During the night, Mom said it thundered; I slept through it, or merely mistook it for the constant crash and rumbles of the endless surf pounding the shores outside.
Trixie and Pops awoke early, beating the murky sunrise by a few scant minutes. As the person taking the reservation had warned us, we had a view of the sand dune right in front of our room – the previous night it had been so dark and rainy you couldn’t see it ten feet away – but it was better than looking at the vast empty parking lot at the Ramada Inn and the strip of homes and businesses beyond. While it is warmer on the Outer Banks in February, this is also their off season. On the bright side, it also meant that the hotel rooms were very reasonable.
After tending to Trixie’s walk, she was taken back to the room, and Pops scaled the sand dune to view the beach. The surf was raging, crashing and thundering onto the pale tan beach below, crushing shells into fine powder; indeed, one worn pebble he picked up was a seashell so rounded only the striations betrayed it as a shell, not a mineral. In fact, he picked up quite a few shells, walking from the impromptu sand trail locals had carved onto the dune, to the official steps back to the hotel. The tide was high, and the seas rough from the previous night’s storms – cresting whitecaps and the winds were whipping some of the ocean into a frothy foam. Unlike the waves back in New England, this was a constant source of noise, four or six rows of waves rising and crashing, all through the day as we drove on.
The sun revealed itself high up as he scaled the stairs to the deck complex to the hotel. Still, the clouds crossing the ever brightening blue skies make for a good omen for the day.