What a beautiful day it was on Ocracoke, turning into a gorgeous evening, and I had nowhere I needed to be. Rob and Mariah are off-island, so I headed out for a long, romantic walk on the beach with my favorite dude, my little pupper, Doctor Dogbody, a.k.a., Doc.
I left my house at 5:45pm and drove up to the north end to ramp 59, one of my favorite shelling spots. Wow. I hadn’t been up there in weeks and had no idea how high the water is. A big tide pool barred the way from driving onto the beach. Our Plan B was to head to the parking area close by and walk over.
I love the north end, but it was a bit too people-y for my tastes tonight. Doc wanted to lunge and bark at sandpipers and willets, and I was worried that his barking was harshing the vibe of people we walked past. It was definitely harshing my vibe to worry about that (and the shelling was disappointing, too), so we walked just a short way and headed back to the car.
Next we tried ramp 63 and oh my, the water was almost to the dune line there, too. Back up, try again somewhere else, maybe the Pony Pens? Doc thought it was all good.
I stopped at the spot a bit north of the Pony Pens, where there’s a tiny parking lot and an easy climb over the dunes. The path is marked by piles of road rubble off to the side (bulldozed there after storm overwash tore up the highway, I believe.) I left my shoes in the car, which was a mistake.
The sky was amazing. As we climbed to the top of dune, I looked back toward the highway and village to admire the sunset. I almost regretted being at the beach instead of the harbor because the sunset was so lovely. Imagine the view from the base docks!
But then we stepped onto the beach and all that was forgotten. It was perfect – and Doc and I had it all to ourselves. The wet sand shimmered pink with the reflection of the setting sun. The sliver of crescent moon hung in the sky. It was a short walk down to the water and a nice long stretch in both directions with nobody but us and the birds. Pink sky, pink clouds, pink water all around us as we ambled slowly north from our dune. I looked down a lot, shell-seeking, daydreaming, enjoying unhampered beach time with no one wondering where I was or when I’d be home. Dusk settled in. It was time to turn back.
So we walked south, with a bit more purpose in our stride as the day was dimming before us. After a bit, I began to worry that I wouldn’t see the spot we crossed over in the fading light. Why didn’t I wear my sandals and leave them at the dune as breadcrumbs to find our way?
I searched for our footprints in the sand to follow back to our arrival spot. We should be easy to pick out from among the other random footprints of the day, I thought. 1. Doc’s a dog, so – pawprints. 2. I have a right foot that angles out like a duck’s. Step, waddle, step, waddle. (Here’s some advice, kids: If you’re twenty-three and tear your Achilles tendon in the process of breaking your tibia, and then have surgery, even if you’re feeling great and ready to party, please finish your physical therapy. Don’t skip it for a Dead show or to run off to a windswept magical isle, stay home and go to PT. Your fifty-year-old self will thank you for it.) But I digress.
I found our footprints in the sand, and followed them for a bit. At one point, I could only see Doc’s prints and not mine; strange, I thought, that his would make a more permanent impression as he weighs 20 pounds and I weigh more than 20 pounds. Was this because Doc, like a canine Savior, had carried me part of the way? No, it was because we had walked along the water’s edge and my footprints had already been washed away. Another wave, and whoosh, Doc’s were gone, too.
So I followed some other footprints. Surely this surefooted, athletic-shoe shod person and their massive canine sidekick had parked where I did. But their steps led to the top of a dune, circled round and headed back north again. Hmm, I thought. Should I turn back, too?
Instead, we headed farther south, this time walking up close to the dune line, in hopes of catching sight of something familiar. No luck. We climbed to the top of several dunes and scanned the horizon for signs of: a. rubble or b. a parking lot. (I scanned. Doc’s only contribution to my efforts was to make me feel justified in thinking out loud about our predicament. He’s a good listener and doesn’t mind my potty mouth.) I saw nothing but vegetation. From that perspective, I couldn’t even see the highway, unless a car passed and I saw headlights. I followed well-traveled paths to the tops of dunes that turned into sandy cul-de-sacs and prickly dead ends. Why didn’t I have shoes on so we could just hoof it through the scrub down to the highway?
At this point, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t passed by my dune and gone too far south, so we turned around and followed our new footprints back up the beach. Finally, we saw signposts that warn ORV drivers that this part of the beach is closed to driving. Had we passed those before? Doc didn’t know. I wasn’t sure. Surely, I couldn’t have missed them. But maybe I just didn’t notice because I was looking at the sand and the sunset. We climbed the dune and looked. No sign of the car, the rubble, the parking lot, or any other human or canine beachgoers.
We turned south again, into the final glow of fading dusk. It was getting dark and my thoughts were turning to days of yore when I’d actually slept on the beach. I’m too old for this excrement now, I told Doc. We climbed another dune and another in search of rubble that I wasn’t even sure I’d see before I stumbled on it. I considered walking all the way to the Pony Pens, but I wasn’t sure if that was one mile or three, and I would have to make my way the same distance (or more) north again to my car. My phone was at 17% and wouldn’t last long if I had to resort to using it as a flashlight. So we turned around AGAIN (I'm not sure why, maybe it was Doc's idea) and climbed another dune north of the ORV signposts. At the top, I decided to use my phone as a lifeline.
I didn’t call Crystal to ask for a rescue. I called her because she walks the beach for miles at a time and knows it far better than I do. Hey, I told her, I’m lost. Do you know if the ORV beach heading south from ramp 63 ends north or south of that little parking area north of the Pony Pens? I asked, trying not to sound desperate. She knew exactly what parking area I meant, but wasn’t sure about the ORV posts. She offered to find me.
“I’ve got a big lantern,” she said. “I’ll come and stand at the top of the dune where you parked and hold it up.”
Doc and I turned south again (I was certain by this time that I hadn’t originally walked north of the signposts) and watched for her light as the last lingering bit of sunset afterglow disappeared. Figuring it would take her a good ten minutes to get to the parking lot, we stopped walking after five minutes and waited and finally – there she was! – my own private lighthouse, my beacon of hope to guide me to my Honda CRV.
Yay! We shouted at each other. How did I miss it, I wondered? It looked so obvious once I got there and Crystal was standing near the rubble with her lantern aloft. (I’m pretty sure Doc and I didn't walked quite south enough on our first try. But it all looks the same in the waning pink sunset, so we'll never know.) We laughed and laughed as I thanked her. Doc was happy to see Crystal, but then he’s always happy to see Crystal.
I made sure to take her picture. As embarrassing as this story is to tell, it was funny even as it was happening, and I figured if I could get a Current article out of it, it was worth it. I can’t be the only person to be this dumb, right? Please tell me this has happened to someone else.
Always enthusiastic, Crystal was of course thrilled to leave the comforts of her home and post-prandial relaxation, to drive halfway up the island to rescue a friend in need.
“When I woke up this morning it didn't at all cross my mind that I'd get to be a Lighthouse!” she texted me after we got home.