But, hey, I’m not here to pick a fight. I’m here to get you to go with me.
Core Sound was mostly sandy-bottomed and shallow, dotted with little grassy islands riotous with birds. Jim rowed, I fished. In the still, dark water among the islands, I hooked three little ones with a golden spoon, then released them. Across the water, on Shackleford Banks, wild ponies romped along the beach, filthy and ragged and free. Around us, ominous-looking weather cells swirled and eddied darkly. Occasionally the darkness unleashed rain, then it would slow to a patter and stop. If a squall blew up, we could beach the boat on one of the islands, we figured. But for the hour and a half it took to cross, the storm gave us a break. At twilight, we beached the boat on the lee side of Cape Lookout and made camp back among the pines.
Dragging our gear up out of the boat, I sloshed through the outgoing tide, clear and warm as bathwater. If it didn’t rain, we’d get a fire going up above the tide mark. Already my skin was beginning to feel briny and coarse from sun and wind and spray. In the pent-up, citified muscles of my back and shoulders, snaps and buckles and hooks seemed to be coming undone. I took a deep, deep breath, as if I were about to take a long, cool drink of water.
I’d come back to the well.