Only the Essentials

So far, Gretchen Hargis and Rachelle Allen are getting themselves together to start a crash course on writing a book. With deadlines and families to consider, they are due to meet at a beachfront cottage on the southern stretch of the Outer Banks, for a week. Maybe this time they would be lucky enough for no distractions or odd incidents ... but they aren't counting on it.

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I pull the tired old duffel bag from the top shelf in my closet. I haven't used it since the trip to the first annual FanStory convention over a year ago. I'm not much of a traveler. If I can't find it close to home, it doesn't need to be found.

After talking to my husband for a couple of hours, he was on board. He looked up where to beach house is, and then figured out how many miles away it is. It was just before the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. That's a pretty good trek from my lovely little house in Kitty Hawk. (Fun fact: The Wright brothers first flight wasn't really in Kitty Hawk. The town merely gets the credit because the initial announcement was posted at the closest post office, which happened to be the Kitty Hawk location. The flight took place one town over, Kill Devil Hills, a place with a very interesting name, but that's a story for another day.)

I drag the duffel bag over to the antique Lane cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I only need to pack the essentials. I'm really good about not over packing. Being October here on the Atlantic coast, the weather will be a mix of sun, rain, wind, heat and a flurry of the gnarliest mosquitoes to ever fly.

I just start grabbing and stuffing things in the bag. I nod, satisfied that I have enough clothes to survive anything that Mother Nature throws at me. I can grab a new toothbrush, and some fresh toiletries when I set out.

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Friday morning I start my Suburban (Old Reliable) and back down my steep driveway. This is it. I'm really doing this. Diane Lennon, the publisher, calls me on my cell and I pull into the parking lot of the CVS.

"The realtor just called to give me the code for your rental house. Do you have a pen to write it down?"

I rummage through the center console and pull out a tiny spiral notebook and grab a pen off the floorboard on the passenger side. "Shoot," I say, trying to sound upbeat but not giddy. "This is really nice of you to put us up for the week."

"I'm expecting big things. I checked out that website, and read some of Rachelle's pieces. You both have very distinct writing styles, but you're linked with humor. Sometimes, writing with someone else can be difficult. Just do the best you can. We have editors and proofreaders for a specific reason."

I nod silently, knowing she can't see me. "I'll let her know. Now, what was the code?"

"2-4-3-1. Got it?"

"2-4-3-1," I repeat back.

"That's it. I look forward to talking to you. I'll probably call you either Wednesday or Thursday to check on your progress." Diane doesn't waste time with goodbyes, just ends the call.

I go to put my phone back in the front pocket of my purse when it chimes. Rachelle's name pops up on the screen. I scroll to the messages and open hers. "Getting ready to land in Norfolk. See you when I get there."

"See you later, Gator." I type.

I put my car in drive and start the two hour journey to Hatteras.

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The further south you head in the Outer Banks, the more you realize how much the ocean is in control. The only road to and from, is Route 12, a tiny two lane stretch of asphalt that has been washed out and rebuilt more times than I can remember. If a storm comes through, and the ocean sees fit to reach over and shake hands with the sound, well, you, my friend, are going to be stranded in Hatteras until the ocean decides to recede. Chuck, my husband, had scoped out the tropical depressions that were pushing off the coast of Africa, one right after another this time of year. There were three. Hubert, tropical disturbance #8, had just strengthened to a category one, but was pretty unformed and had no real speed. It was predicted to go straight up the middle of the Atlantic. There was a pretty little tropical storm called Irie, still hundreds of miles from the closest island of Bermuda. Then there was depression number ten, yet to be named. Most of the American and European storm experts said it was weak and would most likely become nothing more than a tropical depression. My husband had his fingers crossed for good surf. I had my fingers crossed for clear skies and calm waters.

I pull over into the visitors center on Pea Island, which was appropriately named, seeing as how I had to use the facilities. I'm really in no hurry to get to the house, so after I finish and come out of the restroom, I look around. There are several wooden paths that wind through tall weeds and sea grasses. I also know that if I follow it, it will take me to the sound. Now, I'm crazy about marshes. One of the prettiest things about where I live is the marsh lands. If you're lucky enough to see one, you can see all kinds of wildlife. There are otters, turtles, rabbits, ducks, and egrets and herons, and if you're extra lucky, you might see a beautiful broad banded water snake.

The boards creak under my feet, and I look out at the grasses that move in the slight breeze. Each grass moves individually, yet is part of the bigger dance. The soft whistle of the wind as it glides through the blades, mixes with the distant sound of the water. I tug a piece of the grass and hold it tightly in my hand.

This is going to be a good week. I can feel it. A week on the ocean, no work, no kids, no worries. Yes, siree. This is going to be a good week.