After recently being told I'm an evangelical for the beach, I'm wearing the title as a badge of honor.
What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly my proselytizing would land me right back there, albeit it in a much different configuration, a more southerly location and under a thunder moon.
Windows were rolled down for the drive down which was broken up with a leisurely lunch on the waterfront at the Coinjock Marina. "You'd have to know about this place," my companion observed about the unlikely location. I did.
This time the beach setting was Surf Shack #6 in Nags Head at a cottage peopled by three other couples, an obscene amount of beer and wine and crowned by a crow's nest with impressive views to the horizon and the sound.
Where we were especially clever was in arriving mid-day Sunday when the other couples had checked in Saturday and done all the heavy lifting setting up the house and porches.
Since that job always falls to me on my own beach week, it was a treat to just show up, throw on a bathing suit and be, not just on the beach, but in the ocean less than 15 minutes after arrival.
That and being back at the beach only two weeks after I left it are the kind of summer indulgences an evangelist could get used to.
And while I'd optimistically brought two books, four couples mean it's an ongoing party and not the reading kind.
Headquarters would be established on the beach every morning like magic while we walked (either beyond Jennette's Pier or past the Outer Banks Pier), so we'd come back to find the rest of the group arranged under and around a canopy while all we had to do was add our chairs and beach bags and - voila! - another day at the beach was underway.
One morning, we got back from our walk - the last half an hour listening to rumbling thunder - just as a major storm was rolling in, so we high-tailed it up to the crow's nest for a lightening and thunder show of epic proportions.
One of the guys said there'd been a tornado warning while we were gone and given the odd swirling of some murderous looking clouds, we weren't surprised when torrential downpours followed. We made the best of it with books, naps and a picnic in bed with a view out the open window of the driving rain and the ocean beyond it.
One afternoon, we spotted a plane pulling a message that read, "Amanda May Pabst, will you marry me?" and bantered about whether it was a real proposal or just a brilliant idea put forth by the plane company to entice business.
The romantic in me prefers to believe it was the first.
One evening we decided to lose the crowd and went to dinner alone at Ocean Boulevard for a gorgeously dry and zippy Rose of Sangiovese by Barnard Griffin which we sipped with a summer gazpacho piled with lump crabmeat, creme fraiche and parsley oil.
And that was before diving headfirst into a special of beer-battered monkfish over a jambalaya of summer corn, red peppers and crowder peas that was to die for and polishing off grilled shrimp over cheddar grits and black pepper coleslaw, too.
Afterward, we walked across the Beach Road and took seats in the sand to watch the waning Thunder Moon rise over the ocean, but only after making its way through bands of black clouds as elaborate as burnt velvet, behind which heat lightening put on a show.
As a bonus, fireworks were being set off in the direction of the Avalon Pier, so everywhere we looked, there was a spectacle to behold.
The two of us took lunch one day outside at the Nags Head Fishing Pier's new tiki bar, where we watched surfers, ate local grilled tuna and pondered the angry-looking guy nearby with the small American flag stuck in the sand in front of his beach chair.
Because some of the house's occupants were talented, there was guitar playing on the beach. Because the winds were ideal for it, there was kite flying so high it seemed likely we'd never get it back down. Because there was a screened porch, we had breakfast there. Because there was a crow's nest even higher, we had happy hours and sunset-viewing there.
And because the ocean was a wonderfully warm 75 degrees (and clear as the Caribbean), we stayed in until our fingers and toes looked like prunes. Repeatedly.
Unlike the other couples, we were the renegades who slept in with windows open, a fan on and used the outdoor shower at the least provocation.
Because kicking it old school is just part of what I preach. Let's raise a glass of Rose and praise beach life.
Can I get an amen?
Showing posts with label nags head pier. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nags head pier. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Monday, July 7, 2014
Bring It, Art!!
When you're talking about a week at the beach, do you focus on what you did or didn't do?
Sunday: Arrived at the same little oceanfront cottage I've been renting for 20 years to find the ocean an incredibly warm 77 degrees, a drastic improvement over last year when the water was so cold we couldn't go in all week. I wasn't in the water half an hour before the surf knocked me over, earning me incredulous looks from my crew when I emerged.
"Is that blood on your leg?" Given the missing skin over my kneecap, I just assume it's a rhetorical question and let it bleed. Sure, my legs are the moneymaker, but ocean cred has been established early on. As the fireman has been known to say, YOLO (you only live once). We are resolved to drink a Rose a day all week long.
First beach read of the week: Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone.
Monday: Our morning walk on the beach reveals that Southern Shores, the beach just north of us, has lost considerable width over the past year. Morning tides are high, so shell collecting is abundant. After a day of nothing more than sitting on the beach reading, forays into the now 78-degree ocean and napping, we clean up and head south to Outer Banks Brewing Station where locally caught steamed shrimp and fat hushpuppies are just the ticket to soak up our extended Monday happy hour on the porch.
Tuesday: While I've yet to check my e-mail since we arrived, the male members of the household are keenly attuned to the outside world and today's World Cup match between U.S. and Belgium. They're not going to watch it anywhere that serves mussels, so I decline to join and spend a happy afternoon with the womenfolk, reading 1913: The Year Before the Storm, full of anecdotes about Stravinsky, Freud, Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann.
We stay in the ocean so long that our fingers resemble prunes when we make it back to the house to shower off the briny water. Already, my skinned knee is healing thanks to the salt. Once the balance of the sexes has been restored (after the U.S. team's heartbreaking loss), two of us take to the beach and walk up to Art's Place ("Locals welcomed, tourists tolerated...sometimes") for burgers and more N.C. shrimp.
When I ask about the sign outside touting "Live music tonight 7 p.m." our server, Courtney, looks abashed and says, "Oops, I was supposed to change that. Live music was last night." We're happy enough to spend the rest of the evening sitting on the porch swing listening to the black ocean, the whitecaps the only visible indications of the sound's source.
Wednesday: In addition to the four decades of music (heavy on the '90s) that the local radio station plays (the playlist varies so little from year to year that we could practically write it out ourselves...and therein lies part of the charm), today's patter is full of talk of Arthur, the tropical storm gathering force and heading directly for us.
Interestingly, in a quarter century of vacationing during this week, we have never had a hurricane. As one of the pithy members of the household noted, "hashtag Al Gore." Indeed. The DJ says the ocean needs to be 82 degrees for a storm to form and since we have been in the upper '70s for days, we plan accordingly.
That means it's date night and we start with a drive down Collington Road, where we end up at a little locals bar called the Blue Crab ("the crab" to those in the know) where we take our libations out to the soundside deck when a man looks at me and calls out, "I was waiting for you! I knew you'd come."
Once again, it has been proven that I carry the gene that causes strangers to talk to me. My date chooses the furthest table, albeit with only one in between us and my new admirer, and we observe bird life on the sound while a foosball game goes on nearby.
Our dinner destination, the Brine and the Bottle, is on the causeway and new to us both, although we're into its slogan - get pickled! We sit on the deck, the pre-Arthur wind whipping my hair around non-stop but also bringing a sense of weather excitement to the evening. Mortified when I drop my knife and it neatly slides between the wide-set boards of the decking, our server assures me it happens all the time. "Periodically we just send someone underwater to retrieve all the dropped stuff." Don't sweat the small stuff, I get it.
To start, quail and pickled anaheim chili waffles and fried green tomatoes with S.C. peaches, candied bacon and buttermilk chive dressing before I move on to a soft shell crab with pickled ramp tartar sauce while my date has olive oil-poached mahi mahi. After moving to the other side of the deck, we finish with two desserts - one chocolate, one blueberry and peach - and bubbly to toast vacation.
Not that the evening needed to get any better, but we make a final stop at Kelly's to hear the Deloreans, an '80s cover band that eschews the hair bands of Sweet Justice for pop. Cyndi Lauper, the Go-Gos, Prince (oh, yes, we partied like it was 1999), performed by a female lead singer who played a bass with day-glo strings, a snarling guy mimicking Billy Idol and another who looked like David Byrne. It was a blast.
Thursday: Arthur becomes official and Hatteras Island was being evacuated, but not us, so people began preparing for the storm, battening down hurricane shutters on the few houses that still have them. Food Lion puts up corrugated metal sheeting over their windows. Awful Arthur's changed their sign to read, "We had the name first!" and homeowners boarded up windows with plywood spray painted, "Go away, Arthur" and, three houses down from us, the cocky, "Bring it, Art!"
You can call Kitty Hawk the "ghetto of the Outer Banks," but I like its attitude.
With the ocean suddenly a chilly 59 degrees, swimming was out, but not eating. Lunch of fried rockfish strips, fried okra and cole slaw plus chocolate milkshakes at John's drive-in was interrupted only when a John's employee came to take away our table umbrella, sure that Arthur was imminent. We didn't have the heart to tell him it was 12 hours away.
A cop stopped by the house to suggest we move our cars to higher ground (which we did) but didn't warn us to leave, in fact reassured us they'd be around all night if we needed anything. Fog rolled in so heavy toward early evening that the Kitty Hawk pier, barely a third of a mile away, was invisible in the mist. Visibility on the ocean kept diminishing. Many of the vacationers in nearby houses packed up and left.
We did the only sensible thing: had a long happy hour on the porch and then ate crabs, corn and cole slaw on the picnic table. Everyone wanted to get in bed early so we could get up once the storm arrived and watch.
Today's beach read: When French Women Cook
By 2:30 a.m., Arthur was overhead and the wind was a pretty continuous high-pitched whine while the surf pounded just outside. We all got up to watch and discuss before going back to bed and re-emerging at 5:30 once the wind had shifted from off the ocean to off the sound. It was then that Arthur began ripping off siding and insulation from the house across the street and eventually ours, leaving pieces to beat against the house until the wind died finally down. My first hurricane at close range: a rousing success and great entertainment.
Friday: The "no swimming" flags were up when we awoke and the surf was rough enough (and only 65 degrees) to ensure no one would flaunt the flags except surfers, so we called the Nags Head pier to see if they were serving and then drove south to survey the damage and eat.
Like our house, many had taken more than a few blows on the north and eastern sides and there was a lot of sand on the road in places, but all in all, the beach looked pretty good. We ate our pancakes, eggs and sausage gravy watching throngs of vacationers milling about on the beach, like sightseers at a train crash.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon for reading and talking to strangers. Our house's scarred look meant that we were part of the beach gawker tour that afternoon and more than a few people stopped to take photos or ask about the damage. One woman asked to come all the way up on the porch, concerned because her mother spends two weeks in that cottage every May, "So it feels like home to us." Tell me about it, toots.
With all the fireworks rescheduled, dinner was served at Ocean Boulevard where we had the same bartender we've had for ten years. After the OBX skillet with pork shoulder, goat cheese, and tomato chutney, I went for a bistro salad and pan-seared scallops while next to me, a one-pound veal chop was my date's choice and my, but it was tasty. We were leaving just as fans of the Hound Dogs family band were arriving, but after so much hurricane-watching last night, we needed a rest.
Beach read: VCU professor Tom De Haven's Dugan Under Ground.
Saturday: Glorious weather for our last full day. No swimming flags still up, but water warming up nicely. I took my morning walk in both directions to see what there was to see. Between those who evacuated and those whose cottage terms ended on Saturday, it was not particularly crowded anywhere. Not ashamed to say I did some serious beach napping all afternoon and burnt my buns.
And then the day trippers began arriving. Fortunately, without ocean access, many left before long and we had our beach back. Finally, at 5:00, the no swimming flags came down and most of us hit the water, now a lovely 72 degrees, immediately. I only had one knockdown, luckily not on the healing knee, although my sunburnned back end didn't deserve it, either.
Best of all, we had happy hour standing knee-deep at the ocean's edge, a first but most certainly not a last. If you can balance your Rose while all around you post-hurricane waves are crashing on you, then you are truly beach-worthy.
Dinner was in-house and pitch perfect: bacon cheeseburgers, succotash made from butterbeans, corn and onions procured at the Grandy Market farm stand on the way to the beach, and salad of mesclun with Grandy peaches and radishes bathed in a goat cheese dressing. Yum.
Full as ticks, we dragged blankets (and bubbly) to the beach for the fireworks, all of which were south of us this year. Usually it's like a tennis match, heads swiveling to see both north and south, but this year we could focus all our attention to the Avalon pier.
As a bonus, there was a fire-twirler performing on the beach next to us and we watched him in between explosions. Happy birthday, America.
Sunday: To keep it fresh, we did the morning walk down in Nags Head where plenty of people were surfing but we were happy just strolling. Cowabunga. Then after a stop to get a N.C. map, it was on to Manteo for a walk around the waterfront admiring schooners, pirate ships and tycoon-type yachts until Avenue Waterfront Grille opened and we commandeered a table overlooking the sound and marina to eat, drink and map out a course.
Then heading west on Roanoke Island, we glided over multiple bridges (including waiting on one swung open for a boat to clear), through lots of swamps, past signs warning of bears and red foxes, when we unexpectedly saw a sign for "Vineyards on the Scuppernong" and pulled into a visitors' center to get the scoop.
A short boardwalk from the nature center (no bears or foxes spotted), we came upon the former firehouse and Columbia town hall turned winery. A surprise wine tasting in the afternoon? Thanks, I think I will. The grapes were all sourced from New York and many were fruit wines (the peach which was blended with Chardonnay being particularly winning, a refreshing light summer wine) but there were two dry ones and we had a glass of the Armadas made with 100% Viognier after we finished the tasting.
Wandering up Route 17, we eventually decided on Norfolk for dinner, enjoying steak frites and our final Rose of the week on the patio of the Green Onion. "Way to stretch out vacation as long as possible," my companion observed, clearly as satisfied as I was about our marathon trip back.
Why limit happy to only an hour? Why keep a week at the beach to a mere seven days? Why do birds suddenly appear?
Only checked my e-mail once all week. Didn't listen to the dire predictions about weather. Didn't always take a buddy in the ocean with me despite rip tides. Didn't blog.
Arthur? Just part of the fun. Next trip to the beach can't come soon enough. Bring it.
Sunday: Arrived at the same little oceanfront cottage I've been renting for 20 years to find the ocean an incredibly warm 77 degrees, a drastic improvement over last year when the water was so cold we couldn't go in all week. I wasn't in the water half an hour before the surf knocked me over, earning me incredulous looks from my crew when I emerged.
"Is that blood on your leg?" Given the missing skin over my kneecap, I just assume it's a rhetorical question and let it bleed. Sure, my legs are the moneymaker, but ocean cred has been established early on. As the fireman has been known to say, YOLO (you only live once). We are resolved to drink a Rose a day all week long.
First beach read of the week: Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone.
Monday: Our morning walk on the beach reveals that Southern Shores, the beach just north of us, has lost considerable width over the past year. Morning tides are high, so shell collecting is abundant. After a day of nothing more than sitting on the beach reading, forays into the now 78-degree ocean and napping, we clean up and head south to Outer Banks Brewing Station where locally caught steamed shrimp and fat hushpuppies are just the ticket to soak up our extended Monday happy hour on the porch.
Tuesday: While I've yet to check my e-mail since we arrived, the male members of the household are keenly attuned to the outside world and today's World Cup match between U.S. and Belgium. They're not going to watch it anywhere that serves mussels, so I decline to join and spend a happy afternoon with the womenfolk, reading 1913: The Year Before the Storm, full of anecdotes about Stravinsky, Freud, Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann.
We stay in the ocean so long that our fingers resemble prunes when we make it back to the house to shower off the briny water. Already, my skinned knee is healing thanks to the salt. Once the balance of the sexes has been restored (after the U.S. team's heartbreaking loss), two of us take to the beach and walk up to Art's Place ("Locals welcomed, tourists tolerated...sometimes") for burgers and more N.C. shrimp.
When I ask about the sign outside touting "Live music tonight 7 p.m." our server, Courtney, looks abashed and says, "Oops, I was supposed to change that. Live music was last night." We're happy enough to spend the rest of the evening sitting on the porch swing listening to the black ocean, the whitecaps the only visible indications of the sound's source.
Wednesday: In addition to the four decades of music (heavy on the '90s) that the local radio station plays (the playlist varies so little from year to year that we could practically write it out ourselves...and therein lies part of the charm), today's patter is full of talk of Arthur, the tropical storm gathering force and heading directly for us.
Interestingly, in a quarter century of vacationing during this week, we have never had a hurricane. As one of the pithy members of the household noted, "hashtag Al Gore." Indeed. The DJ says the ocean needs to be 82 degrees for a storm to form and since we have been in the upper '70s for days, we plan accordingly.
That means it's date night and we start with a drive down Collington Road, where we end up at a little locals bar called the Blue Crab ("the crab" to those in the know) where we take our libations out to the soundside deck when a man looks at me and calls out, "I was waiting for you! I knew you'd come."
Once again, it has been proven that I carry the gene that causes strangers to talk to me. My date chooses the furthest table, albeit with only one in between us and my new admirer, and we observe bird life on the sound while a foosball game goes on nearby.
Our dinner destination, the Brine and the Bottle, is on the causeway and new to us both, although we're into its slogan - get pickled! We sit on the deck, the pre-Arthur wind whipping my hair around non-stop but also bringing a sense of weather excitement to the evening. Mortified when I drop my knife and it neatly slides between the wide-set boards of the decking, our server assures me it happens all the time. "Periodically we just send someone underwater to retrieve all the dropped stuff." Don't sweat the small stuff, I get it.
To start, quail and pickled anaheim chili waffles and fried green tomatoes with S.C. peaches, candied bacon and buttermilk chive dressing before I move on to a soft shell crab with pickled ramp tartar sauce while my date has olive oil-poached mahi mahi. After moving to the other side of the deck, we finish with two desserts - one chocolate, one blueberry and peach - and bubbly to toast vacation.
Not that the evening needed to get any better, but we make a final stop at Kelly's to hear the Deloreans, an '80s cover band that eschews the hair bands of Sweet Justice for pop. Cyndi Lauper, the Go-Gos, Prince (oh, yes, we partied like it was 1999), performed by a female lead singer who played a bass with day-glo strings, a snarling guy mimicking Billy Idol and another who looked like David Byrne. It was a blast.
Thursday: Arthur becomes official and Hatteras Island was being evacuated, but not us, so people began preparing for the storm, battening down hurricane shutters on the few houses that still have them. Food Lion puts up corrugated metal sheeting over their windows. Awful Arthur's changed their sign to read, "We had the name first!" and homeowners boarded up windows with plywood spray painted, "Go away, Arthur" and, three houses down from us, the cocky, "Bring it, Art!"
You can call Kitty Hawk the "ghetto of the Outer Banks," but I like its attitude.
With the ocean suddenly a chilly 59 degrees, swimming was out, but not eating. Lunch of fried rockfish strips, fried okra and cole slaw plus chocolate milkshakes at John's drive-in was interrupted only when a John's employee came to take away our table umbrella, sure that Arthur was imminent. We didn't have the heart to tell him it was 12 hours away.
A cop stopped by the house to suggest we move our cars to higher ground (which we did) but didn't warn us to leave, in fact reassured us they'd be around all night if we needed anything. Fog rolled in so heavy toward early evening that the Kitty Hawk pier, barely a third of a mile away, was invisible in the mist. Visibility on the ocean kept diminishing. Many of the vacationers in nearby houses packed up and left.
We did the only sensible thing: had a long happy hour on the porch and then ate crabs, corn and cole slaw on the picnic table. Everyone wanted to get in bed early so we could get up once the storm arrived and watch.
Today's beach read: When French Women Cook
By 2:30 a.m., Arthur was overhead and the wind was a pretty continuous high-pitched whine while the surf pounded just outside. We all got up to watch and discuss before going back to bed and re-emerging at 5:30 once the wind had shifted from off the ocean to off the sound. It was then that Arthur began ripping off siding and insulation from the house across the street and eventually ours, leaving pieces to beat against the house until the wind died finally down. My first hurricane at close range: a rousing success and great entertainment.
Friday: The "no swimming" flags were up when we awoke and the surf was rough enough (and only 65 degrees) to ensure no one would flaunt the flags except surfers, so we called the Nags Head pier to see if they were serving and then drove south to survey the damage and eat.
Like our house, many had taken more than a few blows on the north and eastern sides and there was a lot of sand on the road in places, but all in all, the beach looked pretty good. We ate our pancakes, eggs and sausage gravy watching throngs of vacationers milling about on the beach, like sightseers at a train crash.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon for reading and talking to strangers. Our house's scarred look meant that we were part of the beach gawker tour that afternoon and more than a few people stopped to take photos or ask about the damage. One woman asked to come all the way up on the porch, concerned because her mother spends two weeks in that cottage every May, "So it feels like home to us." Tell me about it, toots.
With all the fireworks rescheduled, dinner was served at Ocean Boulevard where we had the same bartender we've had for ten years. After the OBX skillet with pork shoulder, goat cheese, and tomato chutney, I went for a bistro salad and pan-seared scallops while next to me, a one-pound veal chop was my date's choice and my, but it was tasty. We were leaving just as fans of the Hound Dogs family band were arriving, but after so much hurricane-watching last night, we needed a rest.
Beach read: VCU professor Tom De Haven's Dugan Under Ground.
Saturday: Glorious weather for our last full day. No swimming flags still up, but water warming up nicely. I took my morning walk in both directions to see what there was to see. Between those who evacuated and those whose cottage terms ended on Saturday, it was not particularly crowded anywhere. Not ashamed to say I did some serious beach napping all afternoon and burnt my buns.
And then the day trippers began arriving. Fortunately, without ocean access, many left before long and we had our beach back. Finally, at 5:00, the no swimming flags came down and most of us hit the water, now a lovely 72 degrees, immediately. I only had one knockdown, luckily not on the healing knee, although my sunburnned back end didn't deserve it, either.
Best of all, we had happy hour standing knee-deep at the ocean's edge, a first but most certainly not a last. If you can balance your Rose while all around you post-hurricane waves are crashing on you, then you are truly beach-worthy.
Dinner was in-house and pitch perfect: bacon cheeseburgers, succotash made from butterbeans, corn and onions procured at the Grandy Market farm stand on the way to the beach, and salad of mesclun with Grandy peaches and radishes bathed in a goat cheese dressing. Yum.
Full as ticks, we dragged blankets (and bubbly) to the beach for the fireworks, all of which were south of us this year. Usually it's like a tennis match, heads swiveling to see both north and south, but this year we could focus all our attention to the Avalon pier.
As a bonus, there was a fire-twirler performing on the beach next to us and we watched him in between explosions. Happy birthday, America.
Sunday: To keep it fresh, we did the morning walk down in Nags Head where plenty of people were surfing but we were happy just strolling. Cowabunga. Then after a stop to get a N.C. map, it was on to Manteo for a walk around the waterfront admiring schooners, pirate ships and tycoon-type yachts until Avenue Waterfront Grille opened and we commandeered a table overlooking the sound and marina to eat, drink and map out a course.
Then heading west on Roanoke Island, we glided over multiple bridges (including waiting on one swung open for a boat to clear), through lots of swamps, past signs warning of bears and red foxes, when we unexpectedly saw a sign for "Vineyards on the Scuppernong" and pulled into a visitors' center to get the scoop.
A short boardwalk from the nature center (no bears or foxes spotted), we came upon the former firehouse and Columbia town hall turned winery. A surprise wine tasting in the afternoon? Thanks, I think I will. The grapes were all sourced from New York and many were fruit wines (the peach which was blended with Chardonnay being particularly winning, a refreshing light summer wine) but there were two dry ones and we had a glass of the Armadas made with 100% Viognier after we finished the tasting.
Wandering up Route 17, we eventually decided on Norfolk for dinner, enjoying steak frites and our final Rose of the week on the patio of the Green Onion. "Way to stretch out vacation as long as possible," my companion observed, clearly as satisfied as I was about our marathon trip back.
Why limit happy to only an hour? Why keep a week at the beach to a mere seven days? Why do birds suddenly appear?
Only checked my e-mail once all week. Didn't listen to the dire predictions about weather. Didn't always take a buddy in the ocean with me despite rip tides. Didn't blog.
Arthur? Just part of the fun. Next trip to the beach can't come soon enough. Bring it.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Crossing State Lines
Beach log wrap-up.
Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.
Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."
Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.
It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.
The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.
We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.
The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.
It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.
Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.
When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.
Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.
My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.
Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.
"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.
Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.
Nothing says relax like fried carbs.
With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.
"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.
We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.
In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.
Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.
There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.
Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.
The mortification on his mother's face was classic.
Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"
It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.
Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.
I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.
Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.
Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.
I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.
It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.
On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.
Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.
There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.
Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?
When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.
After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.
The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.
Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.
Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."
Well, I guess she'd made her point.
The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.
The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.
It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.
After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.
Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.
Locals are supposed to know these things.
Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.
Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.
We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.
In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.
My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."
Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?
When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.
We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.
"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.
At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.
Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.
We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.
From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.
Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.
John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."
And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.
We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.
Okay, we did after his first set.
Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.
At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.
On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.
Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.
While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.
Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.
No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.
"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed, but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.
"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.
Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.
The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"
Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"
Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?
It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.
You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.
Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.
Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.
Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."
Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.
It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.
The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.
We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.
The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.
It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.
Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.
When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.
Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.
My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.
Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.
"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.
Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.
Nothing says relax like fried carbs.
With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.
"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.
We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.
In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.
Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.
There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.
Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.
The mortification on his mother's face was classic.
Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"
It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.
Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.
I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.
Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.
Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.
I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.
It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.
On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.
Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.
There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.
Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?
When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.
After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.
The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.
Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.
Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."
Well, I guess she'd made her point.
The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.
The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.
It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.
After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.
Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.
Locals are supposed to know these things.
Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.
Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.
We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.
In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.
My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."
Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?
When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.
We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.
"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.
At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.
Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.
We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.
From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.
Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.
John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."
And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.
We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.
Okay, we did after his first set.
Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.
At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.
On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.
Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.
While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.
Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.
No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.
"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed, but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.
"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.
Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.
The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"
Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"
Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?
It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.
You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.
Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Not Ruing the Roe
So it's National Women's Health and Fitness Day and what did this woman do to observe said obscure holiday?
Well, let's see. I didn't walk because it was raining, pouring actually. I didn't work out because I was at the beach. I didn't even take my vitamin, come to think of it, because I forgot (late night, unnecessarily early morning, but I won't mention names).
What I did instead was enjoy a late breakfast at the Nags Head Pier where I inhaled a large plate of eggs scrambled with herring roe (my first), fried potatoes and a hot biscuit half slathered with butter, the other half with strawberry jam. I did drink a glass of orange juice, if that makes it any better.
Meanwhile, the rain and waves were splashing on the pier windows the whole time, making us feel like we were in the center of the storm. It was actually pretty cool.
My Richmond grandmother was right. I am going to hell in a hand basket.
My Washington, D.C. grandmother was right, too. I'll be perfectly at home there.
Both would have been pleased that I had herring roe for breakfast.
Well, let's see. I didn't walk because it was raining, pouring actually. I didn't work out because I was at the beach. I didn't even take my vitamin, come to think of it, because I forgot (late night, unnecessarily early morning, but I won't mention names).
What I did instead was enjoy a late breakfast at the Nags Head Pier where I inhaled a large plate of eggs scrambled with herring roe (my first), fried potatoes and a hot biscuit half slathered with butter, the other half with strawberry jam. I did drink a glass of orange juice, if that makes it any better.
Meanwhile, the rain and waves were splashing on the pier windows the whole time, making us feel like we were in the center of the storm. It was actually pretty cool.
My Richmond grandmother was right. I am going to hell in a hand basket.
My Washington, D.C. grandmother was right, too. I'll be perfectly at home there.
Both would have been pleased that I had herring roe for breakfast.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
View Trumps Porn...for Today Anyway
With the early morning departure of four of the guys, we were down to just a half dozen of us by the time I woke up.
I had already made clear my intention of having breakfast on the Nags Head pier today because I hadn't done it since I was a child and honestly, I don't even remember doing it then.
One of the guys wanted to go with me and the other four were going to get take-out from Biscuits and Porn (takeout breakfast biscuits, not take-out porn...they said), so we split up.
It was lightly raining when we arrived at the pier and there were a lot of fishermen taking their gear out in hopes of a good catch on a rainy day.
Either that or they had nothing better to do in the rain, but who am I to judge?
We requested seats on the enclosed deck rather than in the restaurant proper and were rewarded with surf crashing all around us and a great view of the anglers.
Some of the guys at the house had alerted me to the mega-sized blueberry pancakes (both as a warning and a recommendation), since they'd already eaten there a couple of times this week and considered themselves pier pros.
I finally decided on eggs with sausage, mainly because they served patties rather than links, which is my preference.
The hash browns were way better than average, not greasy or tasting as if they'd been long under a heat lamp (as I had also been advised by a hash brown aficionado) and my biscuit came porn-less, as expected (there are always trade-offs in life).
My companion had ordered breakfasts #16 and #17 (while he is a big guy, the waitress had tried to talk him out of it), so there were plenty of pancakes to share after all.
I loved all the old photographs on the walls of the deck.
There was one of the restaurant with a casino sign on it and there were several of the parking lot with vintage cars in it.
And of course, pictures of men with their catches, although not always smiling. There was even an old wooden parking sign, looking quaint and weathered.
Paying our bill, I noticed the Peach Jacks on the counter, personal-sized fried peach pies that looked mighty good.
Seeing me admiring them, the cashier, clearly a pier veteran, asked if I'd ever had one.
I stunned her by saying it was my first time eating at the pier.
"Well, it better not be your last!" she admonished.
Not likely, although I have to admit to some curiosity about Biscuits and Porn's breakfast offerings, too.
But it would probably be wiser if I didn't go with one of the frat boys there.
That'll just have to be a solo breakfast excursion.
Biscuits and porn for one, please...at least once.
I had already made clear my intention of having breakfast on the Nags Head pier today because I hadn't done it since I was a child and honestly, I don't even remember doing it then.
One of the guys wanted to go with me and the other four were going to get take-out from Biscuits and Porn (takeout breakfast biscuits, not take-out porn...they said), so we split up.
It was lightly raining when we arrived at the pier and there were a lot of fishermen taking their gear out in hopes of a good catch on a rainy day.
Either that or they had nothing better to do in the rain, but who am I to judge?
We requested seats on the enclosed deck rather than in the restaurant proper and were rewarded with surf crashing all around us and a great view of the anglers.
Some of the guys at the house had alerted me to the mega-sized blueberry pancakes (both as a warning and a recommendation), since they'd already eaten there a couple of times this week and considered themselves pier pros.
I finally decided on eggs with sausage, mainly because they served patties rather than links, which is my preference.
The hash browns were way better than average, not greasy or tasting as if they'd been long under a heat lamp (as I had also been advised by a hash brown aficionado) and my biscuit came porn-less, as expected (there are always trade-offs in life).
My companion had ordered breakfasts #16 and #17 (while he is a big guy, the waitress had tried to talk him out of it), so there were plenty of pancakes to share after all.
I loved all the old photographs on the walls of the deck.
There was one of the restaurant with a casino sign on it and there were several of the parking lot with vintage cars in it.
And of course, pictures of men with their catches, although not always smiling. There was even an old wooden parking sign, looking quaint and weathered.
Paying our bill, I noticed the Peach Jacks on the counter, personal-sized fried peach pies that looked mighty good.
Seeing me admiring them, the cashier, clearly a pier veteran, asked if I'd ever had one.
I stunned her by saying it was my first time eating at the pier.
"Well, it better not be your last!" she admonished.
Not likely, although I have to admit to some curiosity about Biscuits and Porn's breakfast offerings, too.
But it would probably be wiser if I didn't go with one of the frat boys there.
That'll just have to be a solo breakfast excursion.
Biscuits and porn for one, please...at least once.
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