As East as I'm getting

North Carolina drivers are fucked. I’ve lost count of my near-collisions. So when I found out I’d be leaving the interstates and the cities and headed for the rural roads, a feeling of dread filled me.

A feeling of dread not undeserved. The country bumpkins were scary people and horrible drivers. But enough about that.

Things started looking up when I saw my first swamp. I’d gone from Ozarks to plains to eastern woodlands to montane pine forests, and now to swamps. I also saw my first snake in months, shortly before I ran over it. For a little thing, it made a surprisingly loud crunch, even from inside the car.

I arrived at the ferry, having expected a bridge. I subsequently expected to be able to use my credit card, and was wrong again. 15 dollars, cash. I dug into the bottom of my wallet. Five, another five, three singles… into the change pocket… four quarters, five, six… four dimes, two nickels… success! I boarded the ferry, newly broke.

I was making great time until I got on the ferry. Two hours to go 30 miles kinda kills the average. But, it felt good to be on the water. It reminded me of being back in Australia. So I settled into my backseat with a bootleg copy of “Saved” and prepared for the long haul. Only it was shorter than I expected, as the movie lost sound halfway through. Could’ve been worse, it didn’t suddenly cut to pterodactyl porn.

I’ve seen it. I don’t need to see it again.

Surprisingly, this was one of the few calamities I’m glad happened. I walked upstairs with peanut butter and ritz in hand, and was immediately called out by a stranger. This woman asked me about my camping trip. I asked her how she knew. “Peanut butter” she said.

The woman was an English professor at a small university in Virginia. Her name is Cheryl; it is one of the few times I’ll ever use a real name in a blog, because I want to acknowledge she was wonderful. We talked all about camping and college and our travels to foreign countries. She shared her sushi with me, even though I had food. She taught me valuable writing tips that have yet to see the light of day in this blog. But if you start to see more sensory exposition, you’ll know why.

Upon arrival, I drove off the ferry, drove north about 10 minutes, and had to board another ferry. I considered ways of knocking out the guard and sneaking aboard, but this puddle jumper is free. I guess they figure when they’ve already bled you dry, no need to kick your corpse.

The ride was fantastic. The sun was setting, going from sunflower yellow (good comparison) to burning crimson, like a giant ball of fusion-fueled plasma millions of miles across (good simile). Pelicans and plovers soared above, while brutal mosquitoes soared at face level.

I also hung out with a bunch of biology students who moonlight as snowboard instructors. Basically they personified my inflated views of myself, but in reality.

I arrived in Hatteras at dusk, and everything was already closed. The entire town is shut by 9. But I managed to find one open place for dinner, and a dvd rental store to finish “Saved”. The beach was dark, save for a distant campfire. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the breaking waves on one side and the stunted windswept trees on the other. Crabs scuttled underfoot with surprising speed. Deer roamed here and there…

Wait, deer? This is an island! According to the park ranger, the island is simply shifting sand; sometimes it’s connected to the mainland, other time its fractured into multiple tiny islands. Always changing. Give it a hundred years, and the outer banks will be decorating South Carolina.

It’s interesting, really. So much expensive development, so many tall houses on stilts, and its all poised on ephemeral shifting sands, ready to be struck down by a furious hurricane or the patient march of time.