Becoming the Sea

Dinner Friday night.

Going to the coast feels transformative. In the first place, I watch the landscape transform. Mixed hardwoods give way to dominant pine and low scrubby oak. Clay yields to sand. Urbane wealth fades away and you're left with rural mystery. “What do these people do,” Susan asked watching the cinder block houses with rusty metal roofs fly by somewhere between Wallace and Maple Hill. We drove deep into the backwood sand flats, flying around a twisted rural highway. There's also something that changes in me as I relax my go-go-go (not go-go) personality. So, I drove soaking in the the beautiful symmetry between spring and fall. The trees are red and orange in both seasons, though spring is more subdued, a bit hazy. Jessimine was in bloom, gold and green, growing up and over the cedar and pine at forest edges. Susan pulled out a small Casio keyboard and gave me a private chamber recital: Circle of Life, Kumbayah, Down in the Valley, etc., etc., just the classics.

E. at the Mountain to Sea terminus.

We arrived at North Topsail Beach and went to check out our rental, half of a beach bungalow set up on stilts just across the street from the ocean. There was balcony attached to our bedroom at the rear of the house that stepped down to the ground, where a rotten gate opened onto a pier stretching into the coastal estuary. It was a weathered, grey, suspicious thing, the pier, with boards that were not even afixed to the joists - the salty air had probably disintegrated the nails. The pier ended at a square dock with a single light, rusted and useless, on a tall arm. The tide was low, most of the estuary was smooth, black, stinking mud, and fingerling islands of grass. In the distance, we could make out the main land, million dollar homes and the Intercoastal Waterway running in front of them.

Benji was with us, and without warning, he jumped off the pier down three or four feet into a grassy island. I think he immediately realized that getting back up would not be so smart, and he paniced. He dashed off in the direction of the house, which led straight across the mud where he plopped square in the middle of the channel, sank down to his belly, and backpedaled to the grass. He looked at us with puppy-dog-eyes, imploring us to jump into the marsh and rescue him. We did our best to coax him to try and climb back up, but he was resolute: rescue me or bust! "I know how to get him up here," I said, and I turned and walked away back to the house. Susan followed. Benji gave one pitiful bark and then leapt and pulled himself onto the deck. As if that experience wasn't terrifying enough for him, Benji then had to get a bath.

I dreamt of the tides that night and woke up thirsty. Susan was already out at the pier’s end with her binoculars. “I’d like to kayak,” I told her. We grabbed a tandem kayak out from under the porch, left Benji behind, and went to the end of the pier. There was a brief struggle trying to drop the kayak down into the water, but soon enough we were snaking through a maze of marsh grass into the New River Inlet, watching the waterfowl and noting landmark bouyes by which we'd navigate back home. Eventually, we cut across the whole channel, itself a part of the Atlantic Intercostal Waterway, before drifting a bit in the current and turning back for home. Susan and I combed the beach late that afternoon picking up smooth, frosted things, wondering if they were sea glass or stone. Susan was on the lookout for dolphins, and she spotted a family of them, including what we assume to be a baby. Back at the apartment, I struggled to make a healthy lunch while avoiding the Teflon coated pans. I largely succeeded.

After our game of dats.

In the evening, we decided to go out for a bite at Lo-Re-Lei, a local pub, which I had spied on a visit to the grocery the night before. It being St. Patty's Day, we weren't sure just what was in store for us. Suffice it to say, we were all impressed. There was a live rock trio, with a majestic bass god, straight and tall as a viking, with a healthy belly and a floor fan blowing back his long, greying hair. The wind sweeping his hair back from his stone face made it seem as if he were fronting a longship of powerchord classic rock. I had a fried fish dinner, soaked in malt vinegar, and wings, and eventually felt sick from all the horrible, delicious food. Susan and I slow danced to the sweet harmonies of Elvin Bishop ("Fooled Around And Fell In Love"), and then we all had a rousing game of darts, where despite three bull's-eyes, I was bested. 

S. becomes the sea...

On Sunday, we awoke, had a quick breakfast, and picked up the house to the sounds of "Plantasia", a Moog-drentched relic of the seventies. Then, Susan and I walked the beach once more where I picked up one more stone for my collection, and Susan had a brief commune with the ocean where I half thought she might ride off on a dolphin. But, instead she rode shotgun as we sped back inland to our home.