And so it goes.
The self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage being over, we have a week of real holiday time - outdoor eateries, lying on the beach, strolling through the village. And in the evenings, (while Chester begins his night's sleep), we cycle up to Howard's for a pitcher of beer and (if we're lucky) a bit of the hockey playoffs on the screen at the bar.
The highlight of the week is unexpected. Our hotel-owning friends, entertaining visitors from inland NC, invite us over for a real North Carolina fish fry. We are delighted to be included, but completely unsure of the protocol for such occasions. (Being Canadians).
Do we dress up?
Do we bring something to contribute to the meal?
And, a bigger dilemma. At home we'd take a case of beer, or a bottle of wine.
Or both.
Is that how it's done here, we wonder?
We solve this by putting both beer and wine in the car, to be retrieved (or not) as soon as we see the lay of the land. We also bring one of our favourite NC appetizers, pimiento cheese and crackers,
('pimenna' cheese being that glorious creamy spread, only ever experienced by us here in Ocracoke.)
We wear our 'best' (not great) beach holiday attire.
And we leave Chester at home.
There are eight or ten people visible as we pull up.
Having been a bit of a rainy and blustery afternoon, they are congregated under shelter, but the evening is clearing.
We approach, bearing our edible offerings, and immediately see a beer in our host's hand.
Relaxing, we admit that we have brought some drinkables to contribute to the festivities, if that would be alright.
After introductions and handshakes, the first question asked by one of the visitors is,
"How do you pronounce the word 'p-e-c-a-n' in Canada?"
We (mercifully) pronounce it the same way as these North Carolinians, and this leads to talk of accents in general, ours in particular, the consensus being that we sound kind of 'formal' - even British.
We persuade some of the guests to try our wine, and the evening moves into full swing.
The cooking is done in a large deep-fryer called a 'fry-daddy'.
(The name 'fry-daddy' alone being enough to make the evening for us).
It all feels so Southern.
Various salads are set out to go along with the shrimp, scallops, oysters, drum, etc.
It is wonderfully, delightfully casual, all of us standing about, paper plates in hand, watching the 'fry- daddy' do its thing, and sampling the crispy morsels as they come out of the bubbling peanut oil.
I am particularly partial to the shrimp, and think (afterwards) that I probably single-handedly consumed 30 or 40 of the (sweet tender delicious) little darlings.
The evening, in spite of being breezy and overcast, has an underlying summery heat, so typical here.
We mill about until well after dark. When we do take our leave, so genuinely grateful for this slice of Southern hospitality, good conversation and excellent food, we drift home full and happy and ready for sleep.
The week winds down, and the prep for the return trip to Ontario cranks up.
I have mounds of artwork to bundle and stash in the car, to say nothing of clothing, gear, and many many etceteras.
I need to be by myself.
Doug and Chester leave me to it, heading for a harbour walk. I systematically empty the trunk of the car and re-pack it, stowing the 24" by 36" artworks first, and following with everything else, except what is needed for our last night.
As I place the cartons of art supplies, the folders of drawings, the clippings, photos, shells, colour samples, magazines, books, the carefully folded fishing net, all into the trunk, I can't help but feel sad, a lump tightening in my throat.
Lying in the top of one box, a folded sheet of paper trapped in the pages of a book, fluttering in the breezy descent from cottage to car.
I unfold it and read these words:
"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by."
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and a white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking."
John Masefield's Sea Fever.
A poem that speaks to me of my island ancestry, my yearning for the sea, and most especially, of my time on Ocracoke Island.
My time here drawing to an end.
"I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying."
Perhaps one last long walk in the dying light of day.
I want to walk in the cold two inch deep, last-gasp-of-another-rolling-breaker, just before roll-back.
One last time.
"I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over."
.
