Leap Day

We were awakened early this morning to the sound of a new roof being constructed on a house next to the condos in Island Quay subdivision.  A team of four or five men were tearing off the old roof very quickly, it seemed, and carrying bundles of shingles up for the new one. These hard-working roofers must have started work before 7:00 a.m. - very impressive.

We had been able to complete our long runs on Friday this week, so today we had the morning free for Saturday morning yoga, which we have not been able to attend in a few weeks because of races, training, and travel.  It was a different kind of class with a different instructor, who played oldies music from the 60s and 70s - a "leap back" in time, she said, on this Leap Day.

After lunch, late in the afternoon, we drove to Beaufort for a special event we had been looking forward to, a showing at the Beaufort Picture Show, the series of films we have been watching in a tiny warehouse building.  It was a South Korean film called Parasite, directed by Bong Joon-ho, that won many, many awards, including the best picture at the Academy Awards - the first foreign-language film ever to do so.  (I also learned that it had earned the mockery of our President, who opined that he would like to see the return of Hollywood classics like Gone with the Wind.)  "How did you ever get this film?" I asked one of the organizers as we arrived, the aroma of freshly-popped popcorn in the air in the tiny lobby.  "We've been on the waiting list for a long time!" she said.

With its English subtitles, it would never have been shown in most "normal" theaters here.  It told the strange black comedy story of a lower-class family who edged their way cunningly into the lives and household of  an upper class family.  The poor family lived down in a basement, and the film showed the young man (who scored a job tutoring the daughter of the rich family) climbing the long, long way up from the basement, through the squalid streets, higher and higher, until he reached the gated property, beautiful garden, and modernistic house designed by a famous architect which seemed to be located at the very summit of the city.

One of the ironic running jokes in the movie was that the basement was infested with stinkbugs - parasites - and was being treated by exterminators.  As Anthony Lane said in his review in The New Yorker, "Bong makes the eerie suggestion that the underclass might literally exist below the feet of the bourgeoisie. [He is] at pains to explore what lies beneath, in cellars and basements."  The underclass were themselves parasites of a kind.

With its many plot twists and turns and surprisingly violent ending, there was a lot to think about.  On the way out of the theater, I told the organizer, "You should have a place to go after films like this and have a cup of coffee and talk about it!"  We were still thinking about the movie as we crossed the Beaufort Inlet bridge; the sun was just going down - a beautiful sight!  When we walked in the condo, we could hear those roofers next door still hard at work, at nearly 7:00 p.m.  We went out to watch them; they were walking around confidently in the gathering darkness.  These were hard workers - not at all basement-dwellers, more like ballet dancers, up on the top of the world.

Taste of Core Sound

Conditions were ideal this morning for our final "long" run of six miles.  The Crystal Coast 10-K is next Saturday, so the plan was to run a nice, easy five miles followed by a final mile at race pace or faster.  As I have mentioned in this blog over the past few weeks, this is a training technique that I have used for many years with success; it seems to prepare the body for "digging deep" at the end of a race.  Over my past three long runs of six, eight, and ten miles, that final last mile dropped from 11:52 to 11:36 to 10:52.  This morning my final mile dropped again, to 10:36, my fastest mile in a long time.

We had planned for tonight's dinner a long time ago.  It is called a "Winter Taste of Core Sound," and it is a benefit for the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harker's Island, which is nearly ready to open again after extensive damage from Hurricane Florence.  It is one of our favorite area museums and we hope our contribution helped them.  Martha bought the tickets on-line a long time ago - No. 1 and 2.  It pays to plan ahead!

As they did last year, the organizers held the event at Southern Salt restaurant in Morehead City, which is so much more convenient for us than the former location (in the Museum building on Harker's Island) and has generated so much more interest that I think they have decided to hold it here from now on.  Southern Salt is the perfect place, out in the sound in a long building with plenty of windows; Martha said it reminded her of being on a ferry or a ship.

Tickets this year were limited to only 200, fewer than last year by a hundred, and it was pleasant not to be packed in quite so tightly as we got in line for the oyster bar, and then a delicious "downeast" buffet dinner of fried oysters, scallops, shrimp, chicken & pastry, stewed duck, collard greens, sweet "taters," corn bread and light rolls, and a small taste of "Albert's Lemon Pie," which must be a local favorite and a well-deserved one.  Bless Albert's heart, whoever he is!

This was definitely not the kind of dinner to have the evening before a hard run, and we were thankful that we could indulge in fried oysters and shrimp, a rare departure from pasta and marinara sauce.

It was a wonderful evening, and although we did not bid on any of the many vintage duck decoys that were part of the silent auction, we are sure it was a success.  And what would we do with a $300 decoy?

Ruins and Cemeteries

It was a bright, sunny day today, with a brisk south wind blowing.  The ocean this morning looked like a broad river flowing swiftly toward the east, as if it were heading for a waterfall on the horizon, a Niagara tumbling over the edge of the world.  We decided that despite the wind it would be a good morning for another hike at nearby Fort Macon, so we drove to the picnic area and started out on the ocean side of the Eliott Coues nature trail toward the Fort.

This part of the trail is completely different from the portion that meanders through a live oak and cedar maritime forest along the sound.  It climbs up to a high point on the sand dunes overlooking the ocean, stabilized with recycled Christmas trees and surfaced with bark mulch in places.

It is a popular place for trail running, and two or three runners passed us while we were hiking.  Every year, the park rangers embark on another ambitious project, such as the new WWII gun emplacement I wrote about a few days ago.  They have also erected some new informational signs, including a brief history of this interesting pile of concrete just below where Martha is standing in the photo.

The sign identified this as the ruins of a Battery Commander Fire Control Station, part of the WWII defenses of the Fort built on this sand dune in 1942.

Another sign had been placed in the shade of a little grove of twisted cedar trees, just west of the Fire Control Station, identifying the approximate location of the Fort Macon Post Cemetery.

The cemetery contained the remains of deceased soldiers posted at the Fort and their family members.  Originally, the small plot contained fourteen grave sites (one was later moved to New Bern) marked with simple wooden headboards and surrounded with a picket fence, but over the years the headboards rotted and the exact site has been lost somewhere under the shifting sands and twisted trees around us.

As with all cemeteries, we felt the solemnity of the place.  Ironically, we have been watching with concern the news about the coronavirus and a possible pandemic that may be coming our way.  But our medical science today is so much better equipped to handle sickness and epidemics than it was in 1873, when the final body was interred.  Although the exact site is unknown, there is a historical record of those buried here, and we read down the list soberly, noting the ages and the unusual causes of death (not easily seen in the photo I took):

1.   William Brown, age 21.  Dropsy (Edema - I had to look the word up).
2 .  William Jones, age 26.  Typhoid fever.
3.   Peter Alexander, age 21.  No cause given.
4.   George Sedgewick, no age given.  Chronic diarrhea.
5.   Charles Brown, no age given, U. S. Colored Troops.  No cause given.
6.   Patrick McAllister, no age given.  No cause given.
7.   William Downey, age 22, shot by guard who mistook him for escaping
      prisoner.
8.   Emily Brunn, age 20 months.  No cause given.
9.   Louis Thurnherr, age 33.  Drowned.
10. Mrs. Laura Linnell, age 29, body found washed up on shore, drowned at
       sea with husband and child in sinking of the schooner Lottie J. Sparrow
11.  William Livingston, age 21, prisoner.  Killed by lightning.
12.  John Martin, age 37.  Dyspepsia.
13.  James Jones, age 26.  Exposure.

Absentees

One of the unwritten rules of our Sabbaticals here in Atlantic Beach is that the television is never turned on.  We can go outside on the dune-top deck in the evenings - which we did a few weeks ago to view an especially spectacular full moon - and look back at the condo building, where there might be ten or twelve occupied units with lights on.  And in  most of those units, we can see the bluish glow of televisions.  The house next to the condos in Island Quay was occupied two weeks ago for a few days, and I could actually watch what was showing on the huge flat-screen mounted on the wall.  "Come out and look at the moon!" we felt like shouting.  "Listen to the ocean!"

We have broken the unwritten rule more times this year than we ever have in the past, watching many hours of the Impeachment Hearings and, as far as I can remember, four debates between a narrowing field of Democratic candidates.  We have also spent some time watching Democratic Primary coverage in Iowa, New Hampshire, and Nevada.  As I have said before in this blog, we feel that it is our civic duty to stay informed as we approach what will surely be the most important Presidential election in our lifetime.  Next Tuesday - "Super Tuesday" - voters in North Carolina will go to the polls.  We prepared for this by applying for and receiving in the mail Absentee Ballots, which we completed yesterday.  They do not make it easy to be an Absentee Voter - we had to mark our ballots before a notary public (First Citizens Bank obliged) and have it postmarked before March 3.

It felt very good to vote, and believe me I did not do so lightly!  I tried to base my decision not on "electability," or who would be mostly likely to defeat Donald Trump (whom I consider to be the worse and most dangerous President we have ever had), but simply who I think will be the best President for this country.  When we delivered our ballots to the Post Office, we both felt a sense of relief.

It was one of those warm, cloudy days that we often see here on the coast, when rain will suddenly begin to fall gently, then dissipate.  Martha completed a five-mile tempo run this morning, while I ran some short intervals at the Fort Macon Picnic Area.  The fragrance of the Christmas trees lying in a big heap next to the parking lot, waiting to be placed on the beach to prevent erosion, was especially lovely in the heavy humid air.  We stopped at Blue Ocean seafood market for some more of that delicious flounder - see last Thursday's post - and Martha prepared it for us in the same simple way, seasoned with salt and pepper and sauteed.  The sides were tomato gratin from Friendly Market and tiny potatoes and onions roasted in the oven.

"It won't look good in the photo," Martha said.  "If it was served in a restaurant, it would have some colorful vegetables or some parsley on the plate."  But I thought it was one of the best dinners we have had here this year, and so I have posted it here anyway - without a fancy drizzle of bright green wasabi aioli or a vegetable cut to look like a flower - to whet the appetite of my blog readers.

Duck

I woke up this morning in time to see the sunrise at 6:45 a.m., straight ahead across the ocean on this east-facing beach.  I remember attending an Easter sunrise service at the Kitty Hawk Pier many years ago, and a man had played the trumpet - perhaps Wesley's Christ the Lord is ris’n today, Alleluia! - as the sun rose.

We had breakfast in the nearly deserted breakfast area, and then drove to the Town Park in Duck for a three-mile run, one of our favorite routes that we have run over the years while staying here.  The Town Park and the Boardwalk which extends in both directions from it is a real gem, and attracts a lot of walkers and runners in the mornings.  We passed NC Coastal where we had just dined the night before, and then ran past several of our familiar landmarks.

 

 

My favorite stop along the Boardwalk is Clinton Chapel, which is part of the Duck United Methodist Church.  Martha's Aunt Lizette actually told us about this chapel, long before the Boardwalk had been constructed, and we had checked it out; at that time, the only way to access it was via a narrow walkway from the church.

What a beautiful little sanctuary this place is.  We walked inside, and Martha noticed that someone had already written in the guest book this very morning.  I wrote, There is much to be thankful for!  I turned 71 yesterday and I am here in this beautiful place with my beautiful wife of 40 years.  And, my apologies Preacher, I turned the pages in the big Bible from a strange passage in Ezekiel to Psalms 23.

 

I have always loved that quote in the center of the stained-glass window, and it seemed especially fitting today.

Everything changes, year after year.  NC Coast opened in November, but one of our favorite places on the Boardwalk, Wave Pizza Cafe, was vacant and a new business was under construction.  I never failed to take a photo of that iconic sign, where we sat many times and enjoyed a pizza, gazing out over the sound.

We had planned to eat lunch in one of our favorite places, but after we had returned and showered we made some calls and discovered that all of them were closed, either for the season or because it was Monday.  In fact, we had planned to stay a second night, as well, but with restaurants and shops closed, we decided to check out early and drive back to Atlantic Beach.  In Manteo, we found everything closed, too, so we ate lunch again at the Blue Water Grill and Raw Bar.  

"Welcome back," our waiter said, the same one we had had yesterday - Marshall, with a beard and a man-bun.  Lunch was just as delicious as it was yesterday, and we enjoyed it thoroughly.  Because we may not pass this way again for some time.

My Birthday

I awoke early this morning, and one of the first things I did was explore the contents of the intriguing tissue-paper-stuffed paper bag which had appeared a couple of days ago on the table, from the top of which protruded a Mylar balloon reading Happy Birthday.  Yes, I am 71 years old today.  "Happy Birthday," Martha told me.  The bag contained three books which I am looking forward to reading (my wife knows how to select birthday gifts).  And I was looking forward to the rest of the day and the special trip that I had already learned Martha had organized for us, an overnight stay in Kitty Hawk to visit that part of the Outer Banks that we have visited every year since 2001.

 Kitty Hawk is really not that far from Atlantic Beach - less than 200 miles, and about three-and-a-half hours of driving on quiet roads.  We left early under a bright blue, cloudless sky.  I do not enjoy much of that depressing part of Highway 70 between Morehead City and New Bern - tattoo parlors, vape shops, bail bonds, pawn shops - but then the scenery improves, winding through flat farming country.  Cover crops were a brilliant green in some of the fields, and we saw some snow, too, in shady places - the snow we had been expecting a few days ago that never materialized in our part of the coast.  Martha spotted this little church, abandoned long ago, just south of Washington.

After the pleasant Sunday morning drive, we arrived in Manteo, where we stopped for lunch at the Blue Water Grill and Raw Bar, which is located in Pirate's Cove Marina on Highway 64, just this side of the Washington-Baum Bridge soaring over Roanoke Sound.

We have a history with that bridge, which we could see from our window.  I have crossed it three times completing the OBX Marathon, and Martha crossed it twice, once in the marathon and once in a half marathon.  It stands at the 22-mile mark of the OBX Marathon, and that is a daunting point in a marathon to climb any kind of hill at all.  I remember that I had psyched myself up for that bridge for a long time, only to realize after triumphantly reaching its summit that four miles remained until reaching the finish line in downtown Manteo, four long miles through a no-man's-land of salt marsh.  The first year we ran the marathon was in 2006, its inaugural year, and friends from Highlands had joined us.  It rained the entire way, and to this day my friend Fred (one of the victims I had enthusiastically persuaded to come run on a "flat, fast course") says he becomes sick when he sees that blue finisher's shirt that I sometimes wear.

That's one of the best things about sharing a history of running with Martha.  We spent a good part of that day, and of this entire trip, reminiscing.  "That's where someone had a radio playing on the tailgate of his pickup, remember?" we would say.  It seemed like a long, long way to Kitty Hawk when we finished lunch - Sicilian clam chowder and salad, and delicious! - and left Manteo.  It is a long way, and we kept reminding ourselves that we ran all 26.2 miles of it (and more than once, in my case, which confirms Martha's declaration from time to time that I am "Not right in the head.")  

We arrived at the Hilton Garden Hotel in Kitty Hawk, which was very nice and nearly deserted this time of year.  Our balcony had a nice view of Kitty Hawk Pier, and there were some surfers in wet suits taking advantage of the waves.  Other than staying once or twice in hotels on the eve of a race, we have always stayed in rental houses in Duck.  The first time we stayed here, and two other times, we rented a small oceanfront house called Peace and Plenty that we absolutely loved.  At the time it was $700 per week, less than staying a week in a motel, and the house was filled with large, gorgeous oil paintings by Robin Sams, an artist who now owns a gallery in Edenton.  Alas, Peace and Plenty was purchased the year after our last stay, torn down, and replaced with a 12-bedroom monstrosity, like so many of the oceanfront houses here.  Oceanfront property is scarce in Duck, and smaller houses like Peace and Plenty are a prime target for developers who want to build a large rental house and have a good return on their investment.  In real estate, this principle is called "highest and best use," but it is unfortunate that it caused the destruction of  "lowest and perhaps not the best economical use," like that small, quirky art-filled house lovingly improved year after year by the owners.

The same thing has happened to the place where we stayed in Duck last April - where we have stayed, in fact, eleven times in the past twelve years - a one-story oceanfront house called Ocean Watch, with four tiny bedrooms and a dated interior, nestled down low in the dunes between its towering neighbors.  With its screened-in porch and unassuming size, we came to love it over the years, though we often talked about how it could be a target for more ambitious development.

Ocean Watch was bought and demolished shortly after we stayed there, and we were interested in seeing what kind of towering structure had been constructed.  We could see the new house from a long way down Marlin Drive, three stories and at least nine bathrooms, plus (of course) a swimming pool out back.  And an elevator, and a "theater room."  What a difference!

Of course, we can no longer afford to stay there, or probably anywhere in Duck for that matter.  The weekly rental rate has soared from well under $1000 to at least $10,000 during the height of the season, and it is already booked this year. That's a pretty good return on investment for the owners, and also a bargain for several family members or friends going in together and sharing the astronomical rental cost.  Gone are the days when a couple like ourselves could enjoy the simple experience of sitting on an old-fashioned screened-in porch watching it rain.

We drove up and down the road in Duck, revisiting a place where we had vacationed for so many years, and realized that most of the shops and restaurants were closed this time of year.  We had identified a new restaurant, though, that was open, called NC Coast, operated by the same chef who had founded Red Sky Cafe, one of our old favorites.  It was located right on the boardwalk, overlooking the sound, and both the food and the service were very good.

 

The sun was setting, and many diners went out onto the deck to take photos; even one of the chefs went out to see.

So it was a wonderful way to celebrate my 71st birthday, there in a window seat, watching the sun go down on another year and laughing and talking to each other about the many miles we have run together.

Mardi Gras on Middle Lane

Yesterday, I thought I heard someone operating a circular saw outside our room, which did not sound like the kind of power tool that Resolution Elevators would be using at this point in the installation of the two elevators in this end of the condos.  It turned out that they were not working, nor were they working today - it was just the sound of the wind howling through the corridors and doors that I had heard.  The walkway was covered with a sparkling sheen of ice yesterday, and I contented myself with doing my morning Tai Chi under cover of the building.  And this morning I faced the same conditions, although the sun was shining brightly and it was rapidly melting.

The wind had died down and the temperature had climbed to the mid-30s by 10:00 a.m. when we both set forth to complete our final long run before the race on March 7.  We have both decided now to run the 10-K rather than the half-marathon in two weeks.  The training plan was just a little too steep - 8 miles to 10 miles to 12 miles, in three weeks - and we worried about injury, especially me.  And the 10-K is a formidable enough challenge, crossing that big bridge twice just like in the half marathon.  We both had a good run, and I was especially pleased to complete the final mile in under eleven minutes, my fastest mile in some time.

After lunch, we drove once again to Beaufort for a free event that we have enjoyed for two or three years now called "Mardi Gras on Middle Lane."  It is billed as the shortest parade in North Carolina, going twice around he block.  There were a lot of costumed participants lining up when we arrived.

It was a little difficult to see the parade, even though it was only a few feet away.  There were many many people lining this narrow little lane in Beaufort!  The "Shady Ladies" were a big hit, sporting lampshades on their heads.

The Bodacious Belles of Beaufort were also present.  I seem to remember them appearing in previous parades under different identities and in different costumes.

But everybody seemed to be having a good time, as indeed they should in a Mardi Gras parade.  After the parade we set up chairs and listened to two very good bands.  The first was a jazz quartet with an especially good bass player and a guy on the sax who sounded almost as sweet as Coltrane.

After they finished, a blues-rock band set up, and an African American woman appeared on stage with them from time to time to sing some very good Tracy Chapman songs.

It was a good day, sunny and warm by now, and we enjoyed listening to this fine music and watching people celebrating "Fat Tuesday" here on this Saturday in Beaufort.  I especially enjoyed watching one or two young children, attempting to dance to the New Orleans-style music, happy to be wearing beads around their necks and for some reasons they could not completely understand being encouraged by their parents to shake and sway and jump without inhibition.  All in celebration of Mardi Gras next Tuesday.

Whales and Flounder

A winter storm has struck the coast, with cold, horizontal rain blowing; they are calling for snow in the "wee hours," so we don't know what to expect when we awake in the morning.  It was definitely not a good day for running, so I went down to the little fitness room here at the condo and lifted some light weights for a few minutes.  Then we drove to Beaufort for yet another "Brown Bag Gam" at the Maritime Museum, this one an interesting talk on Whaling in North Carolina.

Associate Curator Benjamin Wunderly presented the program, and started out by explaining that most people associated whaling with New Bedford and the North Atlantic, but that it had also taken place here on the North Carolina coast.  He displayed some exhibits which included a replica of a sperm whale tooth and a sample of baleen from a whale.  Baleen is strong, flexible material made out of keratin, a protein that is the same material that makes up our hair and fingernails.  It is used by whales to filter their prey, which includes shrimp, squid, and small fish.  

He also displayed a jar of spermacetti, which I had read about in Melville's Moby Dick, but never actually seen.  It comes from a cavity in the head of a sperm whale, and was used for candles and lamps in the 19th century.  It had an unusual sweet fragrance, not at all what I expected.

The museum has on display the complete skeleton of a juvenile sperm whale - the very creature from which spermacetti was harvested - suspended from the ceiling, and it is a sight to behold.

We went to Lowe's after lunch - not the big-box hardware store, but one of a chain of very nice grocery stores in this part of North Carolina, a little like a Whole Foods store - to stock up on food.  We're from the mountains.  We know what to do when a snowstorm is predicted!  Then we made stocking-up stops at Friendly Grocery and at Blue Ocean seafood market.  

At Blue Ocean, we decided to have flounder for dinner - really fresh flounder.  I had discovered, incidentally, in answer to a question I had posed in this blog last week, that most of the fish in Blue Ocean is rod-and-reel caught, which surprised me.  We asked about the flounder, and were shown a real fish on ice, that looked as if it had been swimming in the ocean only this morning.

Carol, the friendly young woman who works there, told us they could fillet one for us, and while we watched, her colleague proceeded to do so.

So there it was, just like that!  And, while I am not a fisherman, it was absolutely the freshest fish we have ever purchased.

So that's what we had for dinner tonight, along with a spinach quiche from Friendly Market.  Martha pan-sauteed the flounder lightly in a dredge of flour, salt and pepper, and a little lemon, and it was the freshest, most delicious fish I think I have ever eaten.  I would have taken a picture of it, but it disappeared before I had the presence of mind to do so.
 
Outside, the wind is howling as I am writing, and we are both ready to settle down to good books.  Is there any better companion (besides Martha) than a good book while a storm is raging outside?  I don't think so.

The Lifts

On our trip to Britain and Ireland this summer, I remember once informing one of our Australian travel companions that the elevator in our hotel was out of order.  He looked at me with a puzzled expression, and I realized that he had no idea what an "elevator" was.  So accustomed did we become to calling them "lifts" that we continued to use that word for the rest of the trip.  Of course, we were already used to some Britishisms because we own a Mini Cooper, which has a bonnet and a boot instead of a hood and a trunk.

The lifts here have not been operational since we arrived; they are being completely reconstructed, and work has been taking place only sporadically.  Laura, the property manager at the condos, told us that it would take some time, perhaps the middle or end of March, before they have completed the work, which involves three separate contractors.  I was a building inspector for the first part of my career, worked in a structural steel fabrication plant, and built our house, so I know a good bit about home construction and plumbing and electricity.  But I don't know much about elevators, I realized.  One contractor seemed to spend day after day cleaning the elevator shaft until it was pristine, its stainless steel hydraulic pistons below the ground floor gleaming.  Another seemed to be working on the wiring, and at one point put Laura's office in darkness for a day or two in order to change out an electrical panel.

This week, work seems to be reaching some kind of culmination, with mysterious banging and clanging sounds ringing in the shaft outside our door from morning until evening, and the doors are occasionally parted open to reveal what seems to be construction of the "lift" itself, the little cubicle containing floor buttons and the ubiquitous picture of N. C. Commissioner of Labor Cherie Berry.  Her picture is in every elevator in the State.

Martha learned recently that Ms. Berry is retiring this year.  We wish her well, and hope her replacement will soon be showing up to inspect our lift.

Both doors were open and work seemed to be progressing noisily inside the shaft, with three men hard at work on something inside.  I asked if I could take some photos, and one of them, who was quite friendly, said "Sure!"

I told him I had been a building inspector in a previous lifetime but didn't know much about elevators (he wouldn't have known what a "lift" was).  "Aren't you a little nervous standing out on that platform on the fifth floor, thinking that it might drop down to the ground?"

"Nah," he replied, like a man who knows completely what he is doing.  "Can't happen!  That's only in movies.  The hydraulic oil couldn't ever leak out.  And even if it did the governor would kick in and stop it in the shaft!"  I nodded.  "Wanna take a look inside?" he asked, and invited me to look up the shaft, soaring upward for five floors.

There are two lifts at this end of the building, side by side, and one of them has never worked since we have been coming here.  I could look over and see it, as one can look through the studs of a home under construction.  Interesting!

"You guys sure are hard workers!" I said, and I meant it.  "We like doing this," the young man said.  And I think he did.  It is always encouraging to discover men who enjoy working at jobs like this one, the skills that keep our country going - operating the ferries, catching the fish, making it possible for a man who has just run ten miles to ascend to the second floor with the push of a button.   They are competent and hard working, and they are proud of what they do.

It . . . lifts the spirit!

Oriental

Last night we went out to the dune-top deck and watched another glorious sunset.  A freighter has been anchored offshore and it was silhouetted a little off to one side.  The crew on board must have had the same view as we did, and I hope they enjoyed it as much as we.

We both ran three miles yesterday, and this morning I found myself awaking early (6:30 a.m.), in time to watch the sunrise.  It was not as spectacular as last night, creeping up slowly behind some clouds, peeking through the curtains from time to time.

It always amazes me that we can witness both the sunrise and the sunset from our dune-top deck on this south-facing beach, especially this time of year when the winter sun is low on the horizon.  The above photos were both taken there, facing east and west.  There are not many places in North America where that can happen.

The forecast calls for rain the next two days, so I decided to get in another short run this morning.  When I returned, we decided it would be a good day to visit a place we have not yet been to this year, Oriental.  Oriental is a little Town a little over an hour away by road, but the driving distance can be cut in half my taking the ferry from Cherry Branch to Minnesott, a short 20-minute ride.  I looked at one website that said the ferry would depart Cherry Branch at 11:15, and we arrived at 11:00, in plenty of time.  A young man waved us aboard immediately as we approached the ferry landing, so we drove onto the ferry, only to discover that it began sailing away.  Another website showed the correct departure time to be not 11:15 but 11:00, which was exactly when it left.

I had thought I might have time to stop in the ferry office to use the restroom, and we wondered later what would have happened if Martha had dropped me off, driven onto the ferry, and sailed away.  I suppose I would have taken the next ferry to Minnesott, on foot.  But perhaps she would have taken the ferry back again.  We could have waved as we passed each other, two ships passing each other on the broad Neuse River.

North Carolina has a wonderful ferry system, and we are always surprised that it costs absolutely nothing.  Shouldn't they at least be charging $1.00, or even $5.00 per car?   We would gladly pay that much to avoid 30 minutes of driving.  And they missed an opportunity, I thought, not naming this ferry "The Oriental Express."

Oriental is only a short drive from the ferry terminal in Minnesott.  It is a pretty little place filled with boats, and it bills itself as "The Sailing Capital of North Carolina."  Our first destination was lunch at a restaurant we had discovered last year called The Silos, constructed within two side-by-side farm silos.  Delicious sandwiches, and very inexpensive as well. 

The Silos must have been the brainchild of a child of the 60s and 70s, because inside there is a small performing stage and amplifiers, and lots of guitars hanging around.  The ceiling is covered with album covers from that era; I craned my neck to see some of them.

After lunch, we drove down to a little shop we had also discovered last year called Nautical Wheelers, filled with nice sportswear and interesting nautical merchandise.  We always like wandering through the rooms of these old houses that have been converted into shops.  A sign on the front wall told us that this building had been the Emma and Claud Edmundson house, circa 1904.

Then we drove down to the Oriental town docks and looked at some of the hundreds of sailboats docked here.  There was not much activity this time of year, but it looks like this place thrives in the summertime - truly a "Sailing Capital" - with many condos and accommodations on shore, close by the boat slips where nautical wanderers can stay.

We returned to Minnesott right on time (better informed about the correct departure time), and the ferry sailed back across the Neuse River.  There were only four or five vehicles on the ferry, as there had been this morning, but I decided to investigate the "Passenger Lounge" upstairs, discovering a pleasant area seating perhaps a hundred passengers.  But there were only two members of the crew up there, and I chatted with them for awhile.  I told them that the last time I had been on a ferry was from Dublin to Britain and it was so large it had a shopping mall and two restaurants.  They seemed impressed, and asked me how long the trip took - of course they would - and I told them three hours.

We returned via Beaufort and, because it was a mild afternoon and no wind, walked along the waterfront for awhile.  A sail boat was anchored out in Taylor's Creek, and Martha said, "Look!  A cat!"  And sure enough a large gray cat was patrolling the deck - you can see him in this picture, about midship.

It was a nice, relaxing day, far from the usual places we inhabit out here on the coast, gazing at sailboats and wondering what that kind of life would be like, sailing from place to place, anchoring in quiet little towns like Oriental and Beaufort, and watching glorious sunsets while our cat padded quietly on deck.  I might name such a cat Ishmael.