Days In Rodanthe

Days in Rodanthe

Our last day at the rental house in Rodanthe and the place is rocking. Not rocking as in there's a party going on--it's January, the beach is empty, rock is dead and we're senior citizens--party time involves warm socks and Pinot Grigio.

No, literally rocking. Shivering, shaking, shifting. Rushing wind grabs corners and twists, forcing out creaks and groans. Weatherstripping whines then gives in, granting admission to bursts of cold air. In control, the wind rushes forward then ebbs, pushes then releases. It's like being in a subway train that speeds up leaving, slows on arrival and rocks side to side in between. Sand tics and rattles against the siding, the recliner rocks without help, ornaments on the leftover Charlie Brown Christmas tree bounce and bob. It's wild. And wonderful.

We chose our house, "Sandcastle by the Sea," because it looked really cool. And it does look really cool – – from the outside--tall and thin, plastered with porches and appropriately weathered. And it does have one really cool feature, a cupola reached by a spiral staircase. I'd pictured whole days in the cupola, reading, writing and pondering, wrapped in the rhythms of surf. Soon after arriving I wound my way upward only to find it was...small. Really small. As in, one would have to be a young child or a squirrel to hang out in the cupola. Even a nap would require curvature. A letdown, like the Christmas I asked for a pony and got a stuffed one. But, still a good spot for observing sunsets, sunrises and sand. Really good for watching sand.

While documentation is lacking, I'm pretty sure the Sandcastle's interior decorator was the love child of Herman Melville and Jacques Cousteau. Seriously, one couldn't swing a dead mackerel without hitting something ocean-related. Beach as milieu, not place. You don't sit amidst the stuff, you steep in it, breathe it in, walk around every corner and plow right into it. Every lamp, decoration, bedspread, painting, nightlight, salt shaker, shower curtain, light switch--even the knobs on the kitchen cabinets--all scream ocean. Themes include:

Mermaids, lighthouses, starfish, surfboards...

Signage is also prominent, and there is a tendency to label the obvious. My favorite is, "BEACH HOUSE" which appears everywhere, in and out. Second favorite--"BEACH," which hangs over a window overlooking...the beach. I guess this might be helpful, even necessary, in cases of sleepwalking or dementia. Or not.

We also find cute placards advising how to enjoy the beach.  "Be shore to smile;" "Seas the day;" "No crabby attitudes at the beach." Pithy, polite, pun-ishment. Somewhere there's a Hobby Lobby with an empty shelf. I hate signs that tell me how I'm supposed to live, the most heinous being, "Live, Laugh, Love." If I had such a sign, it would say, "Drink, Screw, Nap." Different strokes, etc., etc.

Anchors, sailboats, palm trees, turtles...

Here in our house labeled house, on a beach labeled beach, we find ourselves surrounded by books, reminding us that part our week should be spent reading. Beach reading is short, light, enjoyable. No one goes to the beach and reads "Crime and Punishment" – – it would take time from such other pursuits as trying to clean the sand out of one's shorts and fishing for mackerel. I say thumbs up to beach reading, with one exception: the Nicolas Sparks novel, "Nights in Rodanthe."

Fish, mariners, whales, seahorses...

I thought not reading "Nights in Rodanthe" while in Rodanthe would be akin to visiting Disneyland and not throwing up on the teacup ride. But after half an hour, I was hoping the main characters would be pushed down the stairs or hit by a Subaru. My recommendation: don't let "Nights..." darken your day. Leave it on the shelf, pour yourself a few fingers of scotch and put on a good buzz. You'll thank me later.

Pelicans, ships, crabs, fishing nets...

Good news: there is a bar in the Sandcastle. Bad news: it's labeled "BAR." I suppose cocktail glasses, shakers and a bartending guide could be found in, say, a walk-in closet. Or not. Once again, I am struck with the difference between my life and beach life. At my house we  don't say, "let's go into the bar for happy hour." We say, "hey, while you're in the kitchen, would you mix me a Manhattan?" There's also no sign that says, "kitchen."

Nautical maps, more starfish, seashells, sharks...

The bar labeled bar is also a shrine to the musician Jimmy Buffet, featuring photos, posters, books, albums and a flag with a parrot drinking a margarita.  To me, a little Buffeting goes a long way, believing he made only two contributions to popular music. One was the couplet "there's booze in the blender, and soon it will render." The other Is the song, "Why Don't We Get Drunk (and screw.)" And, yes--music is highly personal. If I walked into the "bar" and saw a poster of Elvis Costello, I would track down the homeowner and offer him my Peace Prize, or a kidney.  Or not. I'm kind of attached to my kidneys. Besides, the house owner is probably on a beach somewhere warm.

Sand dollars, sandpipers, sand castles, sand dunes...

So, why would anyone go to the beach in January?

Because in July there will be people here. Lots of them. Literal legions of intruders who have no intention of placing my wants above theirs.

Setting up acres of umbrellas between me and the shore, they will let their shrieking kids run wild, berate their petulant teenagers and drink light beer wrapped in koozies. Whole families will rampage between water and dune, screaming  "found another one!" collecting shells that will wind up in junk drawers in Waukegan and Altoona. They will show up lugging scores of boogie boards, surfboards, sailboards, paddle boards and all sorts of other beach toys no human short of a decathlete could master by the end of the week.

Worst of all, they might sidle over, glistening with sunscreen, breaded in sand and actually talk to me, saying things like, "Hi neighbor, where you from?" "Wanna a  lite beer?" "Ah, there's nothing like the beach!" and "Where do you think we could get one of those starfish lamps?"

The horror.

There's no one here in January. It's a postapocalyptic landscape with the exception of one lady walking her dog, and she darts for the nearest carport as soon as she sees us. No lines, no waiting lists, no ice shortages, no traffic. You're more likely to be hit by a carrier pigeon than a car. By nightfall, the  year-rounders are at home, carving signs saying "Bar" and "Beach House," printing stickers like, "Have a beachy day!" and "My other car is a seahorse," all of which will become tourist booty and spread, like a virus, a cross the nation.

It's just quiet here in the winter.

Except today. Today is ruled by the songs of wind and wave.

A last visit to the cupola. As predicted by the Sandcastle's gyrations, the waves have shifted from laconic to frantic. A sheen of sand slides over the dunes, filling yesterday's footsteps and covering the driveway. Swells, previously [usually the Provence of...] lifting pelicans and porpoises, are now whitecaps sweeping into the shore in bursts of spray, some of which reaches the house. Still wonderful, still wild.

The beach in winter thing has been...interesting, rich in novelty and silence, a right place to be. In a few months, whole families will occupy the Sandcastle, oldsters staking out porches in the shade while kids race up and down stairs and mark their egress to the beach with slamming doors. This too, will be right. How intriguing such contrast bears commonality.

Lights off, heat down, car gassed, bike rentals returned. We're heading out. Drifting across the rear view from left to right, the cupola disappears as we turn north. Smiles warm and knowing, the kind that say, "good, but probably not again." Part of mine, the inner part, clearly believing that nothing could ever top riding the house that rocked.

Driftwood, beach umbrellas, beach chairs, beach balls....

Even more starfish.