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Outer Banks Guide > Outer Banks Blogs > Eve Turek's Natural Outer Banks Blog

EVE TUREK'S NATURAL OUTER BANKS
Thursday, April 30, 2020
Life In The Time Of CoronaVirus
I started my writing career as a journalist, reporting on mostly government news in a weekly paper. April, 1980. How can it be 40 years ago already?? Occasionally I had the chance to write a feature story, and by the time I left the paper to become Dare’s public information officer late in 1982, I had even penned a couple of editorials (reporters were not allowed opinions). But the majority of my reporting life was strictly reporting. I covered Dare County and the Town of Manteo, with an emphasis on government budgeting and land use/growth management planning. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by thinking up all the headlines that could illustrate a journalistic photo essay about These Times.

But those passing 40 years have wrought their changes in more than my stamina or skin tone (though not in my hair color, so I still look reasonably like myself in this era of no salon visits). I can amuse myself by conceptualizing a storyline, or seeing the global images that will inevitably find their way into the 2020 Look-back Look-Books. But none of that makes my heart sing. It only makes my heart break.

What makes my heart sing, my stubborn, sometimes falsetto (but not false), sometimes contralto (but not contrary) heart sing is the beauty of this world. And the nightly news, bad as it is, still gives us glimpses of that beauty in the caring of some of us for all of us. I find my heart’s symphony closer to home, in a natural world that still turns and revolves around the sun, that still boasts breeding birds and nesting birds and baby birds, hushed moonsets and thunderous wave sets.

With the shop closed, I have had more opportunity to walk an empty beach and photograph than I normally would this time of year. I recharge in solitude. Morning journaling, art journaling at night, walking with my lens held up to the eye of my heart, these practices ground me, settle me, fill me up. They are my oxygen. But as I told a friend earlier today, the oxygen cannot stay long within the body. Its energy turns. It must be released, given out, given away, given back. Kept too long, hoarded, it turns poisonous, the carbon dioxide suffocating. We were meant to breathe, in and out. We were made to receive in order to give, and to give in order to create the space within to receive again, and again, and yet always again. We were made to thrive in community. No wonder I feel as though I am suffocating, in this enforced necessary—but so unnatural—isolation.

Jefferson Airplane’s song “Today” speaks power to my truth:
To be any more than all I am would be a lie
I’m so full of love I could burst apart and start to cry
Please, please listen to me
It’s taken so long to come true
And it’s all for you…




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Osprey arrive home mid-March and begin rebuilding their nests. I've celebrated this for decades. But until this year, never saw the heart pattern on any Osprey's head. Love prevails.

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This might be my favorite Osprey image this year. And a contender for all time fave. The reunited couple.

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You can't mistake a Pelican in full breeding plumage!

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On this particular afternoon, the Pelicans were gliding between wave sets breaking very close to shore.

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A lifetime experience--the chance to watch a parent Bald Eagle bring supper to two hungry eaglets. I stayed at the nest four hours one afternoon to wait for this exact moment.

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"Wolf" seems to be accompanying me this year, especially with no denning foxes to watch. See the "wolf face" in the Nags Head Woods tree reflections?

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The wave wash patterns at sunrise on Easter morning reminded me of the labyrinth at my church, All Saints Episcopal.

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March came in like a lamb but went out like a lion. The big winds in late March and on April 1 created beautiful sand sculptures.

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The Swallowtails always find the blooming thistle at Alligator River. I literally asked the butterfly for this image--coming up over the edge of the thistle lit by a late afternoon sun, and it obliged.

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I went out late at night for a star-studded sky over the sea, but turned around in order to make this image: a setting crescent moon over the Sound.

posted by eturek at 9:48 PM

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Wednesday, March 18, 2020
New (Not) Normal
Off and on as March approached, I thought, I need to post a February blog.

I processed some images, but none of those were, at first, from the Outer Banks. At the end of January, I took my annual buying trip north to attend the Philadelphia American Handcrafted show, and to visit grandson Michael and Carrie who live in Harrisburg. Michael’s mother Faith came with me and we had a grand time choosing work for the upcoming season, and driving by the row house – still standing – where my mom lived in the city at the time she met my father. We visited a couple artisan galleries around Lancaster, I photographed hills and barns and covered bridges, and we even toured a wolf sanctuary near where Michael works at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire.

Pete and I both got stomach flu shortly after I got back home and that kept me inside and well, miserable, for the beginning of February.

As I began to feel better, I went out briefly to photograph “High Tide on the Sound Side” in a very cold westerly gale. I did not stay long but the fresh air was invigorating after being cooped up inside for several days.

In the middle of February I rode over to Alligator River refuge. Since I photographed the Wolf Moon in January, and wolves at the sanctuary late in the month, I thought maybe I would spot one of our red wolves in the wild. Nope. But I got a different sort of wolf gift, which you will see below. I also saw more Red-tailed Hawks in one place than I ever have before, including a pair in a tree off Wildlife Drive, just past Sawyer Lake turnoff. What a treat!

Then it was time to prep the galleries for the upcoming season. That kept me happily busy for a while. And then, like a full-force category 5 hurricane racing at the speed of a tornado, here comes CoVid-19. Everyone’s business season screeches to a halt just as it is beginning and most of us who are not essential front-line employees go home to sit and… well, whatever it is we do when we are forced indoors and told to keep a prudent distance from other humans. Let’s face it, cabin fever is hard enough when one is sick. I think it is even harder if you feel well yourself. Yet many of us are making sacrifices huge and tiny in order to help keep all of us as well as possible. Yes, I am my brothers’ (and sisters’) keeper is the proper loving response, here.

Before all our lives so dramatically changed, Ray Matthews and I went over to the mainland hoping to photograph moonrise at Lake Mattamuskeet. While we waited for dusk, we drove around wildlife drive’s loop and saw a couple of deer with some egrets and ibis. We had seen a Bald Eagle flying around Stumpy Point on 264 and we saw another that let us get only so close before it flew out of reach. We watched gathering clouds and an odd smoke/haze layer the later it got. The forecast was more promising than conditions by day’s end and we both wondered if we had driven over in vain. But we were rewarded with a spectacular full moon that played enough peek-a-boo with cloud and smoke and haze layers to allow us both to make striking images. A couple of mine are below.

Yesterday, I stood in my driveway enchanted by more birdsong than I have heard in many weeks. Once the spring migration begins, I often see a flock of Cedar Waxwings and sure enough, there was a lone bird in a tree in my yard! Later I strolled a small stretch of the Duck boardwalk by myself and then took a long walk on an empty beach. Time outside restores me, body and soul. As my movements may be further restricted in the days or weeks to come, I plan to look for beauty wherever I can find it.

One gift of photography is that an image can take me back if only for a moment to the moment of its creation. It can take the viewer to another place, perhaps a calmer or more beautiful or more joyous moment than daily life might be offering right that second. Sometimes a change in perspective is just what we need to reset our inner resilience meter. May these images do just that for you today.

And, if you will forgive this one note of business, with our galleries closed at this time, inquiries for purchase and shipping of prints are always welcome. Just message me for details.




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Two sets of fencing made photography challenging, but by using a shorter lens that fit between the chain links I could make some images.

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High Tide Sound Side. (If you want to sound like a native-born multi-generational 'Banker, you need to say, Hoi Toide Souund Soide.)

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A pair of Red-tailed Hawks at Alligator River Refuge.

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No red wolf...BUT...just as with my Wolf Moon photo (look back at January blog if you missed it), can you see the Wolf Face behind the blackbirds?? Formed by distance out of focus trees.

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The deer looked as surprised to see us as we were to see them.

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I just love spotting Bald Eagles. This one let us get only so close before taking off again.

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Just when we thought we might not get a moonrise, there it was! The faint pink blush was our clue the moon was up.

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This is a double exposure. Slow shutter speed to smooth the water and let in enough light for the detail in the trees; fast shutter speed to get detail in the moon's surface.

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Mattamuskeet by Moonlight

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I usually see Cedar Waxwings for just one day, if at all. Some years they come through so quickly I never spot them. I stood in my driveway just yesterday for this one!

posted by eturek at 4:28 PM

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Tuesday, January 14, 2020
2020 Vision
I’ve been sitting for days in front of a blank screen in my mind, knowing some of what I need to say, unsure how to say it. I remember hearing a pastor some 35 years ago comment, deciding what verse to preach on Sunday was easy; discerning exactly how to share those words in ways that brought life and sparked hope, that was the hard part. I get that.

I don’t make resolutions. My New Year’s ritual starts weeks early and involves choosing a word for the next year. Actually, I pray for a word for the next year. And then, like a newly pregnant parent, I try out all sorts of word, like names, for perfect fit. This year the word that kept ringing in my head was Vision. It seemed so obvious! 2020 Vision! Vision 2020! Get it?? I even drew Vision 2020 on my most recent art journal cover, the one I started back in the fall. To me the wordplay implied clarity and focus and a sense of future direction that would inform steps in the present. Perfect word for a new decade.

On January 1, I got up in the dark and headed to the beach for sunrise. I like to greet the dawn of a new year and what better place than seaside? There were no clouds to filter or scatter the light. The early deep glow paled and then the sun rose, quickly too bright to look at directly. The photographer in me is fascinated by the trails light makes. Think for instance about the way sunlight glints on the water, forming a wider and brighter path the closer to the source it appears to be. At dawn and sometimes at dusk, I look for the bright color that shimmers in the wet sand between wave breaks. I love to see the rays play out from behind the clouds and I especially love the “anti-crepuscular” rays that stretch all the way to the opposite horizon, appearing opposite where the sun itself is. I love moonlight on the water, and the halo effect of colors around a cloud-covered moon face. Since you need light for vision, it seemed fitting to focus on light for this, the first blog of 2020.

And since I think in spiritual and metaphoric terms as well as in linear and literal ones, I’ve also been remembering a favorite scripture: God is Light, and in God is no darkness at all. And, the light shines in darkness, and darkness cannot overcome it.

I journaled some of all this optimism for almost the first week of the new year. Then, on the morning of January 6, I got a phone call. Our 21-year old grandson in CT had died a few hours earlier. I’ve never lived through a literal earthquake, although a sonic boom once rattled the whole cottage I was sitting in when it happened. I can tell you that sudden loss feels like I imagine an earthquake, or a tornado, might feel. One minute your house and your life is HERE, and the next it has careened off the rails and nothing seems stable or certain. Vision? Light? Did Somebody say something about light? The earth is lurching under my feet while I and the rest of the family try to walk, blinded by our tears, through yet another valley of the Shadow.

I had previously arranged to ride up to Carova the next day with a friend whose family also experienced tragic loss a year ago. I almost waved off; I am glad I went. I found breaths of comfort in her presence, and in watching the horses live out their wintertime lives.

With our roller-coaster weather, I have woken these past days to robins and cheerful chickadees. I saw for the first time in months a Pileated Woodpecker, the bird I associate with this grandson’s father, also gone too soon, as it flew over a broken, dead snag where another smaller woodpecker balanced, silhouetted against the sun, eating its breakfast. Same family, different species. The sighting gave me another breath of comfort.

I am no saint. I have cried and cussed in my head and wanted to throw things, these past few days. I’ve been mad at the Universe, at the state of the world, and I’ve turned over rocks looking for someone or something to blame. I’ve thought if only and coulda-woulda-shoulda even though I KNOW how futile (and false) those thoughts are. But thank God, I can actually thank God. I can thank God that most mornings, I sit with my journal and pray on paper. I can thank God that I have a record of our conversation the last time that grandson came to visit, (thanks to that same journal), and that I know I offered the best counsel I could to encourage him on a brighter path. I can thank God for light. I can thank God for love. I can thank God we reunited with this grandson and his family in 2016 after years apart.

The full moon rose Friday night, obscured by clouds, then briefly blazing through them in radiant, widening circles of blues and violets and golds. Clouds raced by, changing the pattern second by second. The moon, of course, is a mirror. It reflects the sun our night does not see directly. This, the first full moon of the new year, the new decade, is the Wolf Moon. When I downloaded those moon images, I was startled to see the shape of what looked like a wolf’s face above that moon in two or three images. I can hear my own heart’s howling. But this wolf isn’t howling. It looks more like a pensive watcher, more like a beloved companion than a wild animal to be feared. Maybe there is a message there.

Maybe I need to remember the sun keeps on shining whether I am facing it or not, that the moon, seemingly barren and lifeless, makes a beautiful reflective mirror. Some days that is the best I can hope for my own life, and maybe, just for today, that is enough.      


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New Year's morning. I associate meanings with colors; yellow stands for joy.

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Other than my two life-list visits to Pelican Island rookeries, I saw more pelicans on New Year's day than I have ever seen flying here, in any season. One line had more than 75.

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I went out to the beach again at dusk on New Year's and received this gift: sun rays on the opposite horizon! I love that!

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Can you spot the heart? Hint: this horse is walking in love.

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We found Gus! The stallion brought up from Shackleford several years ago finally has a mare of his own, an older gal named Taka. He is very tender and protective of her.

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Here is a young filly I did not see when she was a new foal. Since she was born at Easter, someone named her Rabbit. Pretty little thing, wearing her early winter coat.

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We saw this lone horse trotting by the water and assumed at first sighting it was a bachelor stallion. Nope. It was a mare whom I understand later reunited with the rest of her harem.

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After we came off the beach, I hung around watching the clouds at Whalehead in late afternoon. A storm was building and the light show was spectacular.

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Before the sun disappeared behind the storm clouds in the west, it lit up these clouds over the ocean right before sunset. Timing is everything.

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The Wolf Moon. Can you see the wolf looking down from above the moon?

posted by eturek at 10:44 PM

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Sunday, December 15, 2019
In the Pink
I’ve heard and read so many interpretations of Advent. Liturgically speaking, these four weeks, roughly between Thanksgiving and December 25, are a time of preparation. Like Lent, Advent is anticipatory but seems mostly rooted in the somber. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, metaphors are easy to come by, as our days get shorter and the dark hours increase until the winter solstice when we swing ever so slowly forward into the light. No wonder the church calendar hooked up Advent, heralding the coming of the Light of the World with solstice festivals and a new year’s beginning.

Fast forward a couple thousand years to “the holidays.” So stressful, so pressured, as obligatory festivity and spending can tax even the most energetic and optimistic among us. Those who grieve and struggle suffer more during these weeks simply by the forced comparison of how they feel with how our society says they should feel.

Being by nature reflective and empathetic, I was pondering all of this when I realized “Advent” is the root word in “Adventure.” Now there is a word that excites me! Adventure holds an element of happy surprise, of something anticipated in the general but unexperienced as yet in the particular. And that something, the word seems to promise, will be wonderful. Adventure calls me to pack my suitcase, assemble my gear and make sure I am well rested and nourished so I can fully receive and enjoy what’s coming.

Advent…Adventure…the arrival of an out-of-the-box, beyond the ordinary experience. That idea resonates as I circle back around to the holidays.

I went down to the Pea Island refuge yesterday afternoon. It was warm but windy and I had mild expectations at best. Most of my photographer friends have been somewhere in the region in the past few weeks to observe the thousands of birds that over-winter here. After 43 years here, and countless trips to the refuge in every season, I have literally been there and done that. Yet I felt kinda-sorta obligated to go. After all, what kind of nature photographer would I be if I ignored one of our main seasonal wildlife events? Shouldn’t I at least go through the motions? (Can any of you relate this to the holidays yet?) So as I drove, I asked to be led to the image meant for me.

As I anticipated, there were tens of thousands of birds there. A couple who was leaving as I walked out to the tower told me of an immature night heron ahead I would likely have missed. I paused along the way to photograph ducks and swan and white pelicans in light that poked through a filtering cloud layer and then faded again. The earlier warm breeze turned to gustier and chillier wind. After I had been up on the tower for several minutes I realized I was the only person in sight. I had the refuge and all those birds to myself.

Finally it was time to begin the trek back to the car. Rafts of ducks got up in the distance – an image I have made before. But the adventure that awaited my own arrival was much more up close and personal. On the way out, I had stopped to photograph a lone merganser in the little turtle pond at the trail’s beginning. By the time I came back to the pond, the sunset colors intensified and reflected in the water below, silhouetting the merganser’s distinctive shape against a backdrop of intense pinks and purples. Here was an image fresh and new. I could hear the swan calling in the distance and a nearly full moon shone at my back in the eastern sky. The merganser paddled and preened, creating vibrant ripples. As is often the case, the most spectacular color happened after the sun sank below the horizon. Instead of full dark, I experienced the best light of the day and made my keeper-image there. While I had hoped for a sunset, the colors I received exceeded my expectations and became the day’s gift. The merganser was there when I came, there as I was leaving. I WAS THE ONE WHO HAD TO ARRIVE. I had to come, gear in hand, and alert enough to receive. Walking into church this Sunday, the third Sunday in Advent, I received even a deeper lesson. The color for Advent is purple – except for the third Sunday, when we light a pink candle as a symbol of Joy. Pink! Purple! Like the ribbons of color surrounding my merganser!

I have always thought of Advent in a passive sort of sense. Yes, we are to prepare but mostly we told to wait for the coming of…something. Someone. But what if we flip the dynamics? What if the main character in a story of Advent is each one of us? Who might be waiting for US to show up?

With that thought in mind, what would an adventurous experience with the God of Creation, the Lord of the Universe, the Light of the World look like for you? Not the same-old, been there, done that. Not the tried and true (as true and tried as it might be). Not the experience others have described which we might enjoy vicariously in word or song. No, what would Advent-Your Adventure (you see what I did there?) look like—for you? For me? Now? This year? What can we each bring to that experience? What if God is actually the One Who is waiting, and we are the ones who need to come?

Despite our criticisms of Christmas hype, the youngest among us have got something right. They know how to suspend disbelief. So for them, reindeer fly on a magical whirlwind journey that transcends time and distance in order to grant their deepest desires. We adults, so stressed, so cynical, so weary, so sure there is nothing new under the sun for us, might do well to dream just a little about Adventure and see if Advent holds anything fresh for our hearts.


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My first encounter occurred at the turtle pond, where this Merganser was paddling. You've heard of water rolling off a duck's back? See the water droplets?

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On the little pond's far edge a Great Blue Heron was patiently waiting.

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There was a Tricolor Heron, which I don't see that often here, beyond the pond at the first part of the walking trail.

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There were rafts of ducks mostly in the distance, and large flocks of swan too. I just loved this view of the lone swan in the midst of all those ducks!

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One fish (I assume it was the same fish) kept jumping out of the water three times in a row. I finally timed my shutter click to frame it in the air.

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The bird in front here is an immature, or juvenile, Night Heron with a Snowy Egret on the farther branch. I have the folks who were leaving as I was walking in to thank for telling me where to look. Third Heron species of the day!

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As wonderful as all these were, everything got even better as sunset began. Here, one of the raft of ducks that took off en masse in the distance are silhouetted against a golden sky.

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The sky colors changed from golden to pink, and these Snow Geese flew practically overhead.

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By the time I reached the turtle pond, the post-sundown color was at its peak. This is actually among the last of the images I made; I went to my car and walked back with my wide angle lens instead of my telephoto.

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But here is the image I came for, without knowing in advance what would become the Gift. Merganser in the Pink, reminding me how much I need to look for and hold onto Joy.

posted by eturek at 10:11 PM

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Wednesday, December 4, 2019
Foam Floes and Rainbows
The other evening the nightly news weather gal announced that day, December 1, was the beginning of meteorological winter, as compared to astronomical winter, which of course begins at the winter solstice, around December 21 each year. Funny, I think of winter as starting in December, too. I place Thanksgiving firmly in fall, despite the weather, and link its gratitude for a bountiful harvest with the other blessings of autumn. But come December, it feels like winter to me, as the skies shift into their own winter wardrobes and I lug my lighter clothes upstairs and haul out goose down and fleece and warm woolen mittens. (Even warm woolen mittens aren’t enough to keep my cold hands warm, especially when holding on to my metal camera body and tripod, so I splurged on extra warm photographer gloves last January and they have already come in handy this season.)

November seemed like one long nor’easter. The winds blew and the sea roared in the beginning, middle and third week of the month before everything calmed down by Thanksgiving week.

By the third week, the beach was awash in foam as days of relentless multiplied sets of breakers sent lines of foam onto the beach. I’d gone to Avalon pier in the middle of the month and I went again near low tide on Saturday as the storm reached its peak winds, with gusts upwards of 60 mph at times! It was hard to climb out of the car, much less stand in place in the wind. Sunday morning after the early morning service at All Saints Episcopal Church, I went to Kitty Hawk pier at high tide. Wow, what a difference. I have witnessed many a storm, living here my entire adult life (43 years as of last May), but what I experienced that Sunday morning topped anything I had photographed before. The waves were breaking, not as water, but as pure churned whipping cream, and the foam was piled feet high everywhere I looked. I am so glad my schedule let me experience it!

Meanwhile, the same winds that were pushing foam up the beach emptied out the Sounds, pushing the water way westward. When it came back, it came more slowly than it does in a fullblown hurricane with its sudden shifting of winds. Seeing the dry Sound bottom is always startling.

November and early December gave us dramatic sky-shows, too, from vibrant full moon rings against a mackerel cloud sky, to the conjunction of a new moon with Jupiter and Venus on Thanksgiving night, to beautiful sunsets in between.

On Monday, the clouds were so compelling that I went to the ocean after some late afternoon errands. I wasn’t out long before the clouds in the west obscured the light that had called to my heart, and the rain bands I saw in the north began to close in from all directions. By the time I got back to the truck I was damp with the sudden sprinkles that quickly turned into moderate rain. But those clouds! It was not fully overcast so I decided to wait the rain out and within minutes, the sun broke through a rift in the western clouds while it was still misty-raining in the east. Rainbow conditions! Sure enough, a bright rainbow appeared over the sea, its ends tantalizingly close to shore. Then the light faded and I headed back to the dry of the truck and began driving toward home. But oh! Those clouds! On impulse, I decided to wait a little longer and see if squall number 2 would give a second rainbow, and it did! What an afternoon! Two double rainbows! I felt very blessed indeed.

Pete and I spent yesterday afternoon indoors, at a matinee of Tom Hanks’ portrayal of Mister Rogers. More than before, I understood his commitment not to ignoring the hard places and hard times we experience, even as children, but to finding ways to acknowledge the complexity of our feelings as valid, and then letting negativity go in favor of a deliberate lifestyle choice of peacefulness, compassion, gratitude, and love. Not at all an easy endeavor for any of us, Mister Rogers included. But I suspect he would have headed outside into an Outer Banks rainsquall to wait out the rainbow, too.


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This is earlier in November. Northeast winds, late afternoon light at Avalon Pier. Beautiful.

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By a week or so later, when winds were at their peak, I could see why foam was beginning to build on the shoreline.

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Still, I was not prepared to see this the next morning. Foam lay feet thick well up the dunes.

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In fact, the waves were breaking as pure foam!

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Here is another view of that foam.

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In such winds, you could easily believe Calm could never come. But a few days later, this was the sunset on the Sound.

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See that star under the new moon? Now look to the right and down, and you can see another, much fainter. Those are Venus and Jupiter, on Thanksgiving evening.

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Here is Rainbow #1.

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Even though the full arc faded, I was blessed to photograph the southern end's reflection in the wet sand--and with Sanderlings!

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I tell folks often, photography both teaches and rewards patience. Rainbow #2 proves my point! Definitely worth the wait.

posted by eturek at 1:47 PM

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