Symphony in Sea Major

Dark, but not pitch-black---just a bit of a glow could be seen over the horizon. Yet, nature’s orchestra was busy at work, completing the day’s nocturne movement in preparation for its aubade, or morning song. I sat on my balcony peering out at this magnificent daily performance: Sunrise, over the ocean. It is truly an experience to savor. As an inland resident, the thought of going to the beach is usually a summer manifestation and totally foreign to the winter season. Occasionally, a change of routine does one’s heart well. Last weekend, I did just that.

The weatherman indicated the temperatures would be in the mid-to-upper 60’s. For January 16, that is near-reverie! I packed my bag and headed to one of my favorite coastal getaways: Wrightsville Beach. It is an idyllic beach town off the coast of North Carolina, near Wilmington. Void of any carnival-like atmosphere, but abundant in architectural charm, it is a great place to exhale. 

In the snowcapped waves, one could see the reflection of the light beginning to dance. The atonal sound of the water’s constant motion was being punctuated by the trill of a sea bird’s flute. It was the announcement of a new day. Soon, the sun rose above the horizon and lit a pathway across the ocean.

This little island is rich with history. Having become residential in the late 1800’s, it has experienced several devastating hurricanes and a monumental fire in 1934 in which 100 of the 110 homes were destroyed. Each time, the island has been rebuilt and re-energized. Today, it is very much a place of constant renaissance, as aging homes are replaced by new ones.

In the summer, I find myself anchored to the beach. Being winter, I decided to explore the island and take in its character. As it is home to the 3^rd oldest yacht club in America (circa 1853), there is a plethora of magnificent sea vessels to behold. Whereas a portion of the sound acts as a harbor for them, another segment of this intercostal waterway has remained natural by means of tide pools and sand dunes. It beckons one’s senses like none other.

Architecture is diverse, ranging from humble beach bungalows-to-magnificent neoclassical villas. Somehow or another, they sit in harmony together, as if this was meant to be. Among them is James D. and Frances Sprunt’s Cottage. Built in 1937, it has been well-respected, maintaining much of its original character. If only the walls could talk, I know there would be many stories to share.

Late in the afternoon, I return to the beach. The legato sounds of the ocean’s roll continue as the evening’s serenade begins. I fling my shoes off and walk barefoot across the cold hard sand. Crazy? I don’t care. This is a new experience for my toes. Winter sand feels different. Not bad. Just different. Each crunch acts as a cadence to the rhythm of the ocean. Looking towards the magnificent sea, the sky is a mixture of cold blue and violet. Turning towards the setting sun, I discover it is there that one finds the sky juxtaposed with a blaze of color. Being low tide, the sea birds have congregated in a buffet line over the tide pools of the intercostal.

There is a sense of peace that overtakes my mind. For a few moments, nothing else matters in life. I think to myself how truly incredible all of this is. It is most humbling.

With winter’s cold arms beginning to surround me, I turn to head back towards the hotel. I stop, one last time, to inhale the crisp salt air. It instantly clears one’s sinuses. I listen. Nature’s divine orchestration continues, with the sound of the waves, wind, and sea birds.

 I whisper, “Play on, play on…”

This was a Moment in America.