Along the Coast
It’s late Friday afternoon along the Crystal Coast. Another full week of work is complete. Being the ranking person in the office, I make certain everyone else is out early today, ensuring they are gone before I am; they all have young kids in school and extracurricular activities, and I constantly “suggest” to them that these years will fly by so quickly they will look back one day and wonder where it all went. I guarantee them that when their kids are grown and their homes are quiet, they will never look back on this period and regret having left work a little early.
The “inbox” — literally or electronically — will always be full, and it will all still be there Monday morning. I speak from personal experience; I’m the guy whose children are now “grown,” at least in the sense they’re now in their twenties, searching like we all once did to find their place in this world. And if we are all honest with ourselves, we know the search can go on for decades; life is an adventure. If we’re lucky.
I ponder these issues as I walk around the office space, shutting down machines, picking up a bit, and turning off the lights. I’m not paying this electric bill; the taxpayers are, so everything gets turned off. I make certain I don’t miss anything.
I loved these late Friday afternoons when I was a young Marine Corps officer out in San Diego during my first tour, and I still do. I usually had a sense of accomplishment from a week of hard work and getting things done, and the only lull that ever happened on that base where we trained new recruits from everywhere west of the Mississippi River took place during those typically sunny, tranquil hours that slipped by as the sun began to slowly dip into the Pacific Ocean. I looked forward to the weekend with my wife and two little boys; those were the difficult, but fondly-remembered days of being young and learning how to be the best parents we could be. There was always something going on, and I cherish the memories we made. Indeed, when you get to a certain point, life is — if nothing else— simply a group of memories.
Flash suddenly forward now, 20 years later somehow, and it’s a lot different. I still like these late Friday afternoons, but for other reasons; not so much because the weekend is here, but simply for the perspective that comes in these waning Friday afternoon hours. Things get quiet, the base empties out, and I am usually among the last ones to leave. This is a military base in the United States, and this is how it works. They know they can and will own you 24/7/365 if a war breaks out or on a deployment. Fridays “in garrison” are an opportunity to give people back some time of their own, either as a deposit or back pay. And eventually, the sun will begin to set into the western horizon, just like it did all those years ago along the Pacific.
I pull away from the office and take the circuitous route over to Piney Green Road to make my way out the base’s east gate. I pass through the Camp Lejeune woods, the towering Loblolly pines bordering both sides of the road, the paved running trails rolling up and down each side, weapons range after weapons range sliding by slowly on my right side, visible just beyond the tree line. I wonder how many Marines over the generations have trained out there; including me back in 2009 before I deployed to Iraq.
And it suddenly hits me: That was nearly a decade ago now.
Late May, 2009. I had to leave my wife and two sons, 13 and 10 at the time, behind in North Carolina. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But in the weeks and months leading up to it, I honed the lethal trade they’d first taught me at Quantico in these forests and on these ranges. And when I got on that plane on May 27, 2009, two days after Memorial Day, I was ready. For what, I didn’t exactly know. But I was confident I could put rounds on the target if I had to.
As it played out, I was lucky. That searing hot summer in the middle of the Iraqi desert west of Baghdad now stands as a marker in time; a time that was somehow more settled than things seem to be now, ten years on. How ironic. That summer of deployment and isolation that took me to places like Kuwait, Iraq, Bahrain, and elsewhere was somehow more settled than things seem now. What a statement on the present.
Yes, I was fortunate that summer. A lot of other people were not. My time in Iraq took place as we were on our way out. The insurgency had mostly been brought to heel, and my days were spent waiting things out, working out, training, writing letters, keeping journals, flying at night back and forth between al Taqaddum and al Asad, and marking my late spring and summer with the big sports events that played out at strange, very late hours on Armed Forces Network (AFN); the Indianapolis 500, the College World Series, the United States Open golf championship, the British Open championship that Tom Watson — at the age of 59 — nearly won.
And then in the middle of the late summer lull with more months to go, I was suddenly extracted out of the area of operations to perform a mission down on the Persian/Arabian Gulf, after which I was redeployed home, an adventure I chronicled in my first book, Document.
These thoughts — like the tall stately pine trees swaying almost imperceptibly on both sides of the road — pass by. I shake my head. Ten years ago?
Where has all the time gone? What happened to the last ten years?
I ruminate on these memories until I pull through the gate and make a right turn onto North Carolina State Highway 24, east. It’s one of those sparkling sunny days that happen out here, quite often actually. People joke about “Swamp Lejeune” and “Camp Swampy,” but it’s sort of like everyone saying that it rains all the time in Seattle. (I think some people say these things to keep others away.) If you’ve ever been to the Pacific Northwest or taken the ferry across Puget Sound from Seattle to Bremerton or vice versa on a brilliant sunny day, you know what I mean. And if you’ve ever spent some time along North Carolina’s Crystal Coast on the same kind of day, especially out on Bogue Banks, you also know what I mean.
Winter left months ago, loosening its grip and allowing the new spring to slowly come forth; patches of fresh green finally appeared here and there, and almost overnight, hardwood trees quickly budded leaves, the air fresh with the aromas of the ocean and new pollen. And now the world is richly green again.
The coastal world has come fully alive. It’s 72 degrees. I roll down the windows and take it all in. The few vehicles nearby make their way with me along the freshly repaved black asphalt path cut through the sandy coastal soil, east.
After 15 minutes I arrive on the western edge of Swansboro. I cross the White Oak River Bridge to Cedar Point heading southeast, like I have hundreds of times before. I glance to my right to see if there are any sailing vessels navigating the shallow, narrow channel of the Intracoastal Waterway, as it jogs north and twists sharply around the point of the northernmost sandbar that passes for an island. It is shallow through this part of the waterway, and the boats move slowly through the maze of little land spits that might be here today and gone tomorrow, depending on the vagaries of the tides and weather and the fluctuations of the sea levels.
This is Atlantic storm country, and the area is still recovering from Hurricane Florence last fall, a monster that caused over a billion dollars’ worth of damage at Camp Lejeune alone. These storms also literally alter the landscape; I can now see islands out in the shallow river that were never there before last fall, and others that are now underwater. Such is the ever-changing nature of this unique and beautiful region.
A lone flagpole rising some 30 feet stands as a solitary marker for the boat pilots, its bold American flag snapping in the Atlantic breeze. This is also patriotic country. Once safely around this point of land, the boats can turn back south toward the deeper and safer main channel of the waterway. The new boating season is still young, and I see a few hardy seafarers out there, lining up in order to navigate the turn. Each day will reveal more and more water craft, making their way up and down the coast from Baltimore to Florida, and points in between.
I silently harbor a desire to make my own trip up and down the waterway with my wife. It’s one of those things on our so-called bucket list. And I know just like we always do, we will do it. Eventually.
But not today.
I ease out of Swansboro and on through the small hamlet of Cedar Point until I get to the light at the intersection of NC Highways 24 and 58 on the west side of Cape Carteret. It’s decision time; do I continue east on 24, or do I turn right on 58 and head out to the island? I ponder for seconds, and turn the wheel right. There is no way I am wasting an afternoon like this; I’m going out to the island.
About a minute later, I am climbing over the B. Cameron Langston Bridge from the mainland to Bogue Banks, the long, thin 21-mile barrier island that shields the Crystal Coast and the towns of Beaufort, Morehead City, and Cape Carteret from the Atlantic. As I did back in Swansboro, I look out to the west and fix my eyes on the setting sun. I see a few boats crossing back and forth below me as they transit the Intracoastal Waterway, which at this location runs east and west between the mainland and Bogue Banks. I wonder where they are headed.
Across the bridge, I drop down into the outskirts of the first village on the western terminus of the island, Emerald Isle, population 3,700. Emerald Isle caters to those yearning to leave their homes to the north and west to hit the beach during summer vacation. The beach houses and condos are still empty right now, though, and the locals have the place to ourselves.
Emerald Isle has come some way from a decade ago. Bona fide, freshly-paved traffic circles have popped up along 58, the only continuous road that transects the narrow barrier island, and the town introduces the uninitiated to what will unfold as they make their way across the 21-mile stretch of Bogue Banks: Tiny villages, oceanside flora, sand dunes and hills, Mom and Pop seafood eateries, Tiki-themed-beachside bars out of an early-70s Jimmy Buffett song (but absent the tourists), surfers crossing the road to and from the solid if not huge surf breaks that occasionally appear, and people driving souped-up golf carts right up to the door of the latest craft brewery, like the first of the island’s outstanding places to hang out on a day like this, the Growler Bar at Emerald Isle.
Pulling into the parking lot, I notice all the shiny golf carts with thick racing tires. The locals who live nearby make their way around this hamlet in these NASCAR-looking rigs and sit outside in Adirondack chairs, sipping a pint from one of the several rotating taps. And the local police let them. This is a laid-back place. It’s a nice spot to begin the weekend, enjoying a cold beverage while sitting out back and watching a Major League baseball game on the big screen and waiving to the folks moving up and down the bike trail that runs the 21-mile length of the island to Atlantic Beach.
I’ve run into several retired Marines and Sailors in here too, guys who came out to the Crystal Coast for the first time while on active duty, only to settle here after retirement. The stories are always entertaining, the company, good.
After a while, I continue east on the road for a few miles until the landscape once again gives way to what the island must have looked like before development; forests of old live oaks — some broad and sheltered and others gnarled and twisted from the ever-present Atlantic winds. They say Blackbeard himself used these inlets and woodlands to park his ships and hide his loot, and I wonder if perhaps a treasure or two might be buried out here somewhere under one of these trees.
I ponder the exploits of Mr. Edward Teach (Blackbeard’s real name) as I make my way languidly on to the next town, Indian Beach. I am in no rush; the posted speed limit — 45 mph — doesn’t allow rushing. It’s as if I am going down the Blue Ridge Parkway or Skyline Drive, with their insanely slow speed limits, but the difference now is I am not up on some mountain ridge in Virginia or the western part of this state; I’m literally two hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean. So I don’t mind the slow going. I’m going to soak it all in.
This land is a mix of primordial dunes and trees. After a few minutes, I eventually come out of the dunes and live oaks at the village of Indian Beach. At Indian Beach, I might find out the folks at the almost-hidden Anchor Draft House are holding a happy hour out on their back deck overlooking the Waterway.
They just finished rebuilding the deck after last fall’s storm, and the view is pretty nice. In addition to their well-known set of diverse taps and list of bottles, the secret here is the pizza, which is the best on the island. I take up a short over watch on the deck and observe the boats passing back and forth along the Waterway.
Because it’s easy to slip out of places in this barrier island, I slip out of Indian Beach and continue on down the road. I start to see the resort hotels and privately-owned beach houses, still closed in many places, but workers are finishing up the roof repairs from Hurricane Florence, and they will be ready come the start of the season on Memorial Day weekend, when the island will quadruple its population during the summer months.
At Pine Knoll Shores, I could visit one of the state’s best-kept secrets, the North Carolina Aquarium. It’s off the beaten path, back in the live oaks and set hard against a marsh that adjoins the Waterway, but if you’re ever in the area, it’s well worth the stop. One can see and do anything here, from watching the river otters swim and run around endlessly without ever getting tired, to observing sharks swim along with much smaller fish in a massive walk-through tank without the two species ever having a conflict, to petting the rays.
Along the last few miles now, I finally cross into the town of Atlantic Beach, the last incorporated settlement on the island. Atlantic Beach is my second “residence” out here, and there are several places I have to hit before I cross back over to the mainland at Morehead City.
I stop first at the venerable Atlantic Beach (AB) Surf Shop. They have hands down the best selection of surf gear and apparel anywhere in the area. Boards, t-shirts, beach shoes, leashes, sunglasses, board shorts, rash guards, and on and on. This is the place to go for the initiated.
I check out the upstairs “Board Room” to see what they have. It never disappoints. A waterman can spend a long time up here, inspecting the paddle boards, the long boards, the fish, and everything else they have to offer.
After that, one can pay a visit the good people at Crystal Coast Brewing, just to see what’s going on over there. Their tap room and list are impressive. And better yet, behind the bar they have the greatest arcade golf game ever invented, PGA Tour Golf Team Challenge.
I set my personal record low score here one time whilst consuming some of their Belgian Golden Ale. At 8-plus ABV, you suddenly find yourself fearless when playing this game, and selecting the younger incarnation of John Daly — even with a hat that Daly has never worn in his life— and playing the Old Course at St. Andrews, the site of one his two major wins, doesn’t hurt. Just like he did out of nowhere in the summer of 1995, the electronic Daly plays this course out of his mind; his electronic self absolutely beats the electronic Old Course into submission. (I just shot 6-under on the front nine, and my arcade game John Daly made two putts from over 50 feet).
And finally, I head around the corner on down to the AB circle to check on my friends at the Idle Hour Biergarten. Recently reopened for the new season, their minimalist approach includes about ten rotating taps and some of the best food on the island. And their outdoor beer garden in the beach sand and the firepit are a welcome respite, especially after sunset when the winds begin to pick up off the Atlantic.
My 21-mile amble down the island done, I leave Idle Hour and turn north toward the Atlantic Beach Causeway Bridge, which will take me back over to the mainland. As always, I make sure to glance at another incredible sunset.
After crossing back over to the mainland, I turn east to Beaufort. This is when things really begin to open up. There’s Aqua, an eclectic tapas restaurant with great food and a martini night every Thursday that can’t be beat. Next door, there’s the venerable Backstreet Pub, a little hole in the wall type of establishment that has a history of ties to the military and sea-fairing types going back decades. Fishtowne Brew House stands toe-to-toe with Crystal Coast Brewing as one of the top craft breweries in the area. Or I might just end up at my usual writing spot out here, the Cru Wine Bar and Coffee Shop.
The seemingly big issues of the day fade away as you make your way down the island. I’ve only hinted at a few of the diversions. Perhaps in another dispatch I will mention the others. But right now, it’s coming up on the 7 o’clock hour on the Crystal Coast. I’m beginning to smell the familiar, delicious aroma of shrimp and seafood being cooked or grilled as it floats along on the breeze. I think I might hear bluegrass coming from somewhere; is that a recording or is that a band? I need to find out. And I might need to go over there just to confirm. There are things that happen out here that don’t occur anywhere else. And I don’t want to miss anything.
Wherever my senses lead me, I will keep an eye on the waterway as it curves in here alongside the Beaufort waterfront. Maybe I’ll even pull up a chair and watch the boats come in as the sun goes down. Perhaps my old friend Jasper Williams III will pull in and park the yacht he claims to own that I’ve never seen, just like the character out of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil that he is.
After all, it’s not a bad way to end the day.
Out here, along the coast.
Glen Hines is the author of the Anthology Trilogy of books — Document, Cloudbreak, and Crossroads — and the highly regarded Bring in the Gladiators, Observations From a Former College Football Player Who Was Never Able to Become a Fan, all available at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble. His writing has also been featured in Sports Illustrated, Task & Purpose, and the Human Development Project.
