A Winter Beach Update

On a winter beach, sparsely populated,
the surf is too cold for children’s toes,
the children of summer with their bright plastic pails.

That’s what I wrote last year in the final poem in my upcoming poetry collection, The Continental Divide.  I have always enjoyed the winter beach, despite the absence of children and their bright plastic pails.  The average temperature in Atlantic Beach in January is a high of 56 degrees and a low of 36 degrees, which is almost balmy in comparison to Highlands in January, despite the ever-present wind.  But this year it has been much colder, 15 degrees colder on average.  It has been too cold even for the surf fishermen, who usually bundle up and collapse in a chair and drink beer all day.  And the kite-flyers, too, have been absent except for two days early in the month.  I have always loved that the kite-flyers are adults, pursuing what many would call a childish activity, but they are as serious about fishing in the sky as the surf fishermen.  The point is not in catching anything.  It is in simply enjoying the soothing sound of the ocean, and time and the tide and the endless surprises you may find left behind in the surf.

It wasn’t especially cold when we arrived on December 31.  We had booked New Year’s Eve reservations at one of our favorite restaurants, Amos Mosquito’s, named by the owner for a knock-knock joke she had always misremembered when she was a child (Amos who?  Amos Mosquito). 

We toasted the New Year at our favorite table sound-side, and then we hurried out to Fort Macon State Park to watch an event we had never seen before, the firing of the entire battery of cannons, the big ones you first see lined up facing Beaufort Harbor when you visit the Fort.

It was spectacular – all nine of them, one at a time – and very loud indeed, a worthy sound for celebrating a New Year, clouds of gunpowder-smoke rolling down across the road and forewarned children with index fingers stuck in their ears.

We returned to the Fort the next day to complete the First Day Hike, a tradition for many families in the area and very well-attended, a three-mile hike on the Elliott Coues Nature Trail.  The trail starts at the Fort and winds its way westward across high sand dunes overlooking the ocean (sand dunes built up by the careful placement of Christmas trees there every year), then back eastward through a maritime forest along the sound.  I held my tongue when we saw that one of the hikers, a woman with a New York accent, was wearing a TRUMP 2024 cap.  Give us a break!  We’re on a hike.  It’s bad enough that the Inauguration will be taking place in less than three weeks, a dark reality that looms in the background threatening to disturb the peace and quiet of our annual Sabbatical.

It was a good way to start 2025, and I followed it up with a three-mile run on Friday morning.  On Saturday, we drove the mile or so to one of our favorite places out here in the winter, Crystal Coast Brewing Company, where for a number of years we have attended a yoga class originally called Bend and Brew, now Yoga and Beers.  Martha had pointed out to me that the advertisement included a photo from last year where a class was just finishing up with Shavasana, and the two of us were shown in the foreground, poster children for yoga.

We had a wonderful class, followed by a good Crystal Coast IPA, but unfortunately learned that the Brewery was closing in only a day or two – its lease had not been renewed – and there would be no more yoga, or beer, in the modern, attractive building we had come to love (although they will be looking for a new location).  We had met some nice people there, including a fit young man named Steven, who was there for the final day and joined us in bemoaning the loss.

With every disappointing piece of news (including, a few days later, a fire at one of our other favorite places, BT’s Bar and Grill, almost next door), there is sometimes some good news.  We learned that our Medicare Supplement included free membership in something called FitOn Health, which covered the entire cost of attending the Sports Center in Morehead Center, which had included among other features yoga classes, swimming pools, and three large rooms of exercise equipment (both machines and free weights), which ordinarily would cost $15.00 per day.  We attended a yoga class there a few days later and it was a good one, and one of our friends from Bend and Brew was there, too, but alas there was no beer afterward (well, on-site anyway).

Another thing we like about our winter getaway is attending church regularly, where the Senior Pastor is a gifted preacher named Powell Osteen.  We have joined the Methodist Church in Highlands, and this long-time Presbyterian has even gotten used to saying “trespasses” instead of “debts” in the Lord’s Prayer, and “Holy Spirit” instead of “Holy Ghost.”  But we learned that last year the church voted to “disaffiliate” and is now a Global Methodist Church instead of a United Methodist Church.  Pastor Powell is still there, together with the same assistant pastors and choir members and liturgy, and as with many denominations the issue is over marrying and ordaining LGBTQ Christians, which makes me uncomfortable except that Powell still preaches the same thoughtful sermons and the hymnal is still the United one with that wonderful first page written by Wesley, “Directions for Singing” ("sing lustily and with good courage,” etc.)  Which is worth a blog post of its own one of these days.

Mid-week, it turned cold and windy, colder than usual.  Still, when the wind is out of the north, we can sit in the sun on our balcony looking out at the view of the dunes and the dune-top deck (where I do my morning Tai Chi), and I can be warm enough to take off my shirt, even when the temperature is in the 40s.  I have gone out there almost every morning to witness the sunrise, and it is different every time, and always just as beautiful even when sometimes partially obscured by clouds.

And the sunsets can also be seen from the same place on this south-facing beach.  There are not many places where you can see the sun set over the ocean in North Carolina.  Despite the colder than usual temperatures, we are still walking on the beach whenever we can.  We even saw dolphins one day, arcing up out of the water, black dorsal fin flashing in the sunlight.  You never know what you will find on the big, wide beach, flat enough to run there at low tide.

And we went on another group hike, a so-called Nature Hike at Fort Macon last week, although the same woman with a TRUMP 2024 hat was there.  I felt like saying, Look, I know you won, but do you have to rub it in our faces?  I am still wrapping my head around the fact that more than half of the electorate, including some of our friends and relatives, made what I consider a terrible decision to elect the host of The Apprentice to another term.

My running is going well after a five-week hiatus in November when we went to Italy, where I did plenty of walking but no running.  I’ve done a “long” run of five miles so far, and I even did some interval training last week, four fast repeats at the Fort Macon Picnic Area, halfway between here and the fort two-and-a-half miles away.  I like to have races on the agenda, and if the weather and my training progress continues, my first race of the year will be the Cocoa 5-K on February 1, which we have both completed many times over the years and is held in Morehead City in conjunction with the annual Carolina Chocolate Festival.  The race seems to be almost kept a secret, I suppose because running is in a way the exact opposite of attending a Chocolate Festival – “Are you ready for a weekend of pure chocolate bliss? Get ready for the Carolina Chocolate Festival!” the website announces.  Participants in the Cocoa 5-K are given a ticket to the event, and one year we actually attended, amused among other things by the Pudding Eating Contest – “ALL AGES ARE INVITED TO ENTER!” 

You never know what to expect when you run the Cocoa 5-K.  One year, huddling in an enclosed tent sipping (naturally) hot cocoa, the Race Director left, taking the results with him, and we had to look them up on-line the next day.  Last year, I crossed the finish line and went inside a building (the new venue) and waited for the awards,  only to learn that there were only two awards bestowed upon participants – the first overall, and the youngest.  “Oh, we don’t have any age group awards,” the Race Director told me when I asked.  “It’s just a Fun Run.”  If I decide to run it this year it will be because it is on a measured 5-K course (and a new, improved course) and because it is, awards or not, a race after all.

We always discover new adventures while we are out here, and this year is no exception.  The Hotel Alice and its wonderful bar and friendly manager, Amy, where we attended a wine tasting last January, is entirely different, with an unfriendly desk clerk and a bar open only one day a week.  But Mug Shot is still there, a little coffee shop and wine bar just over the bridge, and the same young man was pouring generous glasses of wine when we stopped by last week.  The hole-in-the-wall place is decorated with large mug shots of famous celebrities who have been arrested (Johnny Cash, Frank Sinatra, Mick Jagger, David Bowie) and features interesting drinks, such as The Misdemeanor, The Arsonist, and The Serial Pain Killer.   We also discovered a new restaurant in Morehead City that just opened this year called Tower 7, where they have $4.00 tacos and $4.00 margaritas on Tuesdays.

And the annual Clam Chowder Cookoff still takes place in the Harvey W. Smith Watercraft Center (where they actually build boats), which is across the street from the North Carolina Maritime Museum in Beaufort.

Four chefs prepare clam chowder and cornbread in the big building, and participants vote on the best one.  We do love clam chowder, especially “Downeast Chowder,” made from a clear broth by chef Dawn Freeman (in the blue cup) and the perennial winner.

Last Sunday, we drove to New Bern to see the RiverTowne Players' production of the musical Memphis.  We have seen many of the Players performances before and they are always top-notch, and the venue is the Masonic Theater, a fine old playhouse with a lot of character (though not enough restrooms for the ladies).  The play was “a vibrant, high-energy production that tells the story of the birth of rock 'n' roll in the segregated American South during the 1950s” and did a fine job of portraying the struggle for racial equality, concluding by being both hopeful and inspirational.

Ironically enough, the next day, Monday, was Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and also, even more ironically, the day when Donald J. Trump was inaugurated as the 47^th President.  And I still find it hard to believe that I just typed those words.  We did not watch the felon, although I understand he failed to place his hand on the Bible, and I later heard only snippets of his dark, grievance-filled speech.  So much for being “hopeful and inspirational."  What a strange and terrible time to be alive in America!  The first two days (only 1,459 more to go) of this President's term were filled with Nazi salutes, blanket pardons for criminal Oath Keepers and Proud Boys, and wild talk about buying Greenland and taking back the Panama Canal.  The Circus is back in town. 

I’ve been trying to avoid the news because it is so depressing.  We have both been reading books every evening, Martha has been preparing delicious and healthy lunches and dinners, and we have been staying busy.  But it has been cold, and this week an unprecedented thing happened out here:  SNOW! The forecasts were hard to believe at first – I cynically told a woman in the checkout line at Harris Teeter Monday, “I’ll believe it when I see it,” and she answered, “Same.”  But Tuesday night the cold intensified and the weather apps on our phones kept predicting snow.  And just after sunset, around 7:00 pm or so, we began to see flakes, big flakes, sticking on the balcony rail, and snow laying on the lawn between the building and the swimming pool.  And the wind howled through the door as it does out here, all night long.

Wednesday morning revealed a sight we have never seen before, although one year there was a dusting of snow and in 2022 there was an ice storm.  I measured somewhere between three and five inches when I went out to investigate, but some drifts were knee-high.  And I have high knees.  What a beautiful sight!  Snow on the sand dunes, snow on the beach.  And today, as I complete this blog update, it is Thursday afternoon and not much of it has melted.  I have not run a step since Monday.  How am I supposed to train for a race?

Martha has returned from a walk on the beach which she says was extraordinary, made even more magical by sighting dolphins again, out in the ocean.   

We stocked up on groceries in plenty of time, we are warm, and we have books to read.  Tomorrow I will try to get the Honda out and see if I can get across the big Atlantic Beach Bridge.  But in the meantime, it has not been at all difficult to be snowbound at the beach.