The Outer Banks

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This article first appeared in Epiphany Association's Inspirations
 
Everyone has a favorite place to get away to, a place where the everyday hum of petrol-chugging busses and the occasional wail of a hurried police cruiser are unrecognized by the natives, a place where the heat is clean, and it almost leaves the stinging flavor of salt on the tip of your tongue. For myself, that place is the paradise called the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
 
Unlike the never-ceasing, automated sounds of the smog-breathing city, the Outer Banks is a place that I can go and forget—forget about work, forget about the deadlines and unceasing bills, and over all else, forget about my repetitive lifestyle. In my opinion, not to have a neutral point such as this is yourself in the unstoppable assembly line of life. Every few months I have to get away. Delaying my urge makes me feel like a tea kettle, boiling and searing. Although unheard by anyone, it is ready to overflow and scorch anything within distance.
 
Arrival at the Outer Banks is, for myself, like crossing the finely drawn line of responsibility to complete Utopia. Once across the bridge, you can almost feel your worries fly away, not unlike the seagulls that are in ample supply here. A new sense of peace engulfs you. It is almost as if it is the last week of your life, and although it is inevitable that it will all be over soon, you feel the obligation to feel truly at peace with yourself and the world around you.
 
I have often come to wonder what this unnatural force is. To instill the feelings that it does, it must be something truly great. Is it the taste of the air? Thick and musty with a salty flavor, or is it the incessant song of the waves, composed by the musician that is the shifting sea. Whatever it may be, it is an integral part in the survival of my sanity. There is always that empty space in me that needs filled by this force, and without it, I am like a hamster on a wheel, caged, yet still running for an unseen reward.
 
Everything seems so unnecessary while there. The overlapping jobs and school, washing the car, feeding the pets, everything. It’s life at its simplest and best form, pure relaxation. I can sit on the beach and whisk away to anywhere I want to go. It’s like going to one place and yet a thousand places. And unlike the other beaches on the East Coast, the Outer Banks is secluded. At any other beach, it is like leaving your city and going to a city with a beach. The Outer Banks isn’t like that. You can be on the beach and not see another person for miles. I have often mistaken an old pier post on the horizon for some unwanted company.
 
And just as the tide returns to the ocean, I return to my life. Although distraught at my arrival back at home, it is like a new beginning. I’ve been given another chance to work toward my goal of returning at last to the salty waters and aquamarine skies of the Outer Banks.
 
*Written by Victor Anthony Muto, Doctor Susan Muto’s nephew, who died in his twenty-sixth year on April 2, 2005.
 
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