Atlantic Beach

This is the eleventh year we have stayed in Atlantic Beach during January and February, the coldest months in Highlands and therefore the most difficult months for a runner.  I used to be able to run when temperatures dropped into the teens and even single digits, but with every passing year I feel the cold more and more, and I have never found a treadmill that fits me.  Temperatures here are on average 15 to 20 degrees warmer than in Highlands, which makes just enough of a difference.  Running is the cornerstone of my fitness, but there is also good hiking at nearby Fort Macon and a well-equipped Sports Center just across the causeway in Morehead City – I worked out there in the nearly-vacant weight room this morning while Martha attended a yoga class. 

This is also a time of year for restoration and recreation, a time for reevaluating our lives, for considering what we accomplished last year, for planning what we want to accomplish in 2026.  I call it a Sabbatical as well, because as a writer I somehow find more time here to work on poetry and prose, and this blog, too, which I enjoy writing despite almost nobody following it.  The sky is wider here, the horizon is broader, and in this greater expanse time itself seems to widen, the hours seem to grow longer.  Both of us catch up on reading, too, the tall stack of New Yorkers and books I brought with me slowly diminishing in height, and more books on a long list waiting to be borrowed from the library.  Evenings are spent reading quietly.  There is theater, too, and plenty of opportunities for exploring the Downeast culture and history that we have come to love.  The television has a beach towel draped across the screen and is never turned on.  As for me, I have given up for a time the habit of watching the late-night comedians and MSNOW every day to either ridicule or be horrified by the latest outrageous episode of the Trumpworld reality-TV show.  I need a break from it all.  I want to watch instead for just these two months a line of pelicans gliding by the balcony, sandpipers scurrying in the surf, and the never-ceasing drama of ocean and sky and changing weather. 

We left Highlands two days earlier than planned, stopping at our usual halfway oasis the Historic Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem, made slightly poignant this year by the absence of long-time resident Sally, the hotel tabby cat, who arrived several years ago, a stowaway in a moving van, and was a fixture in the lobby and courtyard ever since.  Her usual chair was empty, and there was a lovely little shrine to her in the lobby.

Because we left earlier than planned, we first spent two nights at the Doubletree Hotel when we arrived, which is oceanfront in Atlantic Beach.  We stopped at the Full Moon Oyster Bar on the way, where we saw an amazing sunset over the Sound and enjoyed some chargrilled oysters, a much-appreciated welcome.  

The Doubletree is only a few blocks from the Island Grill, one of our favorite restaurants, which on Sunday was hosting a Winter Warmer Beer Luncheon (the main reason we left early, to be honest).  It was another much-appreciated welcome, and especially so because it was a chilly, rainy day.
 

I love a rainy day at the beach, though, and I sat outside the hotel in a chair Sunday morning before the luncheon, just as the rain was starting to pick up, and simply listened to the sound of the ocean. 

I’ve missed this sound, the sound of the surf,
long breaking on the long beach,
the deep belly-breathing sound,
the many-plied overcast sky in
shades of gray, the same gray as the ocean
where they join on the distant horizon.

By Monday morning, the rain was completely gone, and we awoke to a crisp blue sky.  Martha had learned that there was a hike at Fort Macon that morning, a place we are very familiar with from countless runs and hikes.  We arrived early enough to talk to Randy, the Park Superintendent, who is well-known for his bird hikes.  Randy has the uncanny ability to spot birds the rest of us don’t notice at first.  “Look, a yellow-rumped warbler!” he will exclaim, and point into the branches of a live oak tree, where sure enough a tiny warbler will be perched on a tiny branch.  Sometimes he even whistles and calls them out.  Today’s hike leader was another ranger, Paul, and he took a small group of us down to the beach to search for shells and sea glass and whatever else the Atlantic Ocean had to offer. 

Yesterday I went for my first run, only three miles with quite a few walking breaks, but it was wonderful to be back on the familiar road to Fort Macon, and the path through the maritime forest, and then down to the Picnic Area and onto the beach.  It was high tide, but the beach was wide enough to make for easy running, stopping here and there to pick up a shell – an olive, and a tiny whelk.  Near the Picnic Area a silent colony of perhaps a hundred sea gulls were standing, all of them turned in the same direction against the wind, waiting for the tide to bring in some unseen school of fish.  In the past, I would have sometimes charged into their midst, flapping my arms wildly to make them grudgingly take to the air, but they seemed to be deep in meditation this morning and I did not want to disturb them. 

The forecast for Saturday and Sunday is for snow and ice, not only in Highlands but here at the coast, where we have only seen it snow two or three times.  “The models are trending toward ice rather than snow,” according to the Storm Team Nine meteorologist I am in the habit of watching.  We pay close attention to the weather out here, and the forecasts are pretty accurate for such an unpredictable place, where winds can suddenly shift around, fronts can blow in from the ocean, and some afternoons – like this one, which I am watching from my computer set up on the dining room table, can suddenly bloom sunny and bright and gracious.   

A good time to finish this post.