say so much more. 

 "You don't really 

 want to go," starts 

 the chant in my 

 head when the sign 

 comes into view. 

 "You don't really 

 have to go. You 

 can live without it. 

 You don't really 

 want to go ... ." 



Often as not, 

 the argument is 

 convincing. I turn 

 toward home 

 instead, time and 

 money saved and 

 my soul untried by 

 the crossing. 



Among those 

 who think like this, 

 any trip west of 

 Beaufort, whether 

 the destination be 

 Morehead City or 

 Sacramento, is 

 solemnly spoken of 

 as "crossing the 

 bridge." This 

 worrisome phrase 

 does not refer to 

 the drawbridge. 

 Getting to the 

 mainland via U.S. 

 70 requires 

 crossing two 

 bridges — the 

 draw and a high- 

 rise span beyond it. 



"The big bridge" is what stirs the 

 undefined dread and vague but acute 

 anxieties. Perhaps we are unnerved by 

 the unaccustomed height above the sea- 

 level landscape. Or because, from its 65- 

 foot peak, one plunges fast into a much 

 busier place than Beaufort. There seems 

 an unspoken burr of worry we'll be 

 swept away in the current of so much 

 commerce or trapped in the eddies of all 

 that industry. 



AS BOATS GLIDE THROUGH THE OPEN DRAWBRIDGE 



TRAFFIC SNARLS AND PATIENCE EBBS. 



A causeway, on a long and slender 

 strip of sand rising just above the marsh 

 on either side, connects the two bridges. 

 It provides a needed avenue of transition 

 when leaving, a stretch to prepare 

 oneself for what is to come. Heading 

 back, it becomes a runway of happy 

 anticipation. 



The Grayden Paul itself is the Great 

 Divide. The hiss of tires across the metal 

 mesh of its movable parts is a warning 

 when outbound, a welcome sigh of 



relief upon return. 



My love for the 

 bridge is a luxury, of 

 course, and my love 

 is conditional. It is 

 contingent on a 

 lifestyle deliberately 

 kept unencumbered 

 and the freedom to 

 not cross the bridge 

 when I come to it. 



And it is a love 

 doomed. This is an 

 age of instant access, 

 of Concorde jets and 

 instantaneous e-mail. 

 Great expectations 

 have crossed Gallants 

 Channel. A stopped 

 automobile has been 

 deemed intolerable. 

 The drawbridge has 

 been declared the 

 mortal enemy of 

 progress. 



So, sooner or 

 later, a bigger bridge 

 will rise here. And 

 with it will come the 

 unimpeded access big 

 bridges bring. With it 

 will come the crowds, 

 and convenience and 

 all its complications, 

 the things that 

 eventually make 

 islands less like 

 islands and more like 



everywhere else. 



There will be no more interruption 

 in the roadway, no pause to ponder the 

 mission at hand, no interlude of awe at 

 the surroundings. 



There will be only the sweep of 

 concrete ascending in an arch unbroken 

 between the shores. There will be only 

 the dark curve of its shadow on the 

 water below. A curve that, to some of 

 us, from a certain angle, will always 

 resemble a question mark. □ 



26 HIGH SEASON 1998 



