EMERALD ISLE

 THE MESMERIZING RHYTHM OF THE OCEAN

It was late afternoon before we finished the one-hour drive from New Bern to Emerald Isle. The scenic flavor of the area was baked with tall verdant pines and prickly scrub brush that lined the road leading to the rental where we'd be spending the next week. As with any good spatial design even in nature the approach to Emerald Isle ticked all the right boxes. The entry began through the narrow tunnel of pines and brush giving way to

the Cameron Langston bridge rising sixty-five feet above the bay and then falling as fast as the first hill on a roller coaster taking your breath away with dread on the way up and exhilaration on the way down.

The house JoHannah had rented was a duplex with five bedrooms and three baths on two levels nestled right into the dunes along the blue-green ocean. The first order of business once we arrived was deciding who got first pick of the bedrooms. It was still early enough in the vacation that we were all initially magnanimous with everyone going "Oh no, you choose first".

The prime bedrooms were the two queen-size bedrooms with sliding doors opening up to the ocean on the lower floor. The least desirable were the two bedrooms with twin beds on the opposite side of the lower floor with windows facing the street, the parking area and both regular and recyclable trashcans. The remaining fifth bedroom that was never advertised in the listing was located on the second floor isolated off the kitchen. It was without a spectacular view but had the most privacy and its own bathroom. Our twenty-five year old daughter took that one. The parents flipped a coin for the two prime bedrooms leaving JoHannah and Adam's son, Roby, to occupy both twin bedrooms simultaneously giving him four single beds to choose from each day and night. Once all this was sorted out and we had all unpacked the next big decision to be made was who would compile the grocery list and then who would go for the wine.

A good beach vacation consists of little need for major preparation, a lot of naps and the constant and most important discussions of what you're going to eat at least three meals in advance. We pretty much accomplished all three criteria. We had a full week and only one "sorta maybe well we might want to see it" thing on our list to do. Oh I almost forgot, for some of us a must do was to get the best tan we could so we could make all our friends and any strangers who crossed out path back home as jealous as possible of an October tan. Some of us would succeed others not so much.

I don't think when we planned this trip that we had really thought through the logistics of time and climate. We had picked the last week in September, not because we looked into what kind of crowds or weather to expect, but our only criteria was that it fit into our calendars. Luck sometimes seems to follow us around. This was one of those times. 

The weather couldn't have been more accommodating: Blue skies with temperatures in the upper seventies and low eighties dousing us with a perfect amount of sun and cool breezes; not too hot and not too cold, a light wind to keep the sand flies from their ability to land and bite and a few sporadic clouds to give us a bit of relief every so often. The forecast never once included that dreaded four letter word, the bane of any beach vacation: r a i n.  Not a drop of water fell from the sky. The only drops we had to contend with were from the splashing of the ocean or our own tears of joy at seven remarkable days of leisure.

The end of September also meant school was in session so the family crowds were by and large gone with only a few families of small children too young for school getting in the way of their beach vacations. Other than the local fishermen or some retired couples the beaches were peppered so sparsely you could almost get away with sunbathing in the nude if you wanted to. Fortunately none of us were of a mind to want to do that.

With a full kitchen and six people, two and a half of whom are legitimate gourmet chefs and the rest of us pretty good sous chefs willing to double as eager bus boys, eating at home was by far the best restaurant on the island. 

The sound of waves, something between a crash and a lullaby depending on the separation of your ear and the ocean can either smack you with its power or sooth like a parent's comforting nursery song. The mesmerizing rhythm of the waves carries a hypnotic ability to tune out distraction.

This is the sense I found myself most in love with on Emerald Isle. For hours I sat on the shore with nothing more to do than stare at the rolling repetition of the ocean's cresting last gasps turning into a blinding mirrored surface of the sun's reflection before becoming nothing more than wet sand.

Sometimes the quality of nothingness is just what you need.

I didn't mind leaving the scraped knees and busted lips to the rest of crew that needed to test their metal body surfing and boogie boarding in a fight with a power way greater than their own.

The sound of the ocean's tinnitus is what I liked best about Emerald Isle.