2,753.

I’ve been writing and writing. And deleting.

It’s hard for me to know what to say.

I have my memories of the day.

But they’re mine. And what I’ve realized is that I don’t need to add my voice to the chaos. You don’t need me to do that. They don’t.

Instead, I’ll add my prayers, and just ask you to do the same.

10 years.

Standing around the radio and confusion and curiosity.

Trinity Church and the wings turning and a minute of utter silence and screaming.

Arguing over whether or not we should take our laptops.

My serviceless cell phone and inappropriate, survivalistic laughter.

Carrie’s voice and Jeff’s and my father’s.

Battery Park and Amy’s tree and running towards the end of land and losing Erin and losing sight.

Dust.

Praying and the 1/9 station and walking across the bridge and Sharla’s swollen fingers.

A startlingly half-blue-half-black sky and seeing the Statue of Liberty in between the two. 

The guy, but not his name, who was by himself and ended up with our group for the rest of the day.

The Hasidic Jews with the water and the man who put too many of us in his car in Brooklyn.

Pete’s apartment and his clean tee shirt to replace my filthy black sweater and listening to the president.

Wanting to be home.

The Hoboken station triage center, around 1am, empty of people to treat. 

My voice mails and my cats and my bed.

September 12 and beginning the task of moving on.

Hoi Toide

You’ll hear two loud clunks as each car passes off the ferry, when your tires press the metal of ramp down to meet the metal of boat. It’s a final goodbye to the water and mainland and a boisterous hello to the sandy island. It’s best to be the first car off, just like it’s best to be in the first car of a roller coaster. Nothing to impede your view. A soft right turn sends you nine or so miles down a narrow path of highway, “highway,” where the dunes rise up on one side and the grasses, holding the lanky egrets and holding back the water of the Pamlico Sound, sway on the other.

Intuitively, maybe a little magically, two or three miles in, all heads in a long line of cars will turn to the left, in unison, in anticipation of the first glimpse of ocean between the dunes. It’s always beautiful. Even in the rain or the clouds, but especially of course in the bright sun. It’ll tease you for awhile, ducking and hiding behind the piles of sand and the tattered wooden fence posts failing miserably in their duties, and simply imploring the sand to stay clear of the blacktop.

Over Molasses Creek.

Past the campsite.

Past the Pony Pen. They used to run free here. They seem to hold the slightest of grudges about that.

Careful not to miss the entrance to the public beach, where there are finally, mercifully, boardwalks to take you across the hot dunes. It used to be quite a workout.

Right next to that is the tiny strip of land where those lucky enough to have both access to a private plane and knowledge of this place can come and go as they please.

Slow to 25.

Welcome to the village.

There are a few shops here; a few more than there used to be. Same with people and restaurants and hotels.

And there is a harbor here. It is, I have to believe, the most perfectly safe place in the world. A haven. My refuge. God protects the people of Silver Lake, even if it’s just for the week. He lets you dream here. He helps you hope. He points you to a beautiful little flawless and white lighthouse to give you focus.

But, how rude of me, you must be hungry. You’ve come such a long way.Howard’s will always welcome you. Every day. Even Christmas. Probably especially Christmas.

You’ll get a pizza this week from Jason’s, crabcakes at Café Atlantic. Treat yourself to some ice cream at the slushie stand. It’s not been a slushie stand for a very long time now, decades, but that’s what I started calling it as a child when it was, in fact, a small wooden slushie stand. And I suppose that’s what I’ll always call it. Come to think of it, I don’t know what other people call it now.

You’ll end the week at the Back Porch, the island’s version of fine dining and, if I’m not mistaken, the only spot where it’s actually required that you wear shoes. Fancy, indeed. It’s also where I’ll have my wedding, if that ever happens for me. But that’s a secret dream. I’m not even sure why I’m sharing it with you. I guess because I’m sharing the rest of my island with you, so I must trust you.

But back to dinner. You’ve got to eat tonight. Night one on the island. It’s lovely.

I recommend the Jolly Roger; it’s where we always start. Cold beer and sandwiches are fine, but the sound of the boats rocking on the water, and the view of the sun setting over the calm water will make conversation almost impossible, almost disrespectful. Then the music will start and you’ll have permission to not pay attention to anything. Do that for the rest of your time here.

This is just a tiny piece of this tiny place. The main drag, if you will. The rest you’ll have to find for yourself. The roads wind and circle. I recommend a bike. Find the coffee shop behind the school. Find the Historical Society. Find the path that leads you to Sam Jones’s grave, and his horse’s, and then out to a part of the water not very many people ever find. 

Find the Village Craftsmen at the end of Howard Street. Spend as much time on that street as you can; it is history come alive. It is breathtaking in it’s naked, natural beauty.

Visit the Ragpicker and Over the Moon and Ride the Wind. The fudge shop. The Variety Store. Find the bookstore and the cemetery and Kathy O’Neil’s jewelry and Albert Styron’s store and Oscar’s; make sure to find some of Ann’s pictures while you’re there. Find a hammock or a screened-in porch or a beach chair and a good book. A few of them. And find yourself.  Even if it’s just for the week.

It’s the perfect place for just that kind of thing.

Welcome to Ocracoke.