Like so many people in these parts, Robin and I enjoy hitting the Carolinas beaches on occasion. Robin has been a knowledgeable sunbather for nearly all of her life. She has favorite lotions, and begins prep for the summer season early enough in the spring in order to handle the July and August sun. No Casper-The-Untanned-Ghost look for her during the season!
As for me, let's say that when the Good Lord was distributing melanin for sun protection, He was running low and gave me a rain check that I never redeemed. Umbrellas and other shady spots are among my best friends.
We have a timeshare condo for a late-August week that dates to the mid-1980s. When we both were working, that week was highly anticipated as an oasis in the year. Robin could spend time on tan maintenance while knocking out a stack of beach reads as she inhaled salty air and, yeah, a little ocean water. Meanwhile, yours truly would perch on a side balcony, away from El Sol, catching a breeze and plowing through whatever David McCullough, Tom Wolfe or David Halberstam had just published.
Now, the temptation to own a little place within the sound of the surf has occurred. Those notions were very brief, based on my own memories.
My granddad — a very able fisherman, especially on the inland waterways — built a modest, two-story house at Ocean Drive about 70 years ago, and it remained in the family for a quarter-century.
My childhood visits to the beach were "working trips." I recall dad performing plenty of electrical, plumbing, and light carpentry chores. Billy and I were usually shunted off to the drudgery of raking and weed-pulling duties. One trip found dad, and a couple of his shop crew from home, repairing the roof under the summer sun.
Granddad had installed a used Airstream trailer on the property, with a couple of added stick-built rooms, for personal use when the house was occupied. Many years (and countless pounds) ago, I was at times dispatched to the roof of that Airstream, broom in hand, to sweep away the plethora of water oak leaves. "Walk on the reinforced areas," I was admonished. "We don't want you to fall through!"
Life was good.
The property that houses our timeshare can use some sprucing in places. The parking deck is a bit shabby — dim enough in the evenings for the Washington Post's Bob Woodward to safely meet "Deep Throat" for juicy Watergate tidbits. But when I am tempted to complain about the annual maintenance fee, I recall those "working trips," as well as the normal costs of home ownership.
Rental income can be nice, but it isn't always the expected panacea to owners. A beach condo owner friend just replaced a water heater, among other small updates. A cousin who owns an Outer Banks beach house spent a notable sum on major refurbishing not long ago, citing constant demands from renters for the latest amenities. With more and more units available over time, not every one is filled, even in peak season.
Shopping and dining compete with sand and surf for beach goers' time and bucks. Robin is pleased that our condo is within the gravitational pull of a Tanger outlet. But with lots of dining choices, like many, we have our favorite haunts. Captain Nance's Seafood, on the inland waterway at Calabash, makes for atmospheric dining on their outside deck among fishing boats and scenic homes off in the distance.
Collections of sea birds usually work the tables for scraps, lining up along a couple of fence rails like scenes straight out of Alfred Hitchcock's iconic 1963 film. Content just a few years ago to be cute and wait their turns for hushpuppy bits, the feathered moochers and buskers have grown insistent. I swear I saw a couple of their beaks moving, demanding: "Hey bub, you're almost through. Why dontcha' hurry up — I only have a short window until the bus boy gets here!"
Robin was nagged by one ring-billed gull: "Move it with that crab, sister. I'm due on Captain Dick's trawler in ten minutes!"
Finn McCool's Pub has been a gem for us over the past decade, with inexpensive bar fare and suds. An early breakfast on our departure days has become a tradition. The spanish moss dripping from their many water oaks supplies a "deep south" feel. The oaks also host a plentiful supply of squirrels. I'd wager that half of the squirrel population in the southeast region was there for an acorn-and-pecan convention last week.
They were up early and working Finn's breakfast patrons — and they weren't bashful, either. As we prepared to depart, I'm sure I heard one particularly muscular sciuridae giving a command: "OK, team 'A' form up and prepare to move. You — grab the leftover pancake! You — grab that sausage bit!"
Some unexpected wildlife was discovered invading the strand. Or, maybe on vacation from rural Iowa. Robin reported hearing seven words from a fellow sunbather that she was sure she would never hear in her life: "Lady, there's a crow in your bag!"
Robin turned and, sure enough, there was a big, black, cornfield-variety crow busily exploring the inner regions of her beach bag with its beak. She was only relieved the rascal had not elected to use it for a loo!
I don't recall these pesky feathered and furry moochers during my childhood beach trips. I suppose they knew that dad, or granddad, would have put 'em to work!
Columnist Douglas Smith lives and writes in Rockingham.
