Wyatt Easterling
August 30, 2011
Away Down East, or the Crystal Coast, stretches from Ocracoke to Cape Lookout down to Cape Carteret and every nook and cranny in-between. With its shrimp boats, fishing charters and Mom and Pop crab houses, to its ominous reputation as “The Graveyard of the Atlantic” where many a ship has floundered and run aground on its shoals; Down East has a history as rich and varied as its inhabitants. The seaport hamlet of Beaufort can boast that it once was the hiding place for the notorious pirate Black Beard whose modest home on the outskirts of town still sits nestled among the squat oaks guarding it against the elements.
No matter where I may be in the world, the memory of the tug of the surf roiling around my feet, the feeling of sand washing between my toes and the sensation of being mired ankle deep in the sand can send me wistfully homeward. I can close my eyes and go to a place where the tide is always receding as fast as the wave that brought it, leaving the foam to settle back into the sand and disappear; a place where the clean smell of salt air is carried on a constant breeze under a wide open sky. Knowing that I will always venture back there puts me in a calm zone. This is the one place where I don’t have one foot out the door. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be so it’s easy to be fully present. This is my place, the place that calls on all my senses at once. Away Down East has had a steady hold on me since my childhood, and it’s where I would gladly finish out all my days if I had half a chance.
Going to the beach was a happy and exciting prospect as a child growing up in the middle of North Carolina; the original Christmas in July if you will. A trip to the beach made you the envy of the neighborhood. The beach may have been where X marked the spot, but going Down East implied something more enchanting. When I hear someone talk about heading Down East my mind conjures up an almost mystical destination, the end of the rainbow, my very own Lourdes of France where I can wade in the water and wash life’s aches and pains away. Down East sets the scene as a secret, magical place where time moves at a slower pace, and it’s OK to do nothing more than watch the clouds drift out to sea high above the breaking surf. Work is optional; fishing is optional, and even breathing is optional. At times, I’ve found myself standing there holding my breath as I watched a newly hatched loggerhead turtle race for the surf under a full moon or as an osprey plummeted into the sound and then cheered as it rose with a fish in one of its talons. You may have a lot of options on how to spend your time while on the coast, but admiring the landscapes stunning natural beauty and wildlife are mandatory. Whether watching a flock of Brown Pelicans or an army of dolphins swimming off shore, there’s something to admire at every turn. Down East is as much a frame of mind and a way of life as it is a destination. The Outer Banks, Emerald Isle, Bogue Banks, Morehead, and Beaufort: all of these names evoke a yearning and desire that even as I walk along their beaches and storefronts (as I have countless times) the romance remains elusive; it’s a feeling right at my fingertips but one I just can’t quite place. Maybe the longing I feel is the ease with which I fit right in when I’m Down East all the while knowing that I will eventually have to return to my other life; a silent grieving amidst my pleasure.
I’ve always been spellbound by water. Life can’t exist without it and yet it can snatch life away in a flash. It can be as gentle as a soft rain and then come pelting in a fury when thrown by the winds of a hurricane. The Bible talks about a “Great Flood” and the Native American Indians have their own account of a flood washing away the Great Spirit’s first failed attempt at creation. It’s good to have a clean start. We wash our sins away, wash our pain away and wash our sorrows away; water certainly has its uses. I get a sense of calm and well being when I’m around water. Perhaps it’s because I’m a Pisces, or because I grew up on a lake. The why escapes me but the romance of setting sail or just plain going fishing elicits days of my youth when the world was filled with possibilities and dreaming of them could still make them so. Water has always been an important and constant element in my life. Come to think of it, I’ve never met an unhappy soul on the water. I will always be grateful to my parents for teaching me to be one of those souls by sharing their love for the coast. I have a hunch where they got their passion from. I recall listening with awe as my parents described their trips to the beach as teenagers together. They would drive until the road abruptly stopped in the sand and then with a blanket, picnic basket and swim suits hike the mile or so out to what is now the Myrtle Beach strand. It’s hard to fathom now, but there was a time when there where miles and miles of wild seashore undeveloped. There were no boardwalks or hotdog stands attracting dozens of wily seagulls ready to dive for a dropped french fry, and the fishing piers jutting far out into the ocean had yet to be built. I guess the world was too busy piecing itself back together after WW II to spend idle time walking along the beach with your sweetheart.
My parents’ generation rose out of the Great Depression. They fought the war to end all wars in Europe and the South Pacific, stood tried and true in the face of the Korean conflict only to become disillusioned by The Vietnam War. This conflict in reality drew its front lines on our very own streets and college campuses here at home. It was this war that began the breach between our generations that would only grow wider as the younger generation fought for the right to be heard. I was still very young during the Vietnam conflict, but age didn’t keep me from being pulled along by the music and becoming spellbound by the promise of that moment in history. We were in the middle of a renaissance that required a new rule book which we soon learned meant there were no rules. You had to love that. It was a period in time that demanded freedom in every aspect of the word. The rebellion had been building for a few years, and this was the generation that blew the lid off. But even with all the discord between the generations there was still a sense of belonging. You stood “right on” with your friends and misunderstood by your family. As tense as it could be at home there was still a sense of family. When it came down to it, blood was still thicker than water. As with any son or daughter, my parents and I didn’t always see eye to eye, there was, however, an unwritten truce any time we headed to the beach. The beach has a way of reminding us that, at one time, we were all just a kid wanting to share in the great adventure. These days when I travel with my folks to the coast, we’re as likely as not to spend our time gazing across Bogue Sound in quiet company or playing golf instead of fishing or crabbing. On the island, your responsibilities are suspended, and you’re allowed to hang out by the water if that’s what suits you. These days that will suit me just fine.
There are events in life when you get some sudden news, and you will forever recall where you were, and what you were doing at that exact moment. I was driving to meet some friends when my father called me on the Friday morning after this Thanksgiving past to tell me that he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Typical of my father he didn’t want to ruin everyone’s holiday, so he’d kept it to himself until the day after. There were anxious days to follow as the tests were run and the reality slowly settled in. Thankfully after a very long weekend of worry Dad made the rounds calling all his boys to inform us, the prognosis was good and that his “Doc” wasn’t sending him Down East to wait out his final days just yet. Though his house has always been in good order, it’s a relief to know that his trips to the beach in the near future will be for the love of it and not to say goodbye. In recent years, I’ve watched with a smile (and a little bit of envy) as my folks have come to spend more and more time at their summer home Down East. I’ve observed that if you gather enough time on the outer banks of North Carolina you can consider yourself an honorary Old Salt. Old Salts aren’t born, if anything they’re brought in on the tide and any crusty Old Salt, worth his salt, knows Down East is where X marks the spot. A friend of mine sings in one of her songs that when a Hobo dies it’s said: “he caught the West Bound out of here.” Hobos and Old Salts must be kindred spirits. Where I come from an Old Salt, catches a wind blowing in the opposite direction and stows Away Down East.
Man reaches out to the stars in search of water and the possibility of life on distant planets. The irony is we stand elbow to elbow gazing skyward and wonder if we’re all alone. This much we do know, without water we can’t exist so I’m going to bet there’s water in heaven for an Old Salt to cast a rod, make a splash or lose a golf ball in. God I sure hope so.
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