place like this is what you 

 bring to it, and what it brings out 

 in you. 



For years we have trekked, my 

 friends and I, to North Carolina's 

 Masonboro Island for a few days 

 each November, when winds and 

 freezing nights have cleared the place 

 of day-trippers and scoured the dunes 

 of footprints. We meet on the docks 

 of Wrightsville Beach to load down 

 the boats with grills and lounge chairs 

 and firewood and bushels of oysters, 

 then ferry the lot, along with some 

 two dozen castaways, to Masonboro, 

 whose low sandy banks are just visible 

 from the strip of Wrightsville' s 

 homes. 



One friend just can't understand 

 it. He is a fellow well-seasoned by 

 such harsh environments as the cruel 

 weather of early trout season, but he 

 doesn't share our compulsions for 

 camping on the coast. "You're gonna 

 camp on the beach?" he asks, with all 

 the vim and vigor of steamed toast. 

 "Why don't you just wallow in 

 Mazola and roll around in grits? It's 

 all the same thing." 



But it is quite a different thing. I 

 speak of tents in the dunes, and he 

 imagines sand in his sleeping bag. I 

 tell of a seaside sunrise, and he asks 

 what life is like as a human granola 

 bar. Still, I can't fault my friend or his 

 lack of enthusiasm. He has never been 

 to the island, to the Roast. 



We go for the oysters, the sea and 

 the laughs, of course, but lately the 

 Roast has become something more. 

 It's become a spiritual touchstone for 

 what we're trying to keep, on our way 

 to what lies ahead. We have journeyed 

 from a common past to a divergent 

 present, we original Roasters: I am a 

 writer, Bill is a hospital vice president, 

 John an industrial-equipment sales 

 rep, Gray a bank officer. Though our ■ 

 courses stray during the year, like 

 migrant birds we are drawn back to 

 these sand bluffs, to the source, each 

 November. Shedding everything that 

 makes us different — what we drive, 



wear, make and spend — we return to 

 those things that never change. It is our 

 pilgrimage. 



And as with most pilgrimages, 

 getting there is an ordeal. Negotiating 

 Banks Channel is easy enough, but then 

 we have to cross Masonboro Inlet. 

 Conflicting currents rip in and out of 

 this small cleft in the narrow barrier 

 islands of southern North Carolina. 

 The waters here are further churned by 

 the wake of powerboaters and fisher- 

 men; their swells rise like thunder- 

 heads, threatening to break over a 

 boat's bow. 



The beach here is a 

 window between worlds, 

 and I sit on the sill, 

 watching them 

 both awaken. 



It's an easy crossing for John's 19- 

 foot Mako; he's accustomed to running 

 a johnboat all the way to the three-mile 

 reef. It's more exciting for Bill and his 

 Hobie Cat. But it's a downright 

 adventure for me in my 16-foot canoe 

 with a miniature outboard motor. I 

 skim down Banks Channel, past homes 

 and $100,000 fishing boats, into the 

 mouth of the inlet, nervously steering 

 the bow through menacing humps of 

 foamy sea. Passengers on 40-foot 

 Bertrams look on in disbelief. 



Not long ago the Roast was just a 

 party. As many as 50 folks would show 

 up, with maybe half that number 



checking in for the overnighter. This 

 year we're back to the basics. Keep it 

 in the family, just the friends we've 

 known long enough to know they'll 

 always be around. I suppose this is 

 what now gives the Roast its meta- 

 physical meaning. So little in our lives 

 seems immutable. Too often our 

 alliances shift, eroding with the tides. 



Just like this island. The storms of 

 the past few months have winnowed 

 the dunes, and our traditional campsite, 

 the gap behind the primary dune at the 

 island's head, is half its usual size. We 

 are confused at first and wonder if 

 we've motored or sailed or paddled too 

 far. But no, we're together, on the 

 island — where we should be. 



So we set up the volleyball net and 

 light the burger grills and the oyster 

 cooker, a propane burner from an old 

 tobacco-curing barn welded to a steel 

 milk crate. Preferring my oysters fresh 

 off the fire, I line up two pieces of 

 wood to hold a row of shellfish above 

 the coals. The juice spilling into the fire 

 sends up wisps of aromatic smoke; I 

 pull the oysters out with a gloved hand 

 and dredge them through butter and red 

 wine vinegar laced with Tabasco. 



We eat for hours, blistering our 

 fingers on the hot shells, laughing 

 about the old times. We crowd around 

 the fire like aborigines, telling tall tales 

 and casting taller shadows on the sand. 

 Sooner or later someone will call for a 

 dune patrol, and the hardiest will strike 

 off to explore the frigid dark island. 

 Someone will stay up until the last 

 embers die, but it won't be me. I help 

 my wife up from the sand and we 

 amble off into the dark to the sound of 

 rails clacking in the black marsh, 

 toward our tent by a break in the 

 cordgrass. 



At dawn I force myself out of the 

 sleeping bag. Though there are no 

 lullabies so restful as Poseidon's 

 endless tides, there are also no sunrises 

 more beautiful than those viewed with 

 your toes on the edge of the continent, 

 a path of shimmering sunlight reaching 

 across the ocean and tapping at your 



16 NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 1995 



