Outer Banks Adventures II- The calm before the storm

After coming back from the Outer Banks just this past Tuesday, I was invited back for the holiday weekend. With my bag barely unpacked, and thinking Dorian was just the name of a Disney character, I made my way back to Cape Hatteras.

Heading South on Highway 12

The highlight of this beauty of a weekend was the day spent on Cape Point. If looking at a map of North Carolina, the most eastern spot is a sliver of sandy real estate jutting into the Atlantic. It’s only reachable by four wheel drive. It’s also a prime surf fishing location.

On this busy and beautiful holiday, FWDs line up, hubcaps almost touching, to stake a claim to cast into their little piece of ocean for the day.

Rods and Reels and Reels and Rods…

For non-fishing folks, beachcombers can find shell remnants that are 10 times the size seen at most beaches.

Three gigantic broken conch shells
(For my essay on Broken Shells, please visit my earlier post)

There are also plenty of photo ops, from pretty fat seagulls to that pretty tall, pretty old beacon of light about 1/4 mile to the west.

At 210 feet tall, the tallest brick lighthouse in the US is just a year shy of 150 years old

Gull in flight

Watching fisherpeople of all ages take on the task of baiting then waiting is an essay in itself.

The very tip of the Outer Banks

Baby spinner fish, who lives to see another day

Sometimes the fisherman wins. Usually the fish does.

The only one that didn’t get away

As the day winds down and the sun starts setting, the gear gets packed up and trucks one by one pull out.

Dorian is out there, now a Cat 5 hurricane, and like ones that’ve come before, it will either strike or skirt this place where sand meets sea. The hurricane may change it, but it will still remain.

There’s something to learn from that.

Broken Shells

In my summer quest to journal about my treks on trails, today’s story is a bit of a departure.

I’m by the sea at the moment. It is my escape. I’m drawn to it when I’m happy, even more when I’m sad. It restores my soul. Yesterday was not a good day. So today I find myself walking along the sand, with the waves barely licking my toes. While this is not a marked trail through majestic trees or along a mountain pass, it is the path where earth meets sea meets sky.

I came across people looking down, searching for that perfect sea shell, spying one, picking it up, and tossing it down as soon as they see it’s cracked or worn or ugly underneath. And I am suddenly irritated by this. There are millions if not billions of shells. They are tossed and pounded and beaten and seldom survive raging storms unscathed. Then I see them. Three broken shells. 

All three had their best sides showing to the world. But, when you pick them up and look a little closer, you see the broken edges, the scars, the cracks. It’s easy to imagine someone coming along, reaching down to pick up and take that shell, then tossing it aside when seeing the imperfections.

Broken shells are a sign of strength, of perseverance, of survival. They are defiant and tenacious, not giving up, not giving in. They are beaten and tossed by forces much stronger than they. But they are here, still. Broken shells are nature’s reminder to not give up hope.

I picked up all three imperfect, broken shells. I did not toss them back down.