Cape Hatteras

It is ironic that, as I cross over the Alligator River about noontime, I happen to be reading a chapter from the journal of Herbert Hutchinson Brimley entitled: “Cape Hatteras in Storm and Shine.” I glance away from the page for a moment to assess the outside conditions-rainy, windy, a scene that had a certain dismal look to it, and I conclude that Mr. Brimley probably had more experience with the former attributes discussed rather than the latter regarding this particular chapter. After a quick dip in a surprisingly docile ocean, the rain begins to fall as I make my way to dinner.

It is my opinion that on the island of Cape Hatteras from the months of May to August you are more likely to bump into a stranger than a familiar face. For the moment this theory rings true as I survey the different license plates encompassing the parking lot, North Carolina tags being few and far between. Inside the restaurant I feel like the closest thing to a local there, (aside from the help) though I live 2 hours away as the crow flies-a hop, skip, and a jump across the Pamlico Sound, followed by a 45 minute trek across our neighbors along Harker’s Island, otherwise known as “down east.”

It is a curious thing-from an outsiders perspective-to observe the patrons and employees at such a place where there is so little in common between the two. Inside the restaurant there is a lot of noise, but not much being said. A man tries to contain a rowdy child, a woman is laughing, a waiter is taking orders; in the distance a glass breaks as I wash my throat with ice water.

In the sleepy village of Buxton, situated between Avon and the southerly curve of Frisco, widely known as the Cape, there is little that goes on in the winter months. This is apparent as I survey the help, who all have the look that there is much more to their lives than catering to tourists every summer. No doubt the cold season brings about a sense of boredom about the place, and its result typically brings about the type of choices that makes a face look weary over time.

One of the female help I can’t help but notice-blonde, subtle jaw line, sultry smile-but eyes that tell of a past, and a past that is probably shared with many of the male help surrounding her at this instant. It is after all, a small community, and like the old seafaring tale engraved on my menu, a place shrouded with mystery. Today, perhaps not the type of mystery of ships run aground that disappear, but the type of mystery in this girls eyes is present in most every native of this desolate haunt.

Without notice, suddenly our eyes meet, and simultaneously turn away. Out of discomfort, I unknowingly take a sip of water. Our eyes meet again, this time a bit longer. Again I take a sip of water, this time for refreshment. Suddenly I have found comfort in a room full of strangers. I take another sip of water.