For about a decade I’ve been traveling to Ocracoke once a year or so. It’s not the long history some folks have with this tiny little village but it’s enough that I have my favorite spots. At the end of the day, when the light goes golden I put my cameras in a backpack and jump on my bike. I like to find the Ocracats that hang out at the old fishing cabins.
I like the fading paint on old buoys and the grey boardwalks. I like the way the marsh grass waves gently in the breeze underneath a pink sky.
There’s no pretense here. The weathered patina is not some faux fashion look. It’s the texture of a place and a people who love the sea, who live by the sea, who live from the sea. There’s a long long history and I like to get quiet and see how much of it I can feel.
I grew up deep in the Appalachian Mountains, so the trappings of a fishing village are details I know nothing of. I’m enamored with simple things like old fishing nets, or abandoned ropes. And I’m infatuated with that rocking chair bathed in the setting sun. I think I’ll sit and stay a while.