The young man behind the counter of Ocracoke's hardware store is pointing out the different sizes of tiny brass nails available in 1.5 ounce boxes. He speaks in a long slow North Carolina style, but ends each sentence with an uplift, and a little grin. He asks me if I am planning on doing some repairs (grin), and I say ha-ha but no, the brass nails are for my mixed media art.
I take an instant liking to him.
This is like no other conversation (limited) I've had so far on the island. 'Red' is apparently related to the silent woman who rings in the sales in the grocery store, (the other half of this retail establishment), but she is as non-communicative as he is effusive. He clearly has an interest in people, (right now me), where I am from, why I am here, and how I am liking it. We talk about other hardware specials, ( I know where to come if I need plumbing supplies), and about the island in general, the construction going on at the harbour, the post office, and the ferry service.
He is the 'go to' guy for all things Ocracoke.
This conversation spurs me to head for the harbour, and have a look through fresh eyes, on this cool but beautiful morning.
The village of Ocracoke, (off-season population, about 900), is made up of houses, cottages, hotels, shops, restaurants, pubs, churches, museums, community centre, ferry terminal, lighthouse and boats, boats, boats. A series of narrow roads built up around a harbour, the village lies right at the south end of the island. This leaves the long narrow northern reaches of Ocracoke Island with only a two-lane highway running up it like a spine, (the highway leading to the northern ferry connection), and the wind-blown dunes and vast stretch of Atlantic-facing beach virtually free of development.
In the village, the harbour, with the routine southern ferry activity, green spaces and views onto Pamlico Sound, is a draw for Chester and me, each for our own reasons. It is a bustle of activity, (Ocracoke style), and in March, mainly of the pelican, duck, goose and gull variety.
We are at Howard Street. Off and away from the harbour in the oldest part of the village, Howard Street is paved in oyster shells and dotted with old family burial plots, and a mixture of Ocracoke homes and cottages. Shaded by ancient live oak trees, Howard Street has, even in the middle of this glorious blue and yellow day, a bit of a spooky feel.
It has a ghost story to tell.
All is sand underfoot. You may have to scrape down an inch or two with an oyster shell, but all is sand.
Ocracoke Island is essentially a sand bar. At sea level, it feels every gust of wind, every nuance in the changing weather.
Being an island, it is alone when facing a storm.
Chester and I head back to the hardware, as I remember I need a 2" paintbrush. Before I enter, I see Red grinning at me through the screened window, and feel a sense of euphoria that someone so friendly, so completely uplifting, is on this island, in this place, right now.
"Here comes trouble!", he announces to all within earshot.
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