April 25, 2017.
Leaving the fertile fields of Delmarva, flying by huge transports loaded with thousands upon thousands of chickens in cages heading in the opposite direction to their mortal doom and eventual glory via Perdue and Tyson, we passed the blackened stalks of cotton fields and fresh green acres of newly planted crops and headed north up the coast.
Driving back over and under The Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel was a piece of cake compared to my last crossing (lashing winds, torrential blankets of rain and a tractor trailer recently burned to a crisp and extinguished at the edge of the entrance to the bridge). Once you get on there, there ain't no goin' back. The rain spattered and made for a spooky atmosphere this time but it wasn't anything like the drama of clutching the steering wheel of the VW van Zuma and I started out in. Doug drove. He was all cool about it. His first crossing and a good one. It was easy. And I was glad.
Leaving the fertile fields of Delmarva, flying by huge transports loaded with thousands upon thousands of chickens in cages heading in the opposite direction to their mortal doom and eventual glory via Perdue and Tyson, we passed the blackened stalks of cotton fields and fresh green acres of newly planted crops and headed north up the coast.
Driving back over and under The Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel was a piece of cake compared to my last crossing (lashing winds, torrential blankets of rain and a tractor trailer recently burned to a crisp and extinguished at the edge of the entrance to the bridge). Once you get on there, there ain't no goin' back. The rain spattered and made for a spooky atmosphere this time but it wasn't anything like the drama of clutching the steering wheel of the VW van Zuma and I started out in. Doug drove. He was all cool about it. His first crossing and a good one. It was easy. And I was glad.
While I snoozed (better to be unconscious when we get killed out there) Doug witnessed a road rage incident (ending up in two totalled vehicles) right in front of us. A car and a truck and trailer bickering with automobile weapons over road space. Nobody was hurt, thankfully. But nobody won.
Time to take a break from the fast route. We toddled along the coast, finally able to unwind and take it slowly and drove through Nag's Head. I seem to have a problem with sub-terranium travel.
Once we "crossed to the other side" we headed north along the coast. Time to chill out after several frantic hours of highway travel in the rain. Zuma remained calm and curled into an impossibly small "Dane ball" to keep herself warm; she doesn't like the cold. I explained the route to her but she was checked out.
Doug took this pic. I had to get Zu out on the beach for a romp.
The majority of the shops are seasonal so most were closed but it was fun to read the signs of the local business establishments:
I GOT YOUR CRABS, DIRTY DICK'S CRAB HOUSE, BISCUITS AND PORN .... (now there's a combination for yah).
I GOT YOUR CRABS, DIRTY DICK'S CRAB HOUSE, BISCUITS AND PORN .... (now there's a combination for yah).
The ocean's pounding calls you to take a closer look and fill your shoes with sand. The kind of sand you find in parts unknown a year later and it makes you smile. How incredible to have the whole beach to ourselves.
We had both forgotten the scent of the sea. Those smelly "ocean mist" candles don't begin to do it justice.
It's been 17 months since we dipped our feet in the Atlantic Ocean and hearing the crashing fury of waves revitalized my soul;
Zuma got caught up in the energy of the salty air.
Zuma got caught up in the energy of the salty air.
We had both forgotten the scent of the sea. Those smelly "ocean mist" candles don't begin to do it justice.
Where does the path lead now?
We wonder what she's wondering ....
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