November 5, Word Count 8347

October 11, 2007

I dreamed a dream of sea turtles last night. Where was all of this coming from? I needed to clear my head, so I went for a run. I ran to the south, away from the site of the turtle carcass, toward the inlet. My breath pulsed in the staccato rhythm of my steps. The pounding of the surf was lower and slower, a rhythmic undercurrent of the running motion. Sea gulls cried out in bursts of song. This had become the soundtrack of my mornings, the soundtrack of my life.

After the run and a light breakfast, I showered and dressed, eager for the day trip I was taking. Roanoke Island, north of Hatteras Island, was home to a living history museum about the first settlement of English-speaking colonists in the New World. They had settled in 1584, 23 years before the more famous Jamestown settlement, and had the distinction of having the first English child born in the New World. I had been looking forward to the trip, and was planning on incorporating it with a reconnaissance mission regarding the Art Gallery that was also housed on site. As much as I enjoyed my illustration work, my heart was in fine art, and I knew that the art scene in the Outer Banks was active and vibrant. I hoped to make some contacts.

The drive north on Highway 12 is not one to take when in a great hurry. Of course, it is the only route up and down these barrier islands, so the lesson is…don’t ever get in a great hurry. It is two lanes wide, and in places, depending on the weather pattern, covered in drifting sand dunes. This time of year, the roads are not crowded, but the scenery is still so lovely, it’s hard to drive quickly. It is in driving this road that the fragile nature of the islands is most exposed – at times, the island is only just a few dunes wider than the roadway itself. When I first drove down into Hatteras Village, midway through September, kite-surfers and wind-surfers dominated the roadway, pulling off here and there to catch the perfect wave. Today, only a few were out; the water temperatures driving away all but the most dedicated.

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We chatted a few more minutes and I left him to his work. By the time I got back into my car I was shaking. I drove back the way I had come and made it all the way to Whalebone before I had to pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken. I turned off the car and sat for a minute. Then I burst into tears. Deep wracking sobs of grief came up from my belly and poured out of my mouth. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years. I cried like someone who had been stuffing grief so far down it had grown roots and spread all over the place like kudzu. I wept until the sobs grew dry and hoarse and then I just stopped. I pulled a tissue out of the glove box of the car and dried my eyes. I turned the key and put the car in first gear and pointed it in the right direction. I drove the 60 miles to Hatteras in a haze, never once glancing at the ocean on my left or the sound on my right. I pulled into my driveway and walked up the stairs and into the house. Pippi mewed her hello and I fed her. I took a beer out of the fridge and the afghan from the couch and walked out onto the deck and curled up in one of the chairs. I stared at the dunes and the ocean beyond them. I fell asleep there with the stars and the moon and the planets looking down on me. I dreamed of sea turtles and tall men with curly black hair carrying little boys with white blond mops, out on the fishing docks.

When I woke up, dawn was breaking over the horizon, cutting up through the ocean’s edge and lighting the world on fire.