We spent Memorial Day weekend in the Outer Banks, Ocracoke Island to be specific. As is typical with a holiday weekend at the beach, somehow garbage cans become the most mechanically complex public disposal unit invented to date and as a result, go largely ignored. And, not unlike an amusement park featuring a number of water attractions, people develop a superhuman ability to fit into clothing normally designed to clean in between teeth. Fit, upon further consideration, is really being misused. But I digress.
What’s great about the Outer Banks is that the vast nature of the coastal sands provides more than enough opportunity for solitude, which I found Sunday morning at around 6:30. And in the midst of what was mostly a couple days of waist-high slop, I managed to find a break in the wind and a bar that worked in unison to create a number of waist to chest sets with clean-enough faces to provide a solid hour of the best session in surfing. And not another person for at least half a mile.