[x_section style=”margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 45px 0px 45px 0px; “][x_row inner_container=”true” marginless_columns=”false” bg_color=”” style=”margin: 0px auto 0px auto; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px; “][x_column bg_color=”” type=”1/1″ style=”padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px; “][x_text]Rolling over, I pull at the zipper. Release my arms from the sleeping bag cocoon and stare up at the ceiling. I certainly never expected to wake up here, but so goes riding the current.
At the horse camp I met a woman named Dixie, an adventurer in the truest sense. Full of stories from the past, eyes gleaming for more on the horizon. It still boggles my mind to imagine it, but Dixie road a motorcycle solo across the USA in 1967. Alone in a time when that was truly unheard of. Amazing. Immediate kindred spirits, she tells me I simply must go stay at her house in Wanchese. Makes phone calls, jots down numbers, arranges all the details. She’s heading further west for the next month or so, camping, riding horses, exploring. Not an exact plan, going wherever the wind blows. Kindred spirits, I tell ya.
And so I find myself staring at Dixie’s ceiling.
Carrying the overnight bag out to the rig, Baylor runs around with the pack of dogs. Dixie’s roommate, Dave, calls me over, made you an egg and bacon sandwich and the coffee’s hot. Heading downstairs I thank him. Settle on the couch, listen to the news for the first time in months. Weather, heartache, drama.
Bike packed up, I turn as a car enters the driveway. So you’re the one on the bike. Nearly ran ya over last night. Went home and told em there’s a guy with a dog in a sidecar over at Dixie’s. We laugh, exchange stories. Baylor loaded, I hug Dave. Thank him for the hospitality and hot breakfast. Wave goodbye to Woody.
Well, I’m jealous. Half wish I could jump on the back there with you, Woody says as I pull out.
Smell of salt water filling my nostrils I’m downright giddy. I grew up a landlocked mermaid, always certain I was meant for the ocean.
Armed with a list of dog rules for the various beaches, we make our way north. Head for Duck and its off leash possibilities. Wind around and around neighborhoods trying to make sense of beach access, of parking regulations.
Toes sinking into the sand, Baylor and I grin at each other. Race for the water’s edge. I like to think Baylor enjoys the ocean as much as I do, or perhaps he just plays along with my elation. Either way we have a grand time. Frolic in the cool water, pick a point in the far off distance and walk to it. Pick another and carry on. Play under the pier. Sprawl in the warm sand. Read, dream, repeat.
On the return, I quickly realize I’ve made a huge mistake. In my excitement to reach the salty sea, I forgot to pay attention to where we entered the beach. Turns out every single house and wooden pathway looks nearly identical. I try to imagine how far we were from the pier when we started. Pull into my mind’s eye a vision of the things I saw. Two tall flagpoles, a honey-dew colored house. I climb up and down walkways. Not it, not it. Close, but no. Baylor grows tired of the game. Stands at the bottom until I assure him it’s the right one. Bribe him with cookie promises.
Dusk approaching, I browse my phone for tell of an appropriate evening office. Something casual, with wifi, that stays open later. Options are slim, but the frozen yogurt shop looks promising. Pulling up, it’s definitely the right spot. The owners come out, ooh an aah over Baylor in his goggles. Tell me I can bring him into the shop. Explain they even have a pup cup for him. I laugh, this is quickly becoming his favorite place.
Yogurt gone, I type, Baylor snoozes. A gaggle of teens overtake the shop. Take turns sitting next to Baylor. Giving him scratches. Snapping selfies with him. Ask me how to spell his name so they get it right when they post on the internet.
I shake my head. This is officially Baylor’s favorite place. Treats, scratches and love. What more could you ask for?
134 days down. Many to come.
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