Rodanthe Ruins

Having grown up in North Carolina’s Inner Banks, the Outer Banks are part of the fabric of my life. Like so many friends online, I feel deeply the sense of loss as we watch images of houses along the Rodanthe shoreline falling under tidal pressure, dropping knees first into the water, leaving no hope for recovery.

Even while I describe the connection, it strikes me as a curious reaction. Why do we feel these scenes so viscerally? It makes me wince in discomfort as I imagine someone else’s truer sense of loss: memories of family vacations, fishing endless hours from a now-displaced strand of beach, bonfires, and a house full of seashell collections gathered over decades.

For coastal folk, we carry a reverence for the Ocean and its Sounds. We solemnly accept the tides, storms, and inevitable movement of sandbars and shoreline erosion. Similar to the pain of a beloved pet’s short life, we grieve the effect of the shifting sands on the beaches we love so dearly. Our desire to own a piece of something so wild, to have the audacity to build a front row seat on the surf, appears futile and foolish on days like this. But it was lovely while it lasted. The risk added to its appeal.

I wish everyone might experience the joy of life – any portion of it – spent at such a wildly beautiful place. There’s freedom there; the kind that compels you to build a masterpiece in the sand, knowing it will disappear by morning.