't hurt), plus the always-charming Aime Roquesante Rose (which, given the fish-shaped bottle, should only be sipped beside a large body of water) and as we headed in to shower prior to going out to eat, glasses of J. Mourat "Collection" Rose (also known as Old Faithful).
Our afternoon stroll included me taking a side trip to the Outer Banks Fishing Pier to suss out its worthiness for an evening meal. I met the owner at the bait shop cash register and he told me to go out on the pier, check out the restaurant and see for myself why I'd want to come back.
Let's see, tables located over crashing surf? Check. Covered for shade but open to the salty breezes? Check. Live music tonight? Yup. Owner swearing they that stay open till at least 1 a.m.? Oh, yes.
With that kind of report, it wasn't too difficult to convince the rest of the cottage's occupants that we were eating al fresco after happy hour. We scarfed fish tacos, shrimp tacos, a massive cheeseburger and a dog, while listening to the waves crash and a cover band serenading us with '70s and '80s rock hits.
Best recap of last night's meal came at breakfast this morning, when the Manteo-born queen of the beach announced incredulously, "I ate a chili dog on the pier last night!"
As it turned out, she hadn't done such a thing in at least four decades. Ditto for how long since she'd last seen waves the likes of what Jose was kicking up.
I always say, it's never too late for an experience update.
Today was every bit as beautiful as yesterday but with the ideal breezes for flying kites.
We must have passed over a dozen of them walking along the shore, including one guy who had two strings attached to his kite so he could do all kinds of flips and tricks by maneuvering the strings with both hands. Several people had gotten their kites to just the right height that they could simply tie the string to a beach chair where it flew unaided.
Best line from my hostess: "Thanks for loaning me yours," a reference to my date, who'd been good enough to play the role of helpmate - setting up beach umbrellas, digging out sandy walkways, playing chauffeur - to her until hers arrives tomorrow.
Always happy to share.
She did also threaten him with revoking his musician's card ("I"ll revoke your hippie card, too," she warned him) when he didn't know certain musical trivia about the Grateful Dead, but that was the wine talking.
Driving 19 miles up the beach road to leave with all the car windows wide open, we were greeted time and time again by the scent of grass being cut in yard after yard. It's not what you expect to smell at the beach, but there it was.
I'm usually a Kitty Hawk kind of a girl, always preferring more northerly beaches, but damn if I didn't have a fantastic time in south Nags Head this week. I liked that there were some older houses mixed in with the wanna-be-McMansions, I liked being with walking distance of two very different piers and I loved going to older places new to me to eat and drink.
Mainly I loved the slower pace and smaller crowds of off-season. I'm now wondering why I haven't spent more time down here when it wasn't summer. The ocean sounds and smells just as fabulous in fall as it did in summer.
"I can't remember the last time I drove for three hours with the windows down," my date commented as we approached Richmond, clearly as happy with the situation as he was surprised. All I'd done was roll my window down as we'd pulled away from Moonstruck and he'd followed suit.
Hmm, sometimes I think my job is just to suggest wonderful things and see who wants to do them with me.
What that t-shirt I didn't get should have said was, "I lived through Jose and all I got was four absolutely stellar days of storms, sun, fun and laughter."
October, anyone?
Which means when I got back tonight and saw a photo online captioned that it was Jeanette's Pier on Monday as Jose was bearing down, I could scoff. I was on that stretch of beach Monday and while the waves were fairly furious and creating all kinds of wild sea spray, it was nothing as dramatic as in that picture.
By the time I got home, the internet powers-that-be had already decreed the picture to be photo-shopped, but all they really had to do was consult with any of us in the Moonstruck cottage posse. Had they, we would've commenced imemdiate scoffing.
And while Monday and Tuesday were as gray, soggy and cloudy as you'd expect from a hurricane, yesterday and today were perfectly glorious: sunny, breezy and perfect except that Jose's grip on the ocean - unlike the skies - continued.
The red "No swimming" warning flags have been a fixture for four days now. My bathing suits never got wet above the waist. The heartbreak of that was how ridiculously warm the ocean water was, not that we could do more than walk along the edge of the breakers and hope for unexpected crashing waves to come to us.
On today's walk coming back from Jeanette's Pier, we watched as a lifeguard in an ocean rescue vehicle began blaring his horn to alert a man and child that they'd ventured too far into the surf. The guy looked angry at being called out and the child looked grateful to be saved from this idiot.
We also walked through a surfing competition, complete with a grandstand of judges and scores of people manning cameras with telephoto lenses. We were so caught up in our conversation that we didn't immediately realize that everyone but us was staring out at the ocean watching skilled surfers take advantage of Jose's leftovers.
But then, part of that conversation centered around peeping toms.
Let me explain: when I first went to use Moonstruck cottage's outdoor shower Monday, I was impressed because it had a small dressing/undressing area separate from but enclosed in the shower area. At least I was impressed until I looked up as I was undressing and realized that two upper windows in the house next door had birds' eye views of me or anyone else in the dressing area.
Fast forward to the next day as we're walking to the pier and critiquing cottage architecture, quality of (or absence of) screen porches and the like. I spotted a small, old school cottage in the shadow of a much larger house, but what caught my eye was that the small house's outdoor shower was so low and so open that there were at least 5 vantage points from upper windows next door where a peeping tom could get an eyeful.
That's when it hit me: maybe there's some creepy website somewhere where people who want exactly that situation can rent those two houses and indulge their, um, peccadilloes, with willing strangers.
Voyeurs rent the big house, exhibitionists rent the small one and everybody gets a little extra fun out of their beach trip this year. Twisted, but kind of brilliant, right?
As our first full day on the beach, yesterday was a day to indulge ourselves after Jose's damp start to the week, which means that by the time happy hour rolled around, we did it up right with an oceanside cocktail party.
That meant Schramsburg "Mirabelle" Brut (because a day at the beach requires good bubbles) and Pierre Prieur et Fils Sancerre Rose (and not just because it reminded me of being in the Loire last summer, although that certainly didn't hurt), plus the always-charming Aime Roquesante Rose (which, given the fish-shaped bottle, should only be sipped beside a large body of water) and as we headed in to shower prior to going out to eat, glasses of J. Mourat "Collection" Rose (also known as Old Faithful).
Our afternoon stroll included me taking a side trip to the Outer Banks Fishing Pier to suss out its worthiness for an evening meal. I met the owner at the bait shop cash register and he told me to go out on the pier, check out the restaurant and see for myself why I'd want to come back.
Let's see, tables located over crashing surf? Check. Covered for shade but open to the salty breezes? Check. Live music tonight? Yup. Owner swearing they that stay open till at least 1 a.m.? Oh, yes.
With that kind of report, it wasn't too difficult to convince the rest of the cottage's occupants that we were eating al fresco after happy hour. We scarfed fish tacos, shrimp tacos, a massive cheeseburger and a dog, while listening to the waves crash and a cover band serenading us with '70s and '80s rock hits.
Best recap of last night's meal came at breakfast this morning, when the Manteo-born queen of the beach announced incredulously, "I ate a chili dog on the pier last night!"
As it turned out, she hadn't done such a thing in at least four decades. Ditto for how long since she'd last seen waves the likes of what Jose was kicking up.
I always say, it's never too late for an experience update.
Today was every bit as beautiful as yesterday but with the ideal breezes for flying kites.
We must have passed over a dozen of them walking along the shore, including one guy who had two strings attached to his kite so he could do all kinds of flips and tricks by maneuvering the strings with both hands. Several people had gotten their kites to just the right height that they could simply tie the string to a beach chair where it flew unaided.
Best line from my hostess: "Thanks for loaning me yours," a reference to my date, who'd been good enough to play the role of helpmate - setting up beach umbrellas, digging out sandy walkways, playing chauffeur - to her until hers arrives tomorrow.
Always happy to share.
She did also threaten him with revoking his musician's card ("I"ll revoke your hippie card, too," she warned him) when he didn't know certain musical trivia about the Grateful Dead, but that was the wine talking.
Driving 19 miles up the beach road to leave with all the car windows wide open, we were greeted time and time again by the scent of grass being cut in yard after yard. It's not what you expect to smell at the beach, but there it was.
I'm usually a Kitty Hawk kind of a girl, always preferring more northerly beaches, but damn if I didn't have a fantastic time in south Nags Head this week. I liked that there were some older houses mixed in with the wanna-be-McMansions, I liked being with walking distance of two very different piers and I loved going to older places new to me to eat and drink.
Mainly I loved the slower pace and smaller crowds of off-season. I'm now wondering why I haven't spent more time down here when it wasn't summer. The ocean sounds and smells just as fabulous in fall as it did in summer.
"I can't remember the last time I drove for three hours with the windows down," my date commented as we approached Richmond, clearly as happy with the situation as he was surprised. All I'd done was roll my window down as we'd pulled away from Moonstruck and he'd followed suit.
Hmm, sometimes I think my job is just to suggest wonderful things and see who wants to do them with me.
What that t-shirt I didn't get should have said was, "I lived through Jose and all I got was four absolutely stellar days of storms, sun, fun and laughter."
October, anyone?
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Skin Tight
A smart woman makes the most of what is likely her last beach day of the year.
It didn't hurt that the weather was picture postcard perfect and the ocean bathwater warm. The younger woman contingent who had provided so much entertainment value and opportunity for mentorship the past three days gradually drifted back to their rightful homes, leaving Pru and I to go at it a deux.
The last day means doing all the vacation things you can.
You read. With Ralph Abernathy's autobiography finished yesterday on the beach, I moved on to Hilary Mantels' Man Booker Prize-winning "Bring Up the Bodies," an historical fiction about Henry VIII and Jane Seymour and an unlikely thing for me to read (it was a gift and came highly recommended).
You nap on the beach. We'd been in bed by 2-ish the past couple nights (which could be considered reasonable compared to the up and comers who stayed up till 5 a.m. every night) sleeping in till 10, but there is nothing quite like sleeping on a beach towel mere feet from where the surf is rolling in.
It's also a great way to tan some last bits before the pallor of winter sets in.
You happy hour on the beach. The couple who are staying in the house next door do the same but they do it in plastic chairs up by the gazebo while we begin ours much nearer the water. A flash of brilliance results in us moving the party into the ocean with our acrylic wineglasses. Which leads to...
You spend as much time as possible in the ocean. Pru isn't much one for water. Despite having been here a week, she's yet to enter the pool or hot tub. Fine, fine, neither of those interest me, either. But the ocean? The source of all sensory pleasures at the beach? Yes, my dear, we go in that.
And somehow, I managed to convince her that once in the water, there was no good reason to come out except for occasional forays to refill wine glasses. Wine is drunk mixed with salt water and occasional sand and no one cares.
Before long, we'd been smacked with waves from every side. The water was warm and the tide receding, so we kept inching farther out. We talk about visiting Bermuda and summer salons with rotating guests.
We compare mountain and ocean vacations and Pru makes the pithiest analogy. "Would you rather taste like a salty oyster or the flippin' Appalachian Trail?" The imagery is vivid.
Our fingers go prune-y. Pru's sunglasses get knocked off by a wave, never to be seen again.
Better at the end of vacation rather than the beginning.
You take all the vacation photos you've been meaning to all week. If you're Pru, you take pictures of your friend sleeping and sitting on the beach with wine. If you're me, you take them of your friend in the ocean because no one who knows her will believe it if you tell them.
But because you're a good friend, you do not take a picture when, heading out for fresh wine, she falls on her ass, ending up covered in sand. The memory of her cracking up and gritty will have to suffice.
You enjoy one last evening on the deck facing the ocean. "I think we need some Ohio Players," Pru says, as if it's obvious, making it happen on her little boombox. "Love Rollercoaster" competes with the sound of the surf as we dance around the deck.
By the time we get to "Fire" - and that's "fi-yuh," no "r" involved in pronunciation, it's probably better that we're the only ones around. No telling what questions the younger generation might have had if they'd witnessed this dance party.
You go to sleep with the balcony door open, the sound and smell of the ocean along with your partner in beach crime the best possible sleeping companions on your final beach night of 2015.
Pru and I, we'd really rather taste like salty oysters.
It didn't hurt that the weather was picture postcard perfect and the ocean bathwater warm. The younger woman contingent who had provided so much entertainment value and opportunity for mentorship the past three days gradually drifted back to their rightful homes, leaving Pru and I to go at it a deux.
The last day means doing all the vacation things you can.
You read. With Ralph Abernathy's autobiography finished yesterday on the beach, I moved on to Hilary Mantels' Man Booker Prize-winning "Bring Up the Bodies," an historical fiction about Henry VIII and Jane Seymour and an unlikely thing for me to read (it was a gift and came highly recommended).
You nap on the beach. We'd been in bed by 2-ish the past couple nights (which could be considered reasonable compared to the up and comers who stayed up till 5 a.m. every night) sleeping in till 10, but there is nothing quite like sleeping on a beach towel mere feet from where the surf is rolling in.
It's also a great way to tan some last bits before the pallor of winter sets in.
You happy hour on the beach. The couple who are staying in the house next door do the same but they do it in plastic chairs up by the gazebo while we begin ours much nearer the water. A flash of brilliance results in us moving the party into the ocean with our acrylic wineglasses. Which leads to...
You spend as much time as possible in the ocean. Pru isn't much one for water. Despite having been here a week, she's yet to enter the pool or hot tub. Fine, fine, neither of those interest me, either. But the ocean? The source of all sensory pleasures at the beach? Yes, my dear, we go in that.
And somehow, I managed to convince her that once in the water, there was no good reason to come out except for occasional forays to refill wine glasses. Wine is drunk mixed with salt water and occasional sand and no one cares.
Before long, we'd been smacked with waves from every side. The water was warm and the tide receding, so we kept inching farther out. We talk about visiting Bermuda and summer salons with rotating guests.
We compare mountain and ocean vacations and Pru makes the pithiest analogy. "Would you rather taste like a salty oyster or the flippin' Appalachian Trail?" The imagery is vivid.
Our fingers go prune-y. Pru's sunglasses get knocked off by a wave, never to be seen again.
Better at the end of vacation rather than the beginning.
You take all the vacation photos you've been meaning to all week. If you're Pru, you take pictures of your friend sleeping and sitting on the beach with wine. If you're me, you take them of your friend in the ocean because no one who knows her will believe it if you tell them.
But because you're a good friend, you do not take a picture when, heading out for fresh wine, she falls on her ass, ending up covered in sand. The memory of her cracking up and gritty will have to suffice.
You enjoy one last evening on the deck facing the ocean. "I think we need some Ohio Players," Pru says, as if it's obvious, making it happen on her little boombox. "Love Rollercoaster" competes with the sound of the surf as we dance around the deck.
By the time we get to "Fire" - and that's "fi-yuh," no "r" involved in pronunciation, it's probably better that we're the only ones around. No telling what questions the younger generation might have had if they'd witnessed this dance party.
You go to sleep with the balcony door open, the sound and smell of the ocean along with your partner in beach crime the best possible sleeping companions on your final beach night of 2015.
Pru and I, we'd really rather taste like salty oysters.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Have a Vacation
First rule of summer: never ever turn down an invitation to the beach.
This particular opportunity to spend a night in South Nags Head came courtesy of my #2 and #4 sisters who are down there for a couple of weeks. "It'll be like a mini sister trip," #4 said, referring to our annual gathering of all six of us.
To round out the group, #2 had her 34-year old son there and #4 had her 17-year old daughter. The two of them represent the oldest and youngest of the nieces and nephews in the family.
But talk about an odd quintet! At no point in our lives had this group of five ever spent time together.
The nephew and I bonded over old school beach pleasures. We were the ones who insisted that all the cottage windows be opened (gratified when later Sister #5 walked through the house inhaling the salty air from outside saying, "It smells like a beach house!"), that we spend time socializing on the deck together, that outdoor showers are the way to go (although this one had no wooden floor, just two differently-sized boards to stand on, making showering a bit of a balancing act).
My first order of business was getting in the ocean and the 17-year old joined me. There, we bonded over her recent decision to graduate high school a year early, something I had also done.
We did not bond over her shock at the explicit language on the first few pages of "The Color Purple," one of her summer reading book requirements, and one I have no problem with.
The ocean was rough when I arrived Monday around noon, the rip currents so strong that the ocean patrol had pulled three people out of the water just that morning, all people who'd gotten out too far and couldn't get back in.
One guy was a 17-year old from Nebraska and goodness knows, it may have been his first time at the ocean, but I'll never understand what makes people think they can do whatever they want in something as massive and strong as the ocean.
Of course I went in the water, just not too far out.
Most of the afternoon was spent with my two sisters catching up and talking a blue streak and occasionally one of the other two interjecting.
During a discussion of men, the nephew piped up, saying, "We don't mature," and then went back to his music, never having so much as looked up.
Sister #2 is a hypochondriac, and because we don't see each other that often, I'd forgotten how every little ache or pain is suddenly a Big Deal with her.
She's a smoker and she likes to eat salty food, so when her tongue began bleeding mid-afternoon, she was convinced it was fatal.
When no one would get as worked up as she was about it, she shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess I'll just Google "bloody tongue" and then make dinner."
Google reassured her that the top two causes for bleeding tongue were cigarette smoking and salty foods, but she still saw tongue cancer in her future.
We got a mess of seafood for dinner from a local fish shop and sat down to shrimp and clams with hot cornbread and the bounty of a beach vegetable stand: corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes and sauteed squash and zucchini.
Best line from dinner: "You don't bring up uteruses at the table, Karen. You just don't."
Now I know.
The catch phrase quickly became, "Have a vacation, Mom!" as the niece and nephew kept reminding their mothers that they didn't need looking after at their ages.
I was having no problem having a mini-vacation, even deciding to stay an extra day and night when it was offered.
Because I usually stay about sixteen miles north of South Nags Head, the area was new to me. We were next to the Outer Banks Pier, which I hadn't even known existed, and the beach was extremely wide there with giant tidal pools and a huge sand bar.
The variable weather made for a day of clouds Tuesday, not a problem for me and the nephew, but the others mourned the absent sun.
Frankly, as long as it's not raining hard or thunder storming, I've got no problem being on the beach on a cloudy day. Every time a sprinkle came up, we just moved under the umbrellas and waited it out.
The ocean was 75 degrees either way, so what do I care if it's not a postcard-worthy sky?
During happy hour, the nephew interrupted out girl talk by saying, "I need a dude!" referring to the absence of his people. Have we been that bad, Sister #4 asked. "It has been pretty catty," he said with typical male understatement.
Wednesday dawned hot and sunny, making everyone happy except me because I had only a few hours before hitting the road.
Make no mistake, we had a big breakfast, then I took a walk with Sister #2 (and eventually #4 joined us) before we all took our chairs out on the sandbar for some morning chatter in the ocean.
While the nephew was lamenting how calm the ocean was, it was ideal for our purposes, a fitting ending to my mini-sistertrip.
Sweaty, sandy and sticky, I threw my beach supplies in the car and headed north, letting the beach radio station provide the final soundtrack to my getaway.
Driving up 158, it was Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."
Help me make the most
of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Apropos. Further up, the Beatles' "A Day in the Life" came on just as I passed signs warning me, "Inmates Working."
Let's just say I like a day in my life better than a day in theirs.
Then it was Johnnyswim, the husband/wife duo (she's Donna Summers' daughter) I saw a few months back doing "Don't Keep Heaven Busy."
Skies changing, tides raising, ain't good enough
World spinning, all heaven is watching us
Don't keep heaven busy without me
When time comes, I move on, don't turn and weep
I'll catch up soon enough, wait and see
It was a terrific going home soundtrack.
For the first time on 168, I saw a sign saying, "Welcome to the Hampton Roads Wine Region." Who knew they had one?
Then there was a Tractor Supply store, with a sign announcing, "Chicken swap this Sunday!" I'll admit I had no idea people swapped chickens. I was learning a lot on my drive today.
The e-mail waiting for me from Sister #4 when I got home made me smile. "Kare, you were such a fun houseguest!"
I can't think of a better vacation compliment.
This particular opportunity to spend a night in South Nags Head came courtesy of my #2 and #4 sisters who are down there for a couple of weeks. "It'll be like a mini sister trip," #4 said, referring to our annual gathering of all six of us.
To round out the group, #2 had her 34-year old son there and #4 had her 17-year old daughter. The two of them represent the oldest and youngest of the nieces and nephews in the family.
But talk about an odd quintet! At no point in our lives had this group of five ever spent time together.
The nephew and I bonded over old school beach pleasures. We were the ones who insisted that all the cottage windows be opened (gratified when later Sister #5 walked through the house inhaling the salty air from outside saying, "It smells like a beach house!"), that we spend time socializing on the deck together, that outdoor showers are the way to go (although this one had no wooden floor, just two differently-sized boards to stand on, making showering a bit of a balancing act).
My first order of business was getting in the ocean and the 17-year old joined me. There, we bonded over her recent decision to graduate high school a year early, something I had also done.
We did not bond over her shock at the explicit language on the first few pages of "The Color Purple," one of her summer reading book requirements, and one I have no problem with.
The ocean was rough when I arrived Monday around noon, the rip currents so strong that the ocean patrol had pulled three people out of the water just that morning, all people who'd gotten out too far and couldn't get back in.
One guy was a 17-year old from Nebraska and goodness knows, it may have been his first time at the ocean, but I'll never understand what makes people think they can do whatever they want in something as massive and strong as the ocean.
Of course I went in the water, just not too far out.
Most of the afternoon was spent with my two sisters catching up and talking a blue streak and occasionally one of the other two interjecting.
During a discussion of men, the nephew piped up, saying, "We don't mature," and then went back to his music, never having so much as looked up.
Sister #2 is a hypochondriac, and because we don't see each other that often, I'd forgotten how every little ache or pain is suddenly a Big Deal with her.
She's a smoker and she likes to eat salty food, so when her tongue began bleeding mid-afternoon, she was convinced it was fatal.
When no one would get as worked up as she was about it, she shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess I'll just Google "bloody tongue" and then make dinner."
Google reassured her that the top two causes for bleeding tongue were cigarette smoking and salty foods, but she still saw tongue cancer in her future.
We got a mess of seafood for dinner from a local fish shop and sat down to shrimp and clams with hot cornbread and the bounty of a beach vegetable stand: corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes and sauteed squash and zucchini.
Best line from dinner: "You don't bring up uteruses at the table, Karen. You just don't."
Now I know.
The catch phrase quickly became, "Have a vacation, Mom!" as the niece and nephew kept reminding their mothers that they didn't need looking after at their ages.
I was having no problem having a mini-vacation, even deciding to stay an extra day and night when it was offered.
Because I usually stay about sixteen miles north of South Nags Head, the area was new to me. We were next to the Outer Banks Pier, which I hadn't even known existed, and the beach was extremely wide there with giant tidal pools and a huge sand bar.
The variable weather made for a day of clouds Tuesday, not a problem for me and the nephew, but the others mourned the absent sun.
Frankly, as long as it's not raining hard or thunder storming, I've got no problem being on the beach on a cloudy day. Every time a sprinkle came up, we just moved under the umbrellas and waited it out.
The ocean was 75 degrees either way, so what do I care if it's not a postcard-worthy sky?
During happy hour, the nephew interrupted out girl talk by saying, "I need a dude!" referring to the absence of his people. Have we been that bad, Sister #4 asked. "It has been pretty catty," he said with typical male understatement.
Wednesday dawned hot and sunny, making everyone happy except me because I had only a few hours before hitting the road.
Make no mistake, we had a big breakfast, then I took a walk with Sister #2 (and eventually #4 joined us) before we all took our chairs out on the sandbar for some morning chatter in the ocean.
While the nephew was lamenting how calm the ocean was, it was ideal for our purposes, a fitting ending to my mini-sistertrip.
Sweaty, sandy and sticky, I threw my beach supplies in the car and headed north, letting the beach radio station provide the final soundtrack to my getaway.
Driving up 158, it was Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."
Help me make the most
of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Apropos. Further up, the Beatles' "A Day in the Life" came on just as I passed signs warning me, "Inmates Working."
Let's just say I like a day in my life better than a day in theirs.
Then it was Johnnyswim, the husband/wife duo (she's Donna Summers' daughter) I saw a few months back doing "Don't Keep Heaven Busy."
Skies changing, tides raising, ain't good enough
World spinning, all heaven is watching us
Don't keep heaven busy without me
When time comes, I move on, don't turn and weep
I'll catch up soon enough, wait and see
It was a terrific going home soundtrack.
For the first time on 168, I saw a sign saying, "Welcome to the Hampton Roads Wine Region." Who knew they had one?
Then there was a Tractor Supply store, with a sign announcing, "Chicken swap this Sunday!" I'll admit I had no idea people swapped chickens. I was learning a lot on my drive today.
The e-mail waiting for me from Sister #4 when I got home made me smile. "Kare, you were such a fun houseguest!"
I can't think of a better vacation compliment.
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