October’s magic is impossible to quantify

October’s magic is impossible to quantify
                        

There is something decidedly decadent about watching the sun rise over the ocean — with its Creamsicle orange and Play-Doh blue hues — while being able to see a full harvest moon wane and disappear into the western sky at the same time.

It’s an overload of celestial riches, one that would be made even more outrageous only if a comet streaked across the horizon, trailing a tail made of cosmic pixie dust.

This is not the usual order of things back where I come from; in fact it’s unusual even for the Outer Banks.

Then again October’s magic is impossible to quantify, let alone predict, and that’s part of what makes traveling at this time of year so unique. The world may be coming apart at every nail, but as long as you have the Atlantic in your back yard, you have peace of mind.

If you ignore reality, that is.

As I write — speaking of current events and the general sense of malaise and uneasiness abroad in the land — Syrian troops are overrunning the Kurds in Turkey, a woman was shot and killed in her Texas home by a cop and a dozen Democrats are getting ready to “debate the issues” in Columbus.

Oh, and lest I forget, the drumbeat for the president’s impeachment grows more furious and insistent every day.

Is that reality, though?

Does any of it impact your life directly?

I’m just asking because the last time any governmental decision had any real effect on me was when Richard Nixon ended the draft.

And you know what happened to him.

Back then, though, I was an activist/idealist/hedonist with the moral compass of a saint but the temptation gene of an alley cat.

I remember getting arrested — I can’t go into details in case I plan to run for, um, high public office someday — and it was right around this time of year in the bicentennial fall. I had driven downstate for my college roommate’s wedding and then pressed on to visit a high school friend at his college in the east.

The whole weekend was predicated on pleasure. That’s what happens when you’re 21 years old and on the road, far from home and lacking any, well, common sense.

The ramifications of my instinctually rotten choices weren’t nearly as hideous as they might have been, but that’s what lawyers are for.

Even my father, who arranged for my legal representation, had to laugh when we got a Christmas card from the guy two months later.

But my mother wasn’t as amused.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” she said. “You’re an adult.”

And then a couple of years later I got tangentially involved in a protest at another college, but at least I didn’t get arrested.

Just tear-gassed.

Which wasn’t pleasant at all.

If you’re ever in that situation, my advice is to wear a bandanna around your nose and mouth and have access to a water fountain.

Because you have to wash that stuff out of your eyes quickly — like now — or else you will have many hours of burning discomfort.

Speaking of my foibles and my father, a quick postscript to that story. My friend picked up a spent tear-gas canister and tossed it in his trunk as we were leaving the campus.

As my friend — a born raconteur with the storytelling skills of O’Henry — related the events of the day, Dad got curious.

“You say you brought it back?” he asked.

“Sure,” my friend said. “You want to see it?”

The next thing I knew we were headed for the emergency room because my father had picked up the tear-gas canister, held it to his face and inhaled the left-over vapors.

Fortunately we lived right across the street from the hospital, so it was an easy walk for us to make.

Again, my mother was not amused.

“You boys,” she said, omitting the fact we were adults, “never seem to get tired of getting into trouble.”

I didn’t bother to point out the obvious: We two scalawags, who had been at the demonstration, walked away unscathed while her husband — a decorated WWII veteran, father of three with a Ph.D. in political science — was currently being treated for gas inhalation.

Some things are just better unsaid.

That’s why places like the Outer Banks exist.

All this open space and October sunshine and endless waves and celestial wonderment give a guy a chance to reflect on what matters and what doesn’t.

It’s nearly impossible to soak in a hot tub overlooking the Atlantic as the harvest moon rises unbidden and the transistor radio airs the baseball playoff game not to be overtaken by a sense of how small we all are in the cosmic scheme of things.

Which isn’t to say I don’t hope the Yankees make it to the World Series. Having been a fan since 1962, I very much hope so.

But if it doesn’t happen, so what, right?

In the meantime my wife and I have made plans to see a movie tomorrow because it’s supposed to rain and the temperatures are forecast to dip from the mid-70s into the low 60s.

As I’ve said, that’s part of what makes traveling in October so capricious, so wonderful. You never know what’s coming.

But I’m good for an afternoon at the cinema, and my wife is long overdue to make the choice because I picked “Yesterday” and “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” this summer. She’s settled on a film titled “Peanut Butter Falcon,” and I hope it’s good.

Beyond that we’re content to be on the ocean for the rest of the week, playing Scrabble if it rains and bocce ball if it doesn’t. The hot tub is mostly weather-proof, and baseball’s almost always on.

To think that I, a temptation-prone yo-yo kid whose mother only saw the Atlantic once in her lifetime, can get to the beach any time I feel like it, flocks of pelicans and pods of dolphins on daily display, well, let’s just say I think Mom would be amused.


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