The sea

I have returned from a long weekend of beach camping on North Carolina's Outer Banks.

Julia had mentioned she wanted to go a few months ago so we sat down and looked at the calendar. Cape Lookout seemed promising. One long weekend in July seemed to work for both of us so we decided on it.

...but that weekend brought thunderstorms and strong currents to Cape Lookout. No ferries were running and neither one of us was particularly keen to get stuck out on a big sandbar in the middle of the Atlantic during a lightning storm. We cancelled the trip and lamented over the fact that we wouldn't get to go before Julia moved away and started graduate school.

Then, as often happens in life, schedules unexpectedly changed and another opportunity opened up for this weekend. I scrambled to make arrangements (big thanks to Sean, who was asked on Thursday "Sean, can you do everything for the next few days?" and immediately replied "Sure.") and on Friday we were stepping off a tiny ferry onto a remote strip of beach that would be our home for the next few days.

Cape Lookout National Seashore is a national park now, but it used to be an important part of the nation's lighthouse system. You can read more about it here. Other than the lighthouse and a small Ranger station the whole island is undeveloped. There are two sides - the sheltered cove side is a patchwork of calm salt marshes, filled with herons, small fish, mud, and a hell of a lot of biting insects. On the ocean side, rolling dunes give way to a broad beach and the endless roar of the Atlantic Ocean.

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When given a choice between mountains and ocean I usually choose mountains, but there's something about the sea that speaks deeply to me. When I was a young kid I answered the ubiquitous "what do you want to be when you grow up" question with "A scuba diver!" (which later evolved into "A marine biologist!") I loved going to big aquariums and loved maritime culture and history. (hanging in my house right now is an old brass ship's clock) I've spent a fair amount of time on boats and ships and even have a few tales to tell about storms, near shipwrecks, actual shipwrecks, sharks, big fish, and an unexpected swim with a manatee. There's nothing like breathing sea air and watching the endless patterns of the waves. It always feels like coming home.

That home feeling hits especially hard when I'm swimming in the ocean. There is some primordial magic power in the sea. It's where we all come from after all. Floating on the water, diving under waves, body surfing, even just standing in the shallows and letting the waves crash around me is a uniquely calming experience.

Not surprisingly, it's also a playful one. With the obligations of the outside world left on the mainland, we embraced purposelessness and did as we pleased. I wrestled the ocean and lost. Julia built sandcastles. We took long walks and marveled when a retreating wave revealed hundreds of coquinas glinting in the sun like little jewels - until they all flipped onto their ends and reburied themselves under the sand - gone in an instant.

We were excellent opportunists and scroungers. We found a rusted half empty lighter near our campsite and got it working, then gathered enough driftwood to build a fire on each night. We had to build the fires below the high tide line and the wind was very strong - which made lighting the fire extremely difficult. Julia managed to do it though (extremely impressive) and so we finished our nights sitting by a warm fire, watching the moon rise and the stars come out. On the second night, we were joined by a surprisingly curious ghost crab who sat with us for a good 10 minutes before scuttling off into the night.

It wasn't all joy. There was very little shelter and the sun was merciless. We took precautions and all things considered we made it out relatively unscathed, but there was one scary moment when we both realized we were feeling a bit thick headed and confused. We tottered into the shade of a few scraggly pine trees, sat down and sipped water for an hour. When the sun sank a little lower in the sky we cooled off in the ocean, but were left with some pounding headaches. Everything we brought, including ourselves were soon covered in layers of sand and salt which made for some abrasive sleeping. The second night brought some rain, and while our rainfly kept us dry it also cut off nearly all the ventilation in our little backpacking tent. Given the remoteness of the island, we had to carry in all of our food and water - and lugging 6 gallons of water over the shifting sand dunes was not easy. Add in biting insects, marauding raccoons, and the fact that we forgot the toilet paper and it's clear that this was not the world's most comfortable trip.

I wouldn't have changed a thing - an experience without challenges is not worth having. The hardships provide contrast for the good moments, making them that much sweeter. At the end of the weekend each successive rediscovery of modern comfort seemed like magic. The car seats were cushioned and OH GOD THE AIR CONDITIONING. The first big meal we had in days (Chipotle burritos) was a royal feast. The house was a cool bastion against the elements. The first shower was like divine rebirth and slipping into a soft bed with clean sheets and a real pillow (and no sand) was the height of luxury. The whole experience made me realize how lucky I am to lead such a comfortable life and how easily we all take our modern wealth for granted.

But, it mostly reminded me of how important it is to get away from all the craziness of our modern lives - to slow down and simplify. I was grateful for each drink of water, each bite of food, for the warm fire, loving companionship and especially for the sound of the sea - that whisper of ancient memory.