"Good-bye, Tommy!"
"See you next time, Tommy!"
Stopping and paying homage to Tommy the Crab is a Myrtle Beach tradition. When the kids were little they even had a framed picture of Tommy in their room. I suppose his cheerful/nonchalant attitude (though he is forever suspended on the top of a seafood restaurant) represents Myrtle Beach for us -- it's stress free, it's fun, and being in intimate proximity to the vast mysteries of the ocean keeps us from feeling like we aren't carpe diem-ing.
Saturday was our exit date. We had tentative plans to hit the secret shelling location at low tide, but when the alarm went off at 6am, and I looked at the weather I decided that 26 degrees wasn't optimum for standing and digging in frigid water. We packed, and made tidy the villa, and were on the road and heading for Tommy, Krispy Kreme (our other MB tradition), and the airport to drop off the grandparents.
The donuts did not assuage the let-down of leaving a favorite vacation place, and certainly didn't lessen the sadness of dropping off the grandparents. The Girl is a cryer (she gets it from her mother... alas...), thus prompting me to try out the somewhat irritating quote on her: "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." It made me feel like a schmuck the moment I said it. When we feel junky enough to cry we certainly don't need somebody to make us feel more junky for crying. Usually, the best strategy is to just keep moving forward.
And so we did. Our route home was not to be direct, but rather an opportunity to check out the outer banks. This was a tricky decision, as it required some hustling... I had a goal that we be off the road come the drunkenly conclusion of the Super Bowl on Sunday. What to choose when the outer banks offers so much?
Not really part of our plans, but we did pass Camp Lejeune -- a Marine Corps base that my grandfather had been stationed at. I had always heard it as "lajoon," but The Dad, a French speaker, kept saying something that had some w's in it or something. Finally it dawned on me that it was a French word.
"What does it mean?"
"The young."
"Oh."
A rare example of the military not covering up the truth.
Our first OBX (that's what the locals call the outer banks) stop, was Cape Lookout National Seashore. With its lighthouse dressed like a harlequin, and its confident push out into the sea, it definitely carries a sense of drama and adventure. Case in point: the gift shop at the visitor's center is filled with books about pirates (Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard, spent a lot of time in the OBX), "The Graveyard of the Atlantic," WWII U-boat activity/Torpedo Junction, and sharks! We bought a book labeled as a "classic" called Taffy of Torpedo Junction and read it in the car/on the ferry. It was the perfect blend for both kiddos -- a dog and a pony as main characters for the girl, and mystery and war history as main themes for the boy.
But before we hit the gift shop, we watched a poetry-filled 26-minute movie called, Ribbon of Sand (here it is in it's entirety) that not only shows the beauty of Cape Lookout, but also explains the uncertain future of the outer banks. It stuns me to think of the gamble that people are taking in putting down permanent residence there -- does carpe diem ever become foolhardy? Acknowledging that I'm Grammy, I can't speak for that. My brain constantly weighs where the safest place to live is. I know NYC might seem a strange choice, but with the lack of driving, doormen, healthy eating sensibilities, top medical institutions, and millions of witnesses, it seems the best bet so far.
Of course there was a Junior Ranger program to be done. As it's off season, the ranger there was generous, put on a private little program for the kids, and even gave them a couple of very large shark teeth (I like to think that this was the universe's way of showing The Girl that all her hard work paid off. She sifted and dug and scoured the beach and found nothing, and then in an unexpected way she gets handed some very cool specimens. Sometimes that's how things work. Our job is to keep trying -- keep moving -- and have faith that things will work out one way or another).
So into the car to start Taffy of Torpedo Junction and race (without surpassing the speed limit!) to catch our ferry to Ocracoke Island.
Now, if you look at a map of the OBX (not sure if grammatically that "the" should proceed OBX?) you will see that if you take a two-plus hour ferry to Ocracoke you can drive the length of it, past the stable where the Ocracoke ponies are kept, and on to a ferry that leaves every 40 minutes, and (in well under an hour) drops you at Hatteras. That was our plan. As we passed the booth to get on the ferry we were told that the Hatteras bay was being dredged, so the ferry service wasn't running. Derrrrrr... The captain was radioing down to the booth that we needed to get on the ferry or they were leaving, and we sat in stunned, but panicked, silence trying to look at the map and figure out what to do. It was a no-win situation. Three extra hours driving or five hours on a ferry? Every adventure starts by saying, "Yes," so that's what we went with...
We were to arrive on Ocracoke shortly after 6pm and then we would have to make a decision -- one way or another we had to take the ferry to Swansquarter (a three-hour ferry ride, and the only way off the island), and then drive up and over two-plus hours to get to our destination of Hatteras. The question was, would we spend the night at the one motel on the island that stays open all year, or take the last ferry running that night at 7pm?
When we got to the island it was already dark. And isolated. And after two weeks of vacationing (a goodly part of it with The Dad at the helm, so it can rightfully be referred to as "extreme vacationing") I was fragile. Except for some family members of the crew, we had been the only people on the ferry, which heightened the level of creepiness on my creepy-meter. I voiced that if I was Stephen King I would have rich material for a new novel. It didn't take long to realize that we would be taking the 7pm ferry off the island (which came at a high price: that would mean no pony-viewing).
We bought our ticket, drove to find food -- luckily a pizza joint was open and we put in our order, drove past the lighthouse (only The Dad got out of the car), and visited the British Cemetery. This did get me out of the car briefly. Until this trip to the outer banks the only enemy contact that I thought the US had was the attack on Pearl Harbor. All of those U-boats lurking along the outer banks is a fascinating piece of history. As our navy wasn't equipped to handle this major threat (at one point in 1942 the Germans were sinking a vessel a day off the outer banks), Britain sent help. One of those helping ships was hit by a torpedo, and everybody died; four bodies washed ashore (another one was found in Hatteras). To show respect and gratitude, the plot of land where those four sailors were buried has been leased to the British government and is maintained by the US Coast Guard.
We picked up our pizza and queued for the ferry (I made the comment: "Well kids, you can say that you went to Ocracoke Island to pick up a pizza). We decided that the island that seemed so Stephen-King-material-rich at night during the winter is most likely magical and awesome during the summer. And now: three hours on the shark-infested waters in the dark. Did I mention I was fragile? The kids worked on a Junior Ranger program that the good ranger at the Ocracoke station had left for The Dad (because he had called ahead). I read some Taffy aloud. We wandered about. There were three other people on the ferry.
Finally, just before 10pm we docked and realized that all of the hotel options we had considered closed their offices at 9:00. After a grumpy two hours, around midnight we checked into some Holiday Inn Express near Kitty Hawk, grimly surveyed our room (things always look worse when it's late and you're fragile), and turned in for the night. Morning came fast, but we had no desire to linger in our lodgings, so with Holiday Inn's famous cinnamon rolls in hand we were soon on our way to Buxton on Hatteras Island. Buxton is where Taffy lived, and it's where the Cape Hatteras Light is located.
Inasmuch as the ocean frightens me, I am also drawn to it and all things related to it. The Lighthouse Service and the US Life Saving Service fascinate me to no end. The choice to throw yourself into the elements -- the ocean at its very worst -- because it's a job that needs to be done, boggles the mind. Keeping cozy with all that mind-boggling is the hyper-nostalgic, romantic-in-the-not-Valentines-sense, heroic aspect of it. There was also an awesome, and by awesome I mean awesome, song that I first heard as a kid while listening to the Dr. Demento show at my friend's house (Friend J -- you brought much weird-awesomeness into my life) by Erika Eigen. It's called, "I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper" -- some might know it because it's on Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange soundtrack (that man! This song and Dr. Strangelove? You can't say that he didn't know awesome). This clip is awesome because it might be Judd the Red Chicken's future; this one is just awesome; and this one is interesting because it's Ms. Eigen out of her prime, but using what currency she has (this song) to support a cause that she believes in (awareness regarding a dam in Brazil... also of interest to The Boy) -- plus it has ukuleles... might be one of the first songs we learn. Watching all three of those clips fills me with a sense of accomplishment -- my kids are getting a brilliant education this year. Listening to that song also makes me think that we might have a clue as to what The Dad's future could be. You better bet that the first order of business would be ordering this place setting that I had to talk myself out of:
I liked this one, too:
Back to our story at hand. We went to the Cape Hatteras light house (tallest in the US), and befriended the lady in the bookstore ("I want to take pictures of your kids' sweatshirts!" "Do you live here year round?" "Yes, it's rather exciting. Though some who retire here eventually have to sell because there isn't any medical care. They have to helicopter you out and then you have to pay for it."). We also looked through the museum at the lighthouse keeper's house, and (wait for it) finished a Junior Ranger program.
Our next stop was church where a member of that ward (congregation) spoke about unexpected changes -- when you feel like you've received personal revelation you move on it, even if it doesn't seem logical (his family had a moving truck packed and were taking off the next day). It was nice. It's fun to go to other wards when traveling and see which group of Mormons seem more, or less, peculiar. We then (again in our church clothes and tennis shoes) checked out Jockey's Ridge State Park. We were hoping that it was going to be like our experience with the Indiana Dunes, but while the dunes are the biggest, we didn't find one tall continuous one that was thrilling to run down. Plus it was cold.
Kitty Hawk. There is so much good stuff there that I hope the kids picked up on. I hope it permeated into their beings and world views and personal philosophies. Examples of what I'm talking about:
The Wright Brothers tried to always be honest in their dealings. By all accounts what motivated them and buoyed them after set-backs was passion, not money. They worked at a bicycle shop to learn about engineering and mechanics, but also to pay the expenses of all their experiments.
They did not look like slouches. Check out the shoes he was wearing while working at the bicycle shop:
December 17, 1903. Outside on the field they have put up the markers of the first four flights. When you hear the distance of the "big" one, and learn that it was 59 seconds it kind of feels like "big whoop." But when you actually stand on the field and see the first three and know that it was like: clunk, clunk, clunk and then on the fourth try -- sooooooaarrrrrr. It all makes sense. How very, very exciting. And such a lesson on perception. And how previous experiences influence our perceptions.
Mostly what I hope they learned is that if they work together they can go higher and accomplish more. That's what siblings can be for each other (cue Bette Midler).
And then the drive home. We finished reading Taffy of Torpedo Junction, and jeepers gang, look what we have:
Zoinks! After the bad guy is apprehended he says: "Last night's events are very unfortunate, thanks to the meddling of this stupid girl and her dog!"
Now, I don't know the history of how Scooby-Doo was created, but this book was written in 1957. It's fun to wonder: did somebody read this as a kid and someday it resurfaced? Whether it's because we are all constructs, or because of the zeitgeist, or because of past experiences, it is fun to reflect on all the intersections of life.
We also read some To Kill a Mockingbird, and the kids watched The Fantastic Mr. Fox again. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant in Maryland and were virtually the only people in the huge, brightly-painted place. It was a Super Bowl induced ghost town. My goal was to get home before the game ended, and we met the goal within about five minutes. As The Dad was unloading the car he said that the people suddenly pouring out on the streets was like so many ants.
Sometimes I consider our daily lives and schedules and petty concerns and reference that concept -- ants busily moving pieces of sand around. But then we see dolphins in sun-splintered water, feel the tangible love of grandparents for their grandkids like heat waves coming off asphalt, and imagine what the first flight -- while laying on your belly -- must have felt like, and then, well, life doesn't feel so ant-like. Not that ants are bad, or not smart, or not special, but the fullness of an ant's creation, shouldn't be similar to the fullness of a girl's, or a boy's, or a woman's, or a man's.
