Thanksgiving Retreat: A Country BnB

At Atlantic Beach, we walked into a sunset of vermilion red rays lighting up the sooty cloud bottoms - the last tendrils of sunshine reaching up from beyond the grave, with a spirit that seemed to refuse death. Eventually, though, there was purple dusk, deep blue water, and a hint of pure, new-bent, moonlight, before the final, cold darkness as we found our way back to the boardwalk.

We ate burritos in Beaufort at a hip joint and threw away a couple quarters in an old arcade machine. Seems like we died no sooner than we started. Is that a metaphor for something else?

At the Gloucester House, looking over Sleepy Creek, Down East in North Carolina, we ate farm fresh eggs. The yolks burst force fierce, tiger orange, creamy rich and running, pouncing, perfectly cooked with toasted whole wheat bread to sop it up and thick orange juice, full of pulp, to wash it down. We were all northern transplants in that kitchen - except the dog - and we jawed on about this and that: the husband that ran off for a younger woman, the wife who gave him good riddance, the chickens picked off by a fox, the goats and how to mind them.

Later that morning, we bought three tickets for a ferry ride to one of those magic, barrier islands, Shackleford Banks. Benji was the star of the show, making the rounds of the other passengers for some love and affection, but eventually he settled down, shivered, and leaned in close to me. The headwind was cold and he's got nerves. The Bank was another world: sand dunes and scrub brush, briars that itched at my ankles, terribly mean cacti hiding in the sand with spines that went right through my sneakers, but I felt quite thrilled with it all and I imagined myself a trailblazing adventurer. We hiked on horse trails into the island, past a few wild ponies. Then, we turned towards the ocean and finally came to the wide, shell strewn beach. We followed it back to the dock and waited for our ferry.

We split for home as soon as we set foot to dry land. On the way, we made a pit stop in Goldsboro for hush puppies, gravy, and barbecue chicken, Wilbur's Barbecue. I could hardly believe all the years that had past since my first visit there, all the subsequent visits, and the stark, sterile realization that I may have nothing to show for it save a aging body on its hyperbolic decline. I must admit that I can't help but to feel that way of late. As a young man, I made it a point to remind myself that I am surrounded by beauty and wonder, quiet contemplation is an accomplishment in itself, and memories are my most treasured possessions. I wonder if I can hold onto those as I age.

Then again, I thrive in adversity, and discomfort need not be uncomfortable, if you see my meaning. I suspect that, in pursuit of more memories, we will make our way back to the coast for another island adventure.