Editor’s note: This is a translation from what was first published in French
By Carole Sierpien
1964 and I was only 8 years old. We had set up our tent in the village campsite, where today there is a large parking lot, opposite Silver Lake. The quay accommodated fishing boats and a few sailboats; In the afternoon we took the path to the beach, near the airport, or my father took us by car on the sandy path towards the southern tip. He threw a line into the sea and I found small lakes left by the tide to dive into.
The beach! It was my first encounter with waves, these companions who taught me to keep my head up and my eyes open, otherwise I risked buying myself a cup of salt water! I learned to jump to avoid them, to let myself be lifted by them and then to dive into their hollows before they broke. I remember the time that my sister, seeing a very big wave approaching, shouted “Jesus, Mary, Joseph…” to warn us, but it was too late. Even today, we laugh about it.
In the evening, we set off on foot along the sandy paths of the village to visit the small cemeteries. My mother really liked cemeteries. It was moving to find the one where, over the course of a year, several children had died. The flu perhaps or some other misfortune. On the way back from our walk, we would stop at the Community Store for ice cream and sit on a bench next to Jack’s Store. Sometimes my father took us to the bay to spear fish for sole. What a thrill to set foot on a stingray that was buried in the bottom!
We came back every year for our summer vacation. Then the years passed. During my years of residence in Chapel Hill, I came there sometimes, including once in the depths of winter. I took a room in the Island Inn. I took my meals there with the few fishermen and other guests and I took long walks on the beach, swept by winds, rain and foam.
Since 2019, I have renewed my visits to Ocracoke, almost every year. I was sad to see the disaster, human and material, caused by Dorian. Frequent and devastating storms eat away a little more each year at the north of the island, almost unrecognizable now. And I don’t know what to think of the large buildings around the village: second homes, often rented, but which contrast with the relative modesty of the village. I am, myself, one of the elements that contribute to the prosperity of the island both as a visitor, but also I am just a passerby, someone who comes to enjoy the beauty of the island without providing any real help.
On a happier note, I admit that the island has become a mythical place for me. A place that connects me to my past, certainly, but also a place of contemplation and tranquility, a place where I can step back, where I play in the waves and look for shells, where wonder occurs where I least expected: a little green frog on a chair, a sand dollar on the water’s edge, a red setting sun over the bay, a warm meeting with Peter Vankevich who invited me to pass by the island radio WOVV to broadcast songs from Quebec.
Born in Montreal, Carole Sierpien lives in Saint-Mathieu-de-Rioux, Quebec. She holds a bachelor’s degree in mathematics from McGill University and a master’s degree in computer science from UNC Chapel Hill. After living 17 years in the United States, she returned to Quebec where she was an analyst with the Quebec government. Since her retirement, she has studied philosophy and is a municipal councilor in Saint-Mathieu.
