As I was walking home this evening, I noticed one of the schooners sailing up the Hudson. It was beautiful. My mind slowly drifted back to the summer days of my childhood when my parents would take my sister and I to walk the quaint waterfront of Beaufort. Sometimes it was neat, other times it was torture--but we always had our favorite spots. There was the General Store. They sold toys, ice cream, fudge, t-shirts, and jewelry. It kind of had something for everyone, and I was enchanted by the idea of it resembling an old five and dime.
Across from the General Store was the Dock House Restaurant. It overlooks Taylor's Creek, where boats meander through on their way to some lazy coastal destination; Carrot Island, where the wild horses roam; and the mooring field, where people anchor their boats as they travel up and down the intercoastal or sometimes stop just to hear the music from the dock house. The live music and the view were some of the reasons that my parents liked that particular restaurant, but my sister and I loved it just because of the trees beside it. Perfect climbing trees. Those two trees were close enough that my parents could watch us as they drunk in the atmosphere, but far enough away that we felt like we were free.
As I grew older, the variety of entertainment in Beaufort seemed to shrink. Soon trees and ice cream were not my number one motivator for a visit -- but my family continued to visit none the less. We would walk the expanse of the docks, gazing at the boats that would come through. North for the summer, south for the winter. One exception was the Lookout. She was a white catamaran with orange stripes, and made Beaufort her summer berth. I would see her both at the city docks and at Cape Lookout, where she could come right up on the shore and lower a ladder to let all of the customers off. I would watch the workers and think to myself -- now that's the kind of job I would to have when I'm a teenager.
Towards the end of my teenage years, I found the Lookout in another location. My grandparents moved to an island off the coast of Florida, and there the Lookout started coming in the winter. She would take her customers to Coconut Island, a small island made out of a sand bar, until it washed away about 4 years later. Like the island, I figured that my dreams of crewing a sailboat were over when I graduated from college and started working full time. And as I turned my gaze from the schooner on the Hudson and began my walk down the esplanade I realized that I'm living my dream.
