The three of us left Durham on a sunny Wednesday afternoon in Ester's car. Our trip to Oak Island was largely uneventful up to the point where we arrived in Wilmington, the major city on North Carolina's coast. Now Ester had printed out MapQuest directions to the address of the beach house -- something to the effect of 1010 Main St. But when we arrived on the island and drove along the coast on Main St., we couldn't for the life of us find the beach house. We drove to the end of the island, into a gated neighborhood whose gate was up and whose attendant was missing. We asked some folks if they knew where our house was -- they could only guess that it lay back at the entrance to the island.
After half an hour of fruitless searching, Lisa finally got a hold of Sean on her cell phone. It quickly became apparent that we were in fact on the wrong island. MapQuest had taken us to Holden Island, not Oak Island -- though, to be fair, both islands' primary roads sport the name "Main St." We were about an hour's south of Oak Island, so Ester, Lisa, and I shared a laugh over the confusion and joyfully made our way to the correct Main St.
That early snafu was the only snafu any of us encountered during our stay at the beach house, named "Welcome Aboard." The weekend experience was, in a word, bliss. Upon finally arriving at Oak Island, our group enjoyed a hearty seafood stew for dinner and, drunk on red wine and laughter, retired to the living room to watch the shark episode of the BBC's amazing Blue Planet series (ah, ecologists!). Kristin, Ester, and I stayed up late into the night drinking and sharing stories about recent turns in our life.
The next day I stumbled out of bed and onto the beach -- literally. Welcome Aboard was situated right on the shore, and it only took a jaunt down some stairs to feel the sand beneath one's toes. Our group spent the day alternating between chatting, sunbathing, and swimming in the pleasantly chilly Atlantic currents. This is a great shoreline photo of Ester, Lisa, and Jess (looking pensive, as always) in the background:
There was something so natural to our leisurely activity as a beach group. Some would go in the water while others stayed on shore. Some would retire to the house for a siesta while others took their naps under the shade of the umbrellas. Some kissed in the water and others walked along the shore. We were friends, old and new, and our movements and conversations were relaxed and sincere.
When the final bunch of beachgoers arrived Thursday afternoon, we took to the sand-pitch and played a lively game of soccer. It was the Red Team versus... er, the Red Team. Hey, at least I got to wear my brand new Liverpool #14 Xabi Alonso jersey, which I got in Lima. Yeah, yeah, it was hot, but at what other time could I imitate my favorite soccer player's moves?
Faint though my figure may be, I'm making a trademark Alonso pass to Ben Best here. Note that he doesn't even need to break his stride to receive the feed. Fernando and Ted are positioned in ultra-safe, Chelsea-type defense, but I'll grant that, especially in this next photo, they look good in their red trunks.
Toward the end of the day, when everyone was cleaning up and preparing for dinner, I brought out my camera and took some photos of our house...
...and of the beautiful sunset-shadowed shoreline.
We again ate well that night: everyone pitched in and contributed to a meal that included grilled tuna, cooked vegetables, and delicious hogfish filets that just melted in your mouth. Here's a photo of Fernando and me playing sous chefs to the master himself, Sean McMahon:
We spent the next day, Friday, in much the same fashion as we spent Thursday. This time, instead of soccer, we played surf basketball, whereby Kristin held a floating basket steady while two teams tried to stuff a squishy ball into it. Andre's team benefited from his height, but the waves themselves were the great equalizers, often leveling a player who had thought he was standing on steady ground. For our intense waterlogged workout, our group was rewarded with another memorable seafood dinner, this time featuring Spanish-style shrimp prepared by Lisa and me.
By the time Saturday rolled around, those of us who had arrived late in the week rued not having more time to spend at Welcome Aboard. We were all at peace with ourselves, and in tune with each other, even after only having spent a few days together. The one positive twist to our leaving was the fact that we didn't need to clean the house from top to bottom -- a basic maid service was included in the rental fee.
On my way out of Welcome Aboard, with bags and boxes of leftovers and appliances in tow, I glanced at the rental information sheet that was affixed to the refrigerator by magnet. The sheet listed phone contacts and instructions for how to properly close the refrigerator door. But in naming the actual house in which we were staying, the sheet (accidentally) read "Welcome Abroad" rather than "Welcome Aboard." The typo was fitting, I thought, given that my experience there made me feel as though I had, for one weekend, escaped from reality and retreated to a paradise of communal living on the beach.
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