As a child, I spent many vacations with my family on the Outer Banks. Thirty years ago, the trip from Richmond, Va., was a long one, and we always seemed to drive the last leg of the trip at night. My stepmother led the five of us in singing, and my dad told us stories of the Wright Brothers and the Lost Colony. We'd drive through the National Seashore, where there were no houses, stores or lights of any kind. On one such trip everyone fell asleep except my dad and me.
We marveled at the fact that no one else was on the road. From Nags Head to Buxton, we crept along N.C. 12, nestled between sand dunes with the sparkling sound waters on our right and the glow of phosphorescent waves on our left.
Sometimes we slowed down, turned off the headlights and stared in wonder at the beauty of it all. We cracked the windows and breathed in the salty air. It was then that I first heard the deliciously frightening tales of the pirate Blackbeard.
At first, Dad pointed out landmarks with connections to the famous pirate, and we spoke pirate, like "aargh" and "aye, matey." I braided my long hair and pulled it around my face to copy the pirate's famous beard. We debated whether treasure still existed somewhere in these waters.
With the water all around us, we seemed to glide along in a pirate ship rather than our Volkswagen van, so the events of Blackbeard's story felt close at hand. I huddled as close to Dad as I could, rested my chin on his shoulder and drank in every terrifying word. Sometimes I squeezed my eyes shut or drummed my fingers nervously, but I never let him stop. Then when the drive was nearly complete, I shuddered as he described the ending: Blackbeard's headless body swimming around the boat.
The cottage perched just beyond the dunes about 200 yards from the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, so we turned at the Red Drum Tackle Shop and down the sandy lane. When the mighty light rotated our way, it was blinding after the darkness of the highway.
Though happy to see the cottage and that familiar corner of the Atlantic, my favorite place in the world, I slumped back into my seat for a moment. I knew this rare time alone with my dad must end.
We pulled up to the house while everyone still slept in the van. Dad placed a finger over his lips and beckoned for me to follow him. Together we climbed up to the porch. We lay down on the sandy boards and let the beam of the lighthouse wash over our bodies. We received the beam of light like a magical blessing on our time together. I will never forget it.
A few years ago, my husband and I took our four children to the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. The lighthouse has been moved, and the cottage no longer stands, but some things are the same. Together we lay in the grass and let the beam of the lighthouse flash over our bodies.
We received the same magical blessing given to my father and me so many years ago. Then we gazed at the millions of stars overhead. It was the same scene my father and I admired, one that my children will one day share.
Donna Jones Koppelman lives in Edenton and writes children's books.
