Fable's Mid-Vacation Report to the Select SYM Committee
Posted: Sat Sep 21, 2002 9:07 pm
Fable, here, with my mid-vacation report. 
We don't have a cable connection and we're relying on an 800 number provided for business purposes, so I'm only going to check in every few days. Still, I couldn't resist taking a brief moment to let you all know how things were going.
First off: for those unaware of US geography, topography and tautology, the Outer Banks (our vacation spot) is a strip of ocean beaches running from southern Virginia to South Carolina. Much of this property is public, and so well-populated that you have to breathe deeply before you get to the beach in order to keep for asphixiating while on it. It is a noisy, heavily commercialized area. But there's a peninsula to the northeast as you travel up from Kitty Hawk (yes, that Kitty Hawk, the one the Wright Brothers chose because of the constant sea breezes) that's roughly 30 miles in length, and ranges from 1 to 3 miles in width. This area has relatively few inhabitants, and consists of rental properties and beaches for patrons.
The houses are an extraordinary value. You essentially get a new, three-story home that can sleep 10-12 people, with 4-5 bedrooms and baths, loads of large windows, a great room with vaulted ceilings, full kitchens (with microwave, dishwasher, new refrigerator, etc), VCR/DVD, CD unit, television with surround sound, frequently a hot tub (on a second or third floor, outside on a deck, seating 4 or in some cases 6)--all for significantly less than you'd pay for the same amount of time spent in a single room in a good, metropolitan hotel. The places are all furnished, with air-conditioning and ceiling fans rampant. You don't pay for utilities. Outdoor barbeque grills are included. Most homes have other amenities, as well. We discovered four bikes downstairs in ours, avaiable to renters.
(New homes are being erected all the time, and are up for sale. They regularly go for 1.5 million dollars.)
And of course, you're within 150 feet to 2 miles of a relatively secluded and private beach, where, during the off-season (the time when we rent), you'll not find more than 15 people if you scan the sandy skirt of the ocean for as far as your eyes can see.
(Of course, there are drawbacks to this region. You'll have to look elsewhere if you want to take in an opera, go to a nightclub, check out a concert or enjoy an art gallery; this is the other side of the world from Urban Life, USA. There are some pretty decent restaurants, but shopping requires a 30 mile trip to do it right, down in Kitty Hawk, and even Kitty Hawk is no more than a passable part of the North Carolina suburban sprawl. This is a wonderful place to visit, but I'd go crazier than I am if I had to live here.)
I'm referring here to the northern tip of that peninsula, right before the road ends and the four-wheel drive area begins. Further south, it's a bit more populated, but still nothing like the packed throngs down on the coast. Time was, when the isolation meant few retail stores: no more than a few places just five miles south of here, in Corolla, and a good ten stores or so down ten or so miles from here in the aptly named Duck. About six years ago, some business types put in a retail center down in Corolla, with twelve stores. They're now up to thirty. It's kind of sad, though at least they've kept the money local, and refused to allow the chains in. At one point, when we first went here about fourteen years ago, they were promoting the hell out of the local herds of wild horses, that have roamed this area of the Outer Banks for centuries. Even had teeshirts depicting 'em. That's stopped. The sheer amount of building, even if it is much sparser than elsewhere in this vacation zone, has forced the horses elsewhere. One of the draws to this region, and one of the boasts of the inhabitants, is no longer mentioned.
So what do the Fables do, then, on their average day? Well, we have brought plenty of books, VCR tapes, and CDs, since the weather can turn nasty (hurricanes love traveling to the Outer Banks, as well as humans). Right now, I'm re-reading Fernand Braudel's three-volume study on civilization and capitalism from 1500-1800: what fun! Sometime around 10 AM (or in the early afternoon, if we've gone out for some reason) my wife and I go to the beach, where we indulge in a sport which will soon be an Olympic favorite, called Ocean Jumping. We are veterans at it. This involves going into the ocean until you are basically chest high in cold water, and waiting for waves to come along that are at least three feet taller than you are. Then you jump as high as you can to clear it, fail, get slammed into by something like a wet, compact Mack truck, and come up, sputtering and giggling. Each day, it seems that the ocean has a new face to present. Today, there was a strong but odd undertow that pulled, not in, but from right to left, or towards north. I had to fight it, and hold my wife, to prevent her from being washed away. This is hard, I noted. It's good for your thighs, Mrs. Fable replied. So is sex, I said. It doesn't last as long, she continued. It does if you do it right, I reminded her.
We were literally surrounded by leaping fish, today, no more than ten feet away. We could see them like silver ingots flashing in the waves. A few seagulls were patrolling, but not regularly enough.
Alas, we found out that 40 count sunscreen, supposedly water and sweat resistant, is not really as good as claimed; for after 90 minutes of this frenetic, nonstop jumping and giggling, we were on the way to developing mild sunburns. Life can be too, too cruel when all you have is two weeks to spend slaving in an ocean or bemoaning your lot in a hottub.
Earlier tonight we used the old-fashioned charcoal grill, outside. I'll admit we cheated: we purchased the charcoal brickets that are soaked in lighter fluid, making it far easier to start. Even so, we didn't use quite enough brickets, and I had to add some mid-grill. My wife kept lighting a match, then waiting for it to go out before dropping it in among the coals. Finally, after four matches, I asked for one. First try, got 'em to flame up at once. (This was especially rewarding because Mrs. Fable is extremely proud of her girl scout experience and knowledge, whereas Mr. Fable had no use in his misspent youth for Baden Powell and his mind-controlled clones.) Hence, the old proverb, Never send a lapsed Methodist to do a task fit for a pagan.
I'll close, here. There's more to say, but it'll have to wait. Hope you're all enjoying yourself, and remember us in your orisons and stuff-like-that-there.
We don't have a cable connection and we're relying on an 800 number provided for business purposes, so I'm only going to check in every few days. Still, I couldn't resist taking a brief moment to let you all know how things were going.First off: for those unaware of US geography, topography and tautology, the Outer Banks (our vacation spot) is a strip of ocean beaches running from southern Virginia to South Carolina. Much of this property is public, and so well-populated that you have to breathe deeply before you get to the beach in order to keep for asphixiating while on it. It is a noisy, heavily commercialized area. But there's a peninsula to the northeast as you travel up from Kitty Hawk (yes, that Kitty Hawk, the one the Wright Brothers chose because of the constant sea breezes) that's roughly 30 miles in length, and ranges from 1 to 3 miles in width. This area has relatively few inhabitants, and consists of rental properties and beaches for patrons.
The houses are an extraordinary value. You essentially get a new, three-story home that can sleep 10-12 people, with 4-5 bedrooms and baths, loads of large windows, a great room with vaulted ceilings, full kitchens (with microwave, dishwasher, new refrigerator, etc), VCR/DVD, CD unit, television with surround sound, frequently a hot tub (on a second or third floor, outside on a deck, seating 4 or in some cases 6)--all for significantly less than you'd pay for the same amount of time spent in a single room in a good, metropolitan hotel. The places are all furnished, with air-conditioning and ceiling fans rampant. You don't pay for utilities. Outdoor barbeque grills are included. Most homes have other amenities, as well. We discovered four bikes downstairs in ours, avaiable to renters.
(New homes are being erected all the time, and are up for sale. They regularly go for 1.5 million dollars.)
And of course, you're within 150 feet to 2 miles of a relatively secluded and private beach, where, during the off-season (the time when we rent), you'll not find more than 15 people if you scan the sandy skirt of the ocean for as far as your eyes can see.
(Of course, there are drawbacks to this region. You'll have to look elsewhere if you want to take in an opera, go to a nightclub, check out a concert or enjoy an art gallery; this is the other side of the world from Urban Life, USA. There are some pretty decent restaurants, but shopping requires a 30 mile trip to do it right, down in Kitty Hawk, and even Kitty Hawk is no more than a passable part of the North Carolina suburban sprawl. This is a wonderful place to visit, but I'd go crazier than I am if I had to live here.)
I'm referring here to the northern tip of that peninsula, right before the road ends and the four-wheel drive area begins. Further south, it's a bit more populated, but still nothing like the packed throngs down on the coast. Time was, when the isolation meant few retail stores: no more than a few places just five miles south of here, in Corolla, and a good ten stores or so down ten or so miles from here in the aptly named Duck. About six years ago, some business types put in a retail center down in Corolla, with twelve stores. They're now up to thirty. It's kind of sad, though at least they've kept the money local, and refused to allow the chains in. At one point, when we first went here about fourteen years ago, they were promoting the hell out of the local herds of wild horses, that have roamed this area of the Outer Banks for centuries. Even had teeshirts depicting 'em. That's stopped. The sheer amount of building, even if it is much sparser than elsewhere in this vacation zone, has forced the horses elsewhere. One of the draws to this region, and one of the boasts of the inhabitants, is no longer mentioned.
So what do the Fables do, then, on their average day? Well, we have brought plenty of books, VCR tapes, and CDs, since the weather can turn nasty (hurricanes love traveling to the Outer Banks, as well as humans). Right now, I'm re-reading Fernand Braudel's three-volume study on civilization and capitalism from 1500-1800: what fun!
Sometime around 10 AM (or in the early afternoon, if we've gone out for some reason) my wife and I go to the beach, where we indulge in a sport which will soon be an Olympic favorite, called Ocean Jumping. We are veterans at it. This involves going into the ocean until you are basically chest high in cold water, and waiting for waves to come along that are at least three feet taller than you are. Then you jump as high as you can to clear it, fail, get slammed into by something like a wet, compact Mack truck, and come up, sputtering and giggling. Each day, it seems that the ocean has a new face to present. Today, there was a strong but odd undertow that pulled, not in, but from right to left, or towards north. I had to fight it, and hold my wife, to prevent her from being washed away. This is hard, I noted. It's good for your thighs, Mrs. Fable replied. So is sex, I said. It doesn't last as long, she continued. It does if you do it right, I reminded her.We were literally surrounded by leaping fish, today, no more than ten feet away. We could see them like silver ingots flashing in the waves. A few seagulls were patrolling, but not regularly enough.
Alas, we found out that 40 count sunscreen, supposedly water and sweat resistant, is not really as good as claimed; for after 90 minutes of this frenetic, nonstop jumping and giggling, we were on the way to developing mild sunburns. Life can be too, too cruel when all you have is two weeks to spend slaving in an ocean or bemoaning your lot in a hottub.
Earlier tonight we used the old-fashioned charcoal grill, outside. I'll admit we cheated: we purchased the charcoal brickets that are soaked in lighter fluid, making it far easier to start. Even so, we didn't use quite enough brickets, and I had to add some mid-grill. My wife kept lighting a match, then waiting for it to go out before dropping it in among the coals. Finally, after four matches, I asked for one. First try, got 'em to flame up at once. (This was especially rewarding because Mrs. Fable is extremely proud of her girl scout experience and knowledge, whereas Mr. Fable had no use in his misspent youth for Baden Powell and his mind-controlled clones.) Hence, the old proverb, Never send a lapsed Methodist to do a task fit for a pagan.
I'll close, here. There's more to say, but it'll have to wait. Hope you're all enjoying yourself, and remember us in your orisons and stuff-like-that-there.