Ocracoke Vacation — Day Nine, November 1

Last night was All Saints’ Eve, and I spent the suppertime portion of it at the Flying Melon. I sat at the counter where I could hear the jazz from the CD player, had a new species of root beer (Abita) and the best burger on the island (competitor’s claims notwithstanding). It was a good place to meditate while other observances prevailed elsewhere.

And today was All Saints’ Day, with plenty of time to remember the journeys of Christians who’ve made it home. Absence and distance cannot suspend what makes us one.

I woke up, finished packing, and turned in the keys at the realty office. At that point I had choices of how to go home. I could go immediately to the upper end of the island, catch the free ferry, and be on my way via the other Outer Banks islands. Instead, I went to the ferry office there in Ocracoke and reserved a spot on the 12:00 boat to Cedar Island. This meant I had a few more hours to wait, and that seemed better than rushing off right away.

At the ferry office, the woman behind the counter said, “You stayed in my house, this week.” She recognized my truck and kayak. I had hoped to meet the owner of the rental cottage, but thought it not likely. It was a pleasant surprise. I called her by name, which surprised her (…I had met her cousin tending shop a week earlier, who, learning where I was staying, said, “Oh you’re in Sarah’s house.”) We chatted while she sold me the ticket, and I enjoyed the friendly encounter.

After getting a muffin and orange juice at Ocracoke Coffee, I went back to Howard St. to look around the Village Craftsmen shop one more time. Manning the counter was Philip Howard, Ocracoke historian and owner of the shop. I had met him last Thursday night when he told stories of island memories and then led the barn dance. We talked a bit, and, once again, I was made to feel welcome.

Others I recognized, today and before, living the details of their private lives publically, too special to ignore, yet too sacred to publish.

While slowly driving back through town to the ferry lineup, a group crossed the road in front of me. One man stopped in the center of the road and wished to speak. Lowering my window for him, he asked how I enjoyed my stay. It turns out he was my next door neighbor for the week, a resident on the island; he recognized my truck — and I suspect he may have recognized the hesitant movement toward departure. It’s the kind of place from which one benefits by not leaving too quickly.

Without explanation to the waiting travelers, the always-timely ferry left thirty-five minutes late, slowing my departure even more. Some interesting conversation developed among us in the meantime, and eventually we were allowed to board. The horn blew, and the connection between ferry and land was breached.

On a clear day, it takes a long time for Ocracoke to fade from sight. In a clear mind, it’s never completely gone.

Ocracoke is a different kind of place, and worth the distance because of it. It’s a place you ease into and ease out of, the punched ferry ticket your silent permission to be still, and the poetry of the moment is revealed by one’s readiness to absorb.

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Some of you have picked up on my love for Nissans, of which I saw many around the island. So you’ll understand my fun in finding this little beauty on the ferry: