The Grand Strand

We have not been to Myrtle Beach in a long time.  It used to be a place where we vacationed often 40 years ago, back before it exploded with development.  I remember that there was a single shopping mall in the late 70s, Myrtle Square.  And we have wonderful memories of once visiting Martha's Mamah and her Aunt Lizette when they were staying there at a gracious old hotel, The Chesterfield Inn, with its high ceilings and rocking chairs on the back porch.

But it slowly changed over the years, traffic grew heavier, motels one right after another on Ocean Boulevard, and we stopped going there.  

The exceptions, as I remember it, were in 2008 when I ran the half marathon there (see post of February 19), and then a few years later stopping for lunch on a trip from Beaufort, South Carolina to the Outer Banks.  And now we will be returning to this place from our past, leaving tomorrow morning for the race on Saturday.  This evening, we will be packing running clothes, race-morning food, and an overnight bag, and then we will come back here on Sunday. 

So we had a quiet, restful day, walking for a little bit on the beach this morning.  Martha had learned about an amazing sea monster created by Sand Sculptor artist Phil Singer of New York down at the circle in Atlantic Beach, and we went down to take a look.  What an amazing creature!

Now we are ready:  ready to push ourselves just a little, running a distance I have not run in two years, looking forward to the excitement of a big race once again.

Taper Week

We are in our final week of training for the Myrtle Beach Half Marathon, that period of time that we call the  "taper."  All of the long runs have been completed now, and the only runs left are easy ones.  For a marathon, I used to favor a good three-week taper, which is counter-intuitive to non-marathon runners but has proven successful in the 20 marathons I have run.  For a half-marathon, I like a two-week taper - the final long run two weeks out, then a six-mile long run one week out - "as many miles as the days left before the race," is the old rule of thumb.

Yesterday, Martha ran five miles and I ran three, and tomorrow we will both run three easy miles.  This is the difficult part - holding back, when we know that we can run longer, and faster - just putting all of that training in the bank to withdraw on race day.

We had a beautiful sunset last night, and warmer weather this week.

So this morning we decided to walk on the new trail they have been constructing at Fort Macon.  When we arrived at the trailhead, however, the trail was closed off and a small piece of equipment was at work back on the path, probably removing some debris in the small pond crossed by a bridge.  So we went on to Fort Macan and walked on the small loop trail behind the fort around a pond which we have walked before on bird-watching trips.

Coming around the first turn, what a splendid sight we saw!  The trees behind the pond were filled with a huge flock of ibises, like the ones we saw one morning last year.

They were roosting on the bare branches, so quiet that people visiting the park would not have even known they were there.  A man was walking a little white dog and we told him there was something special to see.  "Wow!" he said.  "I've never seen that many.  What are they? Sea gulls?"  We told him they were ibises, feeling like experts trained by Ranger Randy.

We circled back around to  the small path we knew about from previous bird-watching programs, and watched these birds in fascination.  A blue heron soared onto a tree across the pond, keeping his distance from the others, but I could not take a good photo.

We wandered out onto the beach and then back to the fort, feeling as if we had seen something special, wanting to go up to people in the parking lot and tell them about it.  

Out in the channel, a huge freighter - the "Federal Danube" - was going out to sea, moving much faster than we thought it was capable of sailing.  It blew its deep horn three times, so loudly we thought it might frighten the birds. we were watching.  We could see tiny people on deck, looking shore-ward, perhaps their last glimpse of shore for a long time as they steered their way out to the open sea.

This Brave New Decade

The first full day of being seventy did not feel different from being sixty-nine.  I awoke early as I normally do out here where the morning light taps insistently on the windows.  It was a mild morning, already almost 60 degrees a little after 7:00 a.m., and I fell into the usual morning routine of Tai Chi out on the deck by the ocean, breakfast back in the condo, and then my first cup of coffee back on the deck.

It was Sunday, and we drove across the causeway bridge to the Methodist Church in Morehead City again, where two adorable children were baptized and some of my favorite hymns were sung - "Faith of our Fathers" and "My Faith Looks Up to Thee."  We also heard some beautiful hand bells, and everybody sang Happy Birthday to a woman in the choir who had just turned 90.  That made me feel young!

The wind picked up after lunch; there was a gale warning, with winds out of the southwest 20 to 30 knots, and gusts up to 40 knots - that's 46 miles per hour for those of us who are not sailors.  Despite the warning, I bundled up in my Gore Tex against the wind and ventured out, determined to walk on the beach.  What a wild and exhilarating afternoon it was!  The wind had completely wiped away footprints and tire tracks and was sending rivulets of white over brown, rippling the dunes, and pushing up wide swaths of foam from the surf.  The foam would quiver madly in the wind, and then a few pieces would fly away like tumbleweeds in a dust-storm.

In the distance I could see a tiny figure walking, and on the way to the pier I finally passed him or her, bundled up like me, pants legs whipping wildly in the wind.  It was not cold, bundled against the wind and hands jammed tight in my pockets.  Every few minutes, a weak, milky-looking sun would try unsuccessfully to break through.  But I had the beach mostly to myself.

"I don't think you would have enjoyed it," I told Martha when I returned, cheeks red from the salt spray.  She understood that it was somehow important to me this day to push myself a little harder, to face the wild wind, now that I am in this brave new decade.

Birthday Wishing Light

We began the celebration of my 70th birthday auspiciously this morning with a six-mile run to Fort Macon and back.  It had been raining earlier and I had done my morning Tai Chi under cover of the condo, right below our balcony.  But by 10:00 a.m. or so it had stopped raining.  Conditions called for a long sleeved shirt, however, so I pulled out my 2011 Boston Marathon shirt, this being an appropriate day to remember my past accomplishments and to look forward to many more.

We returned to the condo for lunch - black bean burgers and kale salad - but we realized we did not have an avocado to make guacamole; I just had to have guacamole on my birthday!  So I decided to drive the short distance down the road to the Food Lion; on the way, the sky literally opened up, pouring heavy rain.  It is always especially nice to have completed a run just in the nick of time!

After lunch, I opened the gifts that had appeared on the counter yesterday.  All of the packages contained books, and thoughtful choices, too - Martha knows me well! - except for the last gift bag, in which I found a "Wishing Light," a paper lantern.  It proved to be hilarious!  Martha knows (as I said, she knows me well) how much I enjoy poorly-translated instructions from another language, and the instructions for assembling and releasing the Wishing Light were a classic, so much so that I posted them in full on Facebook along with my thanks for all the birthday greetings that had been posted:

Wishing light operating instructions

1:After the distribution of fuel to packaging equipment Kong Cross wire in the side of the field again deduction presses The fuel-pressure lock firmly.

2:A person wishing a light take up a Top; Another person fuel ignited the four angle.

3:Wait for that the heat enough light, lantern person lest loose A top, band changes grips under the light to encircle, Has when the lifting force may let go releases for flying.

4:Xu Yuan light rose slowly the sky, do not forget Wishing oh………

Notice item:

1:Should choose at the option open, calm environment released for flight. No fire ban in areas   the tall building the floor, and so on have covers under the thing to release for flight, must leave outside the airport 10 kilometers from flying.

2:Xu Yuan light can only be used for the distribution the special-purpose of fuel, prohibited by any burning Replace.

3:Xu Yuan light are on the rise, that of the flying, cannot the long time not put, and the Flight not to be append the foreign body.

4:Children must be under the custody of the adults use.

Declaration: Xu Yuan light for the fire flying, because of environmental ingredient such as improper use of security incidents caused by the release of the commitment.  Production enterprises, vendors, transport operation, without any responsibility. You use both, then you understand and accept on behalf of the declaration.

I especially love Operating Instruction No. 4, which sounds like a Haiku:

Xu Yuan light rose 

slowly the sky, do not forget 

Wishing oh………

Martha disclosed the hitherto secret restaurant where she will be taking me for dinner an hour from now - The Island Grill, here in Atlantic Beach.  Recommended to us by Martha's aunt, we have eaten there in past years and thoroughly enjoyed it.

So this has been a good birthday for me.  I only feel one day older than yesterday, after all!  The lyrics to that old Simon and Garfunkel song, "Old Friends," still meanders through my mind from time to time:

Can you imagine us years from today,
Sharing a park bench quietly
How terribly strange to be seventy.

But Martha keeps insisting that I don't look like I'm seventy.  And I certainly don't feel like I'm seventy.  And I ran six miles this morning, after all, rather than sitting on a park bench.  So I am thankful for Martha's love and support, for the greetings from friends and family, and for this wonderful life.  And for the wishes that I will one day soon let rise into the sky, "Wishing Oh........."

Taste of Core Sound

One day before my 70^th birthday – you might call it Birthday Eve – an assortment of gift bags and birthday cards appeared on the counter between the dining room and the kitchen, and I was instructed not to handle any of them until tomorrow.

We had big Birthday Eve plans tonight.  “Taste of Core Sound,” the signature winter event of the Core Sound Museum and Heritage Center, is normally held at the Museum on Harkers Island, a considerable drive after dark.  But because the Museum is still not open due to damage from Hurricane Florence, it is being held this year at Southern Salt, just down the street from the Ruddy Duck in Morehead City.  So Martha snatched up two tickets before they were sold out.

The evening began at 6:00 p.m. with Southern Salt’s famous hot crab dip and Down East egg rolls, moved on to a bountiful buffet, and included a silent auction of decoys and a presentation about antique shorebird decoys.  The Down East buffet was delicious!  The menu:

Conch stew

Fried oysters

Baked scallops

Stewed duck and rutabaga

Fried Shrimp

Chicken and pastry

Winter collards

Sweet Potatoes

Homemade coleslaw

Light rolls

Albert’s famous lemon pie

I’m not sure who Albert was, but his pie was delicious, which must account for its fame; even after all that food we both enjoyed a slice.  We had stopped at the Core Sound Museum Store on Arendell Street earlier in the week to pick up our tickets, a big imposing two-story house with high ceilings that reminded Martha of her Mamah’s house, and a young man there had told us not to eat anything else today, and now we understand why.

Southern Salt was a restaurant we will return to again.  Located right on the water, next to the Ruddy Duck, it was a great venue for this event; it was sold out, and we hope they will decide to have it there next year instead of way out in the "boonies" on Harkers Island.

We sat with a couple from Marshallburg, home of the caviar farm we had visited on Valentine's Day, and they were very surprised to learn that we knew all about it.  But we were glad to not have that long drive home on this cold and rainy night.

Wandering Carolina Whale Skeletons

We returned to the N. C. Maritime Museum in Beaufort today for the third in a series of "Brown Bag Gams," this one presented by Museum Curator Ben Wunderly, who had presented the program on the "The Vanishing Crew of the Carroll A. Deering." (see post of January 30).  Ben presented the stories of three whale skeletons from North Carolina preserved in museums in this state and in Iowa, and in the process told us several interesting facts about the history of whaling.

Most of the whaling carried on here, especially form the Shackleford Banks, was shore whaling.  While the big ocean-going vessels from New Bedford were out in the open ocean in late winter and early spring, whalers in these parts would sight a whale from shore and row out in a small boat, harpoon it, and tow it to into Morehead City and other ports for processing.  "Whale sighted!" a sharp-eyed man would cry out (not the popular "Thar she blows!" of Hollywood films).  "Where away?" another would reply, and the boat would be launched.

These whales were huge creatures to be handled by small boats.  One Right Whale brought ashore, according to an old newspaper account, was 65 feet in length, with ribs eleven feet long, and produced 700 pounds of whale bone and 2000 gallons of whale oil.  Whale bone, flexible and strong, was used in everything from corsets to policemen's billy clubs.  Whale oil was used for a variety of purposes, including illumination until kerosene came into use.

This sperm whale was not harvested but instead washed ashore on Wrightsville Beach, and was one of those eventually skeletonized and displayed in a museum.

The whale on display in the Maritime Museum is that of a juvenile sperm whale that was also washed ashore at Cape Lookout in 2004.

So this turned out to be another interesting program, attended by about 20 people, including some now-familiar faces of those who are interested in maritime history.  "Where are you from?" a couple sitting up front asked.  We told them; clearly, we were "dit-dots!"  But it turns out they were dingbatters.

It had been raining when we awoke this morning, which continued all morning and during the drive across the big new bridge to Beaufort; but when we came out of the museum after the program, we were surprised to emerge into bright sunshine . . . and it was raining at the same time.  The sun and the rain flip-flopped back and forth for awhile, and now, late in the afternoon, both have disappeared, replaced by a thick fog which has settled on the beach, hiding any view of the ocean.  But we can still hear it, even with the patio door closed, crashing invisibly onto the beach.

Adjusting the Sails

I know I said in my previous post,"We will keep on training, mix in some speed-work, keep up the long runs, and focus on the next goal, which is the Flying Pirate Half Marathon on April 14."  But Martha and I both slept on that and thought about some other options.  After six weeks of training, we have both reached that hard-won place in a runner's life, being Race Ready.  After Sunday's long run, a two-week taper would have led us perfectly to the starting line on March 2.

One option would be to run a shorter race before we leave here, such as a 5-K or a 10-K.  But we are ready for more than that, especially Martha, and last night a short search on Google found that the Myrtle Beach Half Marathon will be held on the same date, and it is only a three-and-a-half hour drive from here.  I actually ran this race a long time ago, in 2008, and as with most races I remember the course vividly.  It starts out on the north side near Broadway at the Beach and then comes straight down Ocean Boulevard, the "Main Drag," with motels lining both sides of the street, before circling back toward the start.  I remember that it was flat and fast, and at 7:00 a.m. it was just barely daylight.  My time back in 2008, at the age of 59, was 2:01:11, a half-marathon time I do not expect to ever see again.

So we mulled it over this morning during our runs - three miles under overcast skies in the 40s, and a bitter wind out of the north; it even rained on us for a few minutes, cold scattered drops. What a change from yesterday!  Temperatures had been in the upper 60s, and the evidence of those warm temperatures was a snake Martha spotted on Fort Macon Road (I turned in at the Bath House before that point), flattened on the road and bright green in color.  I took a grisly photo of it after our run but this photo from the internet is much more flattering!

I identified it as a rough green snake - "rough" because its scales are not smooth and silky as they are on most snakes.  This little fellow lives near marshes and likes to climb trees.  It is the first snake we have seen out here other than a lazy black snake sunning on a log on a warm day near the Cape Lookout Lighthouse last year.

It took this morning's run for me to make a decision, although I think Martha had already decided (she even checked on hotel availability); I felt strong and fast (motivated by a warm condo at the end of the run), and nothing hurt.  I am Race Ready.  The Flying Pirate is still on the calendar for April, but we're setting our sails for Myrtle Beach eleven days from now.

Crystal Coast Half Marathon Cancelled

Ever  since we arrived in Atlantic Beach, we have been wondering about the arrangements for the Crystal Coast Half Marathon on March 2.  The Bask Hotel in Morehead City, where registration took place last year, must have been badly damaged by the hurricane, because the parking lot has been empty and there is a large construction dumpster outside.  Tight Lines Pub and Brewing Company, where the post-run activities were held last year, was so badly damaged that it may be months before it opens.  And, most important, the Atlantic Beach Causeway Bridge has been under construction, with equipment on the bridge every day and various lanes closed off.  So we have been wondering, "Where will they have registration?  Where will they have the awards?"

After completing a successful 12-mile run yesterday, I told Martha I was prepared to sign up for the Half Marathon (she had already signed up).  But the race website said that registration was closed, which was highly unusual two weeks before the race.  All was explained today when Martha received an e-mail, and a notice was posted on the race website:

"Sadly, we have been forced to cancel the 2019 edition of the Crystal Coast Half Marathon, 10k, & 5k. We received notice this past Friday that we would not be able to go over the bridge from Morehead City to Atlantic City due to ongoing construction. We believe the bridge crossing is one of the integral parts of this race and that the experience would not live up to our, or your, expectations if we proceeded with an altered course. Bridge repairs should be complete by the end of the year, so WE WILL BE BACK in 2020!"

Needless to say, we are bitterly disappointed.  We are both as prepared as we could possibly be - Martha even went so far as to run across the bridge last week, and we drove part of the course today after printing out the course map, familiarizing ourselves with the mile splits.  But after some wringing of hands, we decided that there was nothing that could be done.  We have been Race Directors ourselves, and we know how difficult this decision must have been.

So we will keep on training, mix in some speed-work, keep up the long runs, and focus on the next goal, which is the Flying Pirate Half Marathon on April 14.  We can only prepare for what we can control, or as Dolly Parton famously said:

Final Long Run

Today was a milestone for both of us - our final long runs in the training schedule for the half marathon on March 2.  I used to run 20 miles before a marathon, and I like to run at least 12 miles before a half-marathon.  Because of rain and ice, my mileage in December had plummeted drastically; I think one week I only managed five miles for the entire week.  But I began the New Year optimistically with a five mile run, and then a week later, our first Saturday here in Atlantic Beach, we both ran five miles again.  Since then we have run two 5-K races, and on the other weekends we have been working on increasing the long run.

We missed our run on Saturday morning because of rain, and instead we went to the yoga class we had attended last week - a good thing to do on a rainy day!

Conditions were ideal this morning, overcast and a little chilly, but not raining at all.  Martha completed her goal of 11 miles and I ran 12 miles.  For me, recovering from an injured knee, this has been a big accomplishment, and it persuaded me to run the half marathon instead of the 10-K in two weeks.

Martha varied her route a little bit, running west on Fort Macon Road on part of the course.  I stayed on the road to Fort Macon, making a couple of loops through the Bath House parking lot and some back-and-forth on the road to the Fort.  I noticed what appeared to be a finish line set up for a race on the back side of the parking lot, and further investigation confirmed it.  It turns out this was the end of the Maysville to Macon 50-mile run, which began at midnight in Maysville (not far from New Bern), headed south to Emerald Isle, and then continued all the way along the beach to Fort Macon and back to this finish line.  What an arduous race!  Martha told me later that she passed Number 73, who might have been the winner, his time somewhere close to nine-and-a-half hours.

It somehow made 12 miles easier, to know that these ultra runners were out here running four times that distance, and almost twice as far as I have ever run in a race.  They would have come right by the condo this morning, running in sand, and finishing in this place so close by the condo.

Still, we are grateful for what we can do.  And grateful for every single day that we can run.  This month we have lost two friends in their 60s - Tommy Chambers (leukemia), Martha's second cousin, and Sonjia Gibson (lung cancer), with whom I worked at the Town Office for several years.  Sonjia was a non-smoker and she had just retired in July, planning to do some traveling.  So we ran today thinking about Tommy and Sonjia and their grieving friends and families, and giving thanks for every step.

Who Wants to Stay Home?

Today we attended another luncheon program, this one at the History Museum of Carteret County in Morehead City.  We recognized one of the attendees as someone we had seen at a Friends of Fort Macon Lunch last week.  "Who wants to stay home?" she laughed.

The lunch was catered (lasagna) and the speaker was Rodney Kemp, whom we happened to hear give a funny children's sermon at the Methodist Church a few weeks ago.  Rodney is something of a celebrity in Carteret County, a former teacher and a lively story-teller who claims he is "the last of Morehead City's fish-house liars."  His talk was on the unique Carolina Brogue in this part of the State (see post of January 14), which is especially strong on Harker's Island and Sea Level.

I already knew a little about the Brogue from watching a DVD I had gotten from the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center last year.  Rodney was familiar with the DVD and knew the man who had made it, and his talk was made even more interesting by several folks in the audience who grew up with the peculiar expressions and pronunciations found here, which they shared with us.

For nearly an hour, Rodney laughed and entertained us, but behind it all was a genuine fascination with and knowledge of language.  He loved trying to discover what "mommicked" meant, and what a "scrape" was, and he had interviewed enough old timers to get a fairly good idea where some of the terms originated.   He interspersed his survey of these interesting expressions with funny stories, such as the woman who had told him how hot it was:  "I've only been this hot twice before in my life, and both of them were today."

Martha and I already knew that we were "From Off" - that is, that we did not live here - but we also learned the fine distinction between "Dit-Dots" and "Ding-batters."  Dit-Dots were just visitors, and he theorized that this expression came from northerners who served here in World War II at the local army base and used Morse Code - thus "dit-dots."  Ding-batters had moved here and now lived here permanently.

Some other interesting expressions:

• "Toward evening the sun peared to pert near fetch up.
• "Hotter than the hinges of hell."
• "Worst I've ever laid eyes at." (instead of "on")
• “Cold as the night the Crissie Wright came ashore." (a famed shipwreck on a bitterly cold night)

We "soight for a spell of toime" and listened to story after story.  He mentioned two expressions that I found especially interesting.  One was "I swannee" (instead of "I swear").  After the program, I told him that this was an expression common in some parts of Western North Carolina.  He said that he had also heard that because he had lectured at Western Carolina University.

The other expression he told us about was "gap" instead of "yawn."  It turns out that my Mom, who grew up in Eastern North Carolina not far from here (Roanoke Rapids) before meeting my Dad and moving to Connecticut, used to say that all the time, and I had never heard anyone else say it.  "I'm gapping my fool head off," she would say, and laugh.  It is nice to think that some of the language from this part of the world still lingers in me through my Mom.

Rodney concluded his talk with an old sailor's poem that he often uses to end lectures, and so I will use it to end this post:

It's not my place to run the ship,

The horn I cannot blow.

It's not my place

To say how far

The Ship's allowed to go.

It's not my place

To chart the course,

Nor even toll the bell.

But let the damn thing

Start to sink 

And see who catches hell.

Valentine's Day

Some days on our Sabbatical we have not even left the condo, using our time to run or walk on the beach or read books.  But today we had planned in advance for some Valentine-themed activities.  Martha has been able to find some interesting programs and events, and today was no exception.

We began the day by running three miles.  When I put on my trusty Garmin watch, however, it was absolutely blank (thankfully, I was able to do a "factory reset" when I returned and it is working well now).  And since I have not been wearing my knee brace, I thought to myself that I was running unbraced, unfettered, and untimed - a good way to start off any day!  Martha decided to do the same thing she did last year; she parked at the First Citizens Bank on the corner of Fort Macon Road and ran across the Atlantic Beach Causeway Bridge and back.  Very extensive repairs have been underway on this bridge since we arrived and she had to dodge a few construction vehicles, but her run went well.  We will both cross this bridge, whether I run the 10-K or the half marathon, where last year we were buffeted with 40-mile-an-hour winds.

Next on the schedule for this busy day was a Brown Bag Gam at the Maritime Center in Beaufort.  The Museum has been using this term to describe the informal lunch programs they hold from time to time; Webster says that a "gam" is "a visit or friendly conversation at sea or ashore especially between whalers."   Readers of this blog will remember that we attended one of these on January 30; the subject was "The Vanishing Crew of the Carroll A. Deering."  Today's gam, "Love at Sea," was presented by Christine Brin and consisted of a dozen or so maritime love stories, most of which ended tragically, sad to say.

Christine told us about the many Widow's Walks on old houses along the waterfront in Beaufort, where the wives of sailors would watch for their return, and then offered to take us up to the one on the roof of the museum, which we have always wanted to see.

Up a narrow spiral stairway we walked, finally emerging on the Walk high above Beaufort on this brilliant day.  We recognized a man who had been on the bird walk with us on Monday and he took our picture.

We spent some time talking to Christine and another history expert, who pointed out various points of interest, including the Cape Lookout Lighthouse visible on this clear day.  Directly behind us in this picture is the flag of Fort Macon, and one mile beyond that, in a straight line, is the wreckage of Blackbeard's famous pirate ship The Queen Anne's Revenge, which is being slowly explored and preserved.  Christine said that although it is only in 24 feet of water, it is so murky that they call it Exploration by Braille.

After descending to the museum floor again, and passing several exhibits, including a startling eight-foot-long preserved timber rattlesnake killed not far from Beaufort, we crossed the street to relax a little on another roof-top, but this one not as tragic as a Widow's Walk; it was the rooftop deck of Moonrakers, a new restaurant in Beaufort featuring wonderful views of the harbor and Taylor's Creek.

We watched small craft traffic on the water for an hour or so, including the Island Ferry and several pleasure boats enjoying this sunny day, perhaps on their way out to fish.

Our next stop was an interesting one - a tour of a Caviar Farm in Smyrna, not far from Harker's Island.  We turned down a narrow road, and then an even narrower one, far out in that flat dusty country so common in this part of the world, finally turning in a driveway at the gate of a sprawling complex of steel buildings, the Marshallberg Farm - largest producer of Russian sturgeon and producers of true Osetra caviar.

Tall young Brian Reburn took about 20 of us on a tour of the Farm, his three-year-old son clinging to him the whole time, which was endearingly informal.  Brian was smart and knowledgeable, and told us more than I ever knew about sturgeon. 

These huge sturgeon, fished to near-extincion in their native Caspian sea, can live to be 100 years old and grow to a length of 40 feet, although the upper limit of both age and size are a bit of a mystery.  Brian's father-in-law, a delightfully funny Japanese man, co-owns the place with another man, and Brian's Japanese-looking wife and mother-in-law also help; LeeAnn, the wife, harvests the eggs from these fish once they are five years old or so.

The sex of the fish is unknown until they are removed  from the tank and tested with ultrasound equipment; the caviar is harvested from the females, of course, in a painstaking process.  "There's a male in one of those tanks who's about as big as I am, and we'll never be able to catch him!"  Brian's background was in water plant operation, and the facility was designed in cooperation with N. C. State.  It is a sustainable operation and the expensive caviar is sought-after.  We peppered him with questions.  "Where does the water come from?"  It is well water from wells 400 feet deep; sturgeon come down rivers to salt water and then go upstream (originally, from the Caspian Sea to the Volga) to spawn.  "What about the hurricane; did you lose power?"  They ran their generators for 10 days, he said.  Several of us were splashed by the circulating sturgeon; they seemed to do it deliberately.  "Yes, Brian said, "They especially seem to dislike red clothing."

We returned to the room where we had begun, where plates of caviar-laden appetizers were arranged on long tables.  Some of them (lower right) also contained smoked sturgeon.

The prices of the canned caviar is high enough that the business, despite its size and complexity, seems profitable, despite the father-in-law joking, "We know it is succeeding if we don't make money."  (He also made fun of a business card handed to him by a member of the tour group:  "Digital marketing?  What is that?  You sell fingers?"

That's the $750 stuff, top left, in a can about four inches in diameter.  I almost let a few of the tiny black caviar-eggs spill off one of my appetizers and realized I would have dropped about five or ten dollars on the carpet.

After this interesting part of the day, we returned to the condo and relaxed.  Roses and necklace and earrings (a gift for Martha) and Valentine's Cards were lovingly displayed on the table.

When it was time for our reservation at Amos Mosquito, we drove the two minutes down Fort Macon Road and enjoyed a delicious dinner - Thai basil-encrusted grouper for me; surf and turf for Martha.

 

I think tomorrow we will eat a little less!  But what is life all about if not for savoring, enjoying, and occasionally splurging?

Sunsets

These sunsets at Atlantic Beach are absolutely stunning.  On a clear night, 4X4 pickup trucks begin to arrive late in the afternoon - you can get permits to drive on the beach this time of year - and park facing west in anticipation of the show.  Those of us who are fortunate enough to be able to stay here oceanfront go out on our walkways, balconies, and decks, or go out on the beach, cameras in hand.  This afternoon, I did the same.  This sandpiper was briskly walking up and down the beach at surf's edge, dining on the small creatures the tide brings in.

Several times, he dug so energetically that his entire head would disappear in the sand (I could not seem to capture this on my camera).

In the background, the sky was beginning to look glorious.  In the mountains, living in a valley, we do not have such an unimpeded view of this daily display as we do here.  Beautiful!  

Amos Mosquito Restaurant, just down the road, posted a photo of the same sky on Facebook.  It reminded us that we have reservation there for dinner tomorrow night and are looking forward to it eagerly, the first time we will have eaten dinner out in a restaurant since we arrived here nearly six weeks ago.  The restaurant only takes reservations on New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day, and I think this will be our third year.

Always Something to See

We had expected it to be raining this morning and thought that the bird-watching tour at Fort Macon by Ranger Randy would thus be cancelled.  But although it was cloudy, it was not raining, so we drove the short distance to the Fort and found Randy and four others ready to go on the tour.  It  was sprinkling a little by then, nothing very hard, so we started down the Elliot Coues Nature Trail behind the Fort in rain gear, carrying binoculars.  I could not hear any birds at all and did not expect to see many.

Randy is an enthusiastic bird-watcher who never grows tired of spotting birds.  He seems to be equipped with some kind of bird radar, spotting them long before the rest of us.  "Yellow rump there!" he would cry out and point, and the rest of us would swing our binoculars around to see.

Almost immediately, we saw a beautiful black-crested night heron that I would very likely not have spotted without the guidance of his keen eyes, sitting on a bare branch across a small pond, still and quiet, before leaping into the air and soaring away over the Coast Guard Station.  It reminded me of a poem I wrote last year:

Do we have a name for

The joy that we feel when the shroud of fog rolls away,

Or when the night heron rises in exultant flight? 

I tried to take photos of the heron and the other birds we saw, but had no success at all.  But I made a little list:

• Black-crested night heron
• Yellow rump warbler
• Song sparrow
• Common loon
• Red-throated loon
• Cormorant
• Bonaparte gull
• Red breasted merganser
• Sanderling
• Sand piper
• Willet 

 We went down to the beach (for the cormorants, loons, etc.) and circled back to the fort.  "Well, we saw some pretty good birds after all," I said.  "There's always something to see," Randy said.  And that is so true!

We felt like celebrating a little, so we stopped at the Shuckin Shack in Morehead City for lunch.  The cause for celebration is that exactly 41 years ago, Martha and I went out on our first date.  We talked about that over lunch - how our lives would have been different if we had not met, how many adventures we had shared together in the past and are planning for the future ("There's always something to see!"), and how wonderful it is to have a partner for life to love and cherish.  As Pastor Sarah had said in church yesterday, "Two are better than one." (Ecclesiastes 4:9).

It was Martha's turn to write on the white board on the refrigerator yesterday, and she wrote, "The best thing to hold onto in life is each other.  Here’s to 41 years!" 

The Cure

This afternoon, after attending church and having a light lunch at the condo, we went to Beaufort to attend the Beaufort Historical Association's (BHA) Annual Valentine Party.  Martha had spotted this free event in the local newspaper (a good way to find out what is going on), and the warm and sunny afternoon was perfect for mingling with locals in the BHA.  There was a great deal of delicious food under the big tent set up at the Historic Site on Turner Street, and we soon regretted having had even a "light" lunch.

We toured the Old Jail, with its stock outside the front door, circa 1829 and in operation until the 1950s.  A costumed BHA docent showed us around the old building.

The brick floors inside were laid down by the same brick masons who built Fort Mason, she said.  "A man was hanged here in 1875," she confided, as if imparting a sinister secret to us; then she pointed up the staircase to an ominous noose suspended from the rafters.

The old courthouse next door looked as if it was ready for court to be in session at any moment and prepared to send convicted wrongdoers to the Jail.  The judge's bench was at a table behind the handrail, or "bar;" thus, attorneys were permitted to "pass the bar" when a trial was underway.

The apothecary was open for business, too, its glass bottles of lotions and potions lined up neatly behind glass-doored cabinets.

We love learning about the history of this area, and the Historic Site is well-maintained and carefully preserved by the Association.  It felt like a little slice of Williamsburg, or Old Salem, here under the shade of live oak trees.  Martha sat on a bench and chatted with a local woman, who said she and her sister had planted a nearby tree in memory of her mother in 2013.  The tree was called a "popcorn tree," and it bloomed in tiny white flowers that look exactly like popcorn.

I heard the sound of oyster-shells being thrown into a metal pail across the lawn, and on a long table two men were shucking the delicacies as soon as they emerged from the steam-pot behind them.  I watched one of them expertly shuck one after another, not even using a towel or glove for his hand.  "Oyster on the table!" he would call out, and plop an opened oyster in front of him.  "Three oysters on the table!  Four oysters on the table!"  They did not remain on the table for very long.

We sat in rocking chairs on the wide porch of the Josiah Bell house (1825), which reminded Martha of her Mamah's house in Raleigh with its high ceilings.  We went inside and I tried to play a little on this old piano, which I found was more out-of-tune than any piano I have ever played!

"They say it can't be tuned," a young woman said, but she nevertheless recognized the first two or three bars of Bach's Prelude in C from the Well Tempered Clavier.  We chatted for awhile, and then she and her friend went into the adjoining room and played a beautiful flute duet by a French composer of the same period, Jean de Bonmarché.

In the last house we visited, two women offered us sweet cakes, cookies, and punch, which we declined.  "The punch is called 'The Cure,'" one woman said, and poured some out into a little glass cup.  "It's made with mulling spices, sugar, and rum, and it cures everything, including a bad attitude.  We also have some without rum if you like.  And the cups are from St. Paul's Episcopal Church and they have been blessed."  

"Well, in that case, I can't refuse," I said.  I sipped a little of the warm, sweet, amber-colored concoction.  "I'm not sure what I had that was ailing me, but I feel that I have been cured!"  And indeed we both felt cured, sitting in the sunshine on a Sunday afternoon, thankful for the miracle of healing.