Look Closer — Miracle Moments of a Late Summer Journey

Jay Clarke
Sep 8, 2018 · 8 min read

“It ain’t easy living… I want to be as deep as the ocean, Mother ocean, yeah!” Ocean Size, by Jane’s Addiction. Lyrics by Perry Farrell

Cape Lookout Lighthouse. Photo by the author.

Ten Days in Late August

Day 1 — The corn was getting high and green when we last drove this country road two months ago, en route to “the beach.” Now the stalks are brown and starting to wither; all the corn has been picked. The cycle of one season is on display in this one moment of observation, and the memory of several sweet ears of corn consumed in the short space between the two journeys is foremost in my mind.

I’ve been going to the same “beach,” the Outer Banks of North Carolina, for most of my life. For the first 30+ years my family took a primary route mostly via interstate, or sometimes due to traffic concerns or an urge to eat at a particular restaurant, a secondary route, mostly via U.S. highways. Weekend traffic choke points prompted the discovery and situational use of a third route, mostly via state routes and approaching from the west rather than the north. The trip takes a bit longer but the scenery is much better and the traffic is not a factor. Along the way I’ve learned that doing the same thing the same ways all the time never means there aren’t still better ways to do things out there. Now we are taking a trip to approach the Outer Banks from the south, just for the sake of doing it and seeing what there is to see along the way; the first part shares a route through the same cornfields as the rural route we took early in the summer.

Day 2 — I’m on a motor boat in the open water for the first time in many years, bumping hard across the slow swell of an inland sound with a dozen other travelers and one tanned boat captain, all smiles and tales of the surrounding islands. The smell of gas and salt water fill my nose, and the memory of my grandfather and summer trips into the Chesapeake Bay on his motor boat fills me entirely. My wife leans in and speaks into my ear, “I didn’t know what I was getting into here!” but I can hear the smile in her voice, even over the wind and sound of the engine.

I turn into the wind and look out over the water to the Cape Lookout lighthouse, on the island straight ahead. I’ve been looking at pictures of this lighthouse for years, the distant and hard-to-reach fifth of the famous four Outer Banks lighthouses. I’ve been looking at my North Carolina map and thinking about vacations that included a trip to this lighthouse for the past three years. I’m taking a journey taken by dozens of people per day, thousands of people per summer, and yet I am filled with pride. I am a man who gets a nervous stomach every time I fly, even 17 years into taking multiple flights per year. I am a man who was briefly gripped by a shaking anxiety the first time I drove north of Baltimore on I-95 because I had never done so before. Yet today I have driven all the way to the end of the road, then I got on a small boat full of strangers, my fellow Americans and travelers from other nations, and I’m on my way to the very edge of America, to see an American treasure. Along the way I’ve learned once again that pushing to the edge and then a bit beyond is often worth the effort. Looking out across the water, I am again reminded of the sheer wonder and beauty of America’s landscapes, and the emotion swells to my eyes.

Day 3 — I’m looking out at a scene from Forest Gump, a horizon full of shrimp boats on the open water. “Dey’s shrimp all in dees waters,” I say to my son, getting the vexed What now Dad? look in return. We’re standing on the bow of a car ferry, heading north to the southernmost of the Outer Banks towns, Ocracoke. Officially we’re on NC Route 12, which spans the Outer Banks from south to north and includes two ferry trips. Nearly the entire scene is water and shrimp boats; the grey strip of Cedar Island is fading fast behind us.

Ferries run this route three to four times per day, taking approximately 300,000 people per year. We are one of many to take this trip on this particular Monday morning in August, and yet the moment feels like a miracle. My mind is filled with the broad marshlands we passed through en route to the ferry terminal, the landscape filling all the space and stretching to the horizon, overwhelming in its scope, like the landscapes of the West. Here we are on a boat that leaves from the end of a lonely two-lane road, far from any town with a chain restaurant or a Walmart. It’s a Monday morning, and yet we are sharing our adventure with several families from Europe, a large Mennonite family, people in the midst of their workday travels, and an array of everyday American vacationers.

Some of us gaze out at the water all along the way; others sleep in their cars, and that approach makes me sad.

One man stands next to us on the bow, gazing out alongside us for quite awhile. He’s white, middle-aged, and wearing an American flag hat — right in the sweet spot for a typical Outer Banks visitor. We’re staring out at Ocracoke and Portsmouth Islands to the east. The low buildings of Portsmouth village are barely visible. Once upon a time, Portsmouth was the main town of the Outer Banks, facilitating the transfer of cargo across the shallow sound waters from tall ships to the inland ports of North Carolina to the east. Then mother nature opened a new inlet further north in the barrier islands and offered a better route to the inland ports, and Portsmouth’s population steadily declined to zero.

The middle-aged man speaks to his companion after a long period of silence, and his accent is British, much to my surprise. I add the hard lesson about the danger of assumption to the tall stack of lessons and miracle moments from this one two-hour ride on the watery portion of a small North Carolina highway.

Day 5 — The pilot is probably in his late 20s, but I keep thinking he’s more like 19. He’s wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops, and here I am in the front seat of his oh-so-small plane, my wife and son in the back. Nothing to fear here, nothing to fear here, nothing to fear here…

We head down the runway, get about 20 feet airborne, and then the wind pushes us to the side, the right wing going up and the front of the plane turning left. “Hunh, kinda windy out today,” says our laconic pilot, without expression, pulling the plane back to level. Up we go, the plane bouncing around in a way that would have jet passengers thinking about their mortality. Somewhere around 500 feet I choke back the words, “I don’t want to do this, please take us back down to the ground,” right on the top of my throat.

Then we’re up at 1,000 feet, leveled out and barely moving around. Every problem, every lingering anxiety, all the troubles in the world, those are back down there on the ground, for we have slipped the surly bonds of Earth. We are looking at a place I’ve been to most years of my life from its most beautiful angle, and are struck by the thin, fragile strip of land and the vast, blue, unending expanse of mother ocean. We have explored the corners of this long isthmus, driven to its edges and walked deep into its woods, swum in the ocean and paddled on its sounds, yet we never really understood its geography fully until now. The flight is about 30 minutes; five minutes of fear and then 25 minutes of pure wonder, coasting along above the earth, looking down on all things familiar from a whole new angle, and sitting in awe of America’s beauty once again.

Day 9 — One last walk with the boy before we drive home. We walk down to Seagull Drive. Once upon a time there was a road here, and a long row of colorful beach houses that sat right on the ocean. (Check out the Google street view image from 2007 here.) But the Outer Banks are moving west. The ocean is carving away the eastern side of the barrier islands and land is being formed from the shallow sounds on the west. The ocean has now taken this entire street, save one house. Where once there was a road, now there is sand, and the next row of houses has become oceanfront.

The boy and I stare out at the one standing house, condemned for years, biding its time until collapse. We talk about what is inevitable, things that will happen eventually, no matter what. The owners of these cottages tried everything to save them from the ocean: adding sand to the beach; raising the whole house higher with more pilings; huge sandbags beneath the houses; restoring septic, water, and electrical connections multiple times. Yet all the money and effort only bought them a few years; the ocean took the houses anyway. I’m standing on the edge of America with my son, thinking about Mother Nature’s power, and pondering the lessons of Seagull Drive and all the beach houses that are no longer, and the next row of beach houses that are certain to meet the same fate, the only question is when.

Seagull Drive, the last house standing. Photo by the author.

Day 1 at home — I’m sitting on the porch in the morning, looking out at my backyard, which has no vast expanse of marshlands, no endless blue ocean, no humbling view from 1,000 feet above. My day of return was filled with thoughts of grocery lists, laundry, yardwork, things to do, things to buy, a pending return to work. My heart is heavy about loved ones who are sick, loved ones in strife, and a nation still being run by its worst self. I’m staring out at my backyard, wondering how I can better balance the wonder of our travels with the challenges of day-to-day life.

There was a heavy rain overnight and the leaves on the trees are full of water. The sun is shining at a low, early morning angle and the light is refracting through the droplets of water. A squirrel jumps on a branch and a rain of droplets falls, catching the light and breaking it up, like looking Mother Nature in the eye, for just a moment. Wondrous.

“Upon an ever expansive horizon, life reveals her mystery. To live is a gift, to feel is a blessing, and to take part in her beauty is a miracle renewed each day.” Francisco

Searching for deeper truth among the things I see and do and read every day. I am a husband, father, son, brother, friend, walker, wordsmith, seeker.

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