2nd April, 2009
It has been threatening to rain all day and the skies open as I ride my bike home from work. I pull on some cold-weather running gear and bolt out the door of my quarters into the downpour. I wind through pollen-heavy southern pines and soon find myself running along an elevated road through a coastal salt-marsh. Birds wheel and cry, cavorting in the rain and I can hear the pounding of the surf out of sight beyond the dune-line.
I make several plunging strides up the face of a dune and trot out onto the beach. When I reach the high tide line, the damp sand is more compacted and runner-friendly so I veer right and begin running along the shoreline which vanishes into mist and rain not far ahead. The waves crash in from the storm darkened Atlantic, and I have to swerve from my course to avoid a few of them.
My calves are beginning to burn, a testament to not having run this distance in quite awhile; I ignore them and take a pull from my water bottle, enjoying the feeling of the water running down my face and neck. A light wind is blowing the spray from the breakers and the air smells of salt; looking out over the seemingly endless waves, fading into murky distance, I can see the why this is truly the “Graveyard of the Atlantic”. The occasional vehicle passes me on the beach, sullying the moment with their fumes and noise. White faces peer at me in confusion, I smile and wave, they drive on, leaving me alone in the rain—the way I like it.
The beach narrows into a point—Cape Hatteras, in fact—and I stop for a moment to take it all in. Waves crash on both sides and the diamond shoals from a neverending procession of breakers that fade into grey. The shoals do end, of course, but not for 15 miles out to sea; it is they who have claimed many of the lives lost off of this desolate coast. It is a place truly rich in both history and mythology; these are the waters where Blackbeard stalked merchant ships and where nearly every building is rumored haunted.
Looking out over the gray ocean, I feel a sense of connection, a realization that these waves also lapped the shores of Africa, Europe, and South America. I try to imagine what it would have been like to be a hand on a schooner, at sea for years at a time, eating molding bread and sleeping in a hammock next to nearly 100 of your fellows. The ocean has seen much, and hides much as well and its surface provides no answers, simply the roiling interminable swell.
The water running down my back begins to chill me and I turn to run back down the darkening beach.
-Charlie Kolb
Buxton, North Carolina
I make several plunging strides up the face of a dune and trot out onto the beach. When I reach the high tide line, the damp sand is more compacted and runner-friendly so I veer right and begin running along the shoreline which vanishes into mist and rain not far ahead. The waves crash in from the storm darkened Atlantic, and I have to swerve from my course to avoid a few of them.
My calves are beginning to burn, a testament to not having run this distance in quite awhile; I ignore them and take a pull from my water bottle, enjoying the feeling of the water running down my face and neck. A light wind is blowing the spray from the breakers and the air smells of salt; looking out over the seemingly endless waves, fading into murky distance, I can see the why this is truly the “Graveyard of the Atlantic”. The occasional vehicle passes me on the beach, sullying the moment with their fumes and noise. White faces peer at me in confusion, I smile and wave, they drive on, leaving me alone in the rain—the way I like it.
The beach narrows into a point—Cape Hatteras, in fact—and I stop for a moment to take it all in. Waves crash on both sides and the diamond shoals from a neverending procession of breakers that fade into grey. The shoals do end, of course, but not for 15 miles out to sea; it is they who have claimed many of the lives lost off of this desolate coast. It is a place truly rich in both history and mythology; these are the waters where Blackbeard stalked merchant ships and where nearly every building is rumored haunted.
Looking out over the gray ocean, I feel a sense of connection, a realization that these waves also lapped the shores of Africa, Europe, and South America. I try to imagine what it would have been like to be a hand on a schooner, at sea for years at a time, eating molding bread and sleeping in a hammock next to nearly 100 of your fellows. The ocean has seen much, and hides much as well and its surface provides no answers, simply the roiling interminable swell.
The water running down my back begins to chill me and I turn to run back down the darkening beach.
-Charlie Kolb
Buxton, North Carolina
