Guess I’ve been on vacation long enough

An open letter to the state of North Carolina:

It’s not your fault, and I want you to understand that as I say goodbye. What’s happening isn’t because you did anything wrong; in fact, under other circumstances, we might have stayed together.

It won’t be easy leaving you behind after all these years. When I decided to take a different course in the life I’d been living, you were my first and only choice and, importantly, I regret nothing.

I remember thinking, “If I can just make it through five years, then folks back home can’t say I’d just cut and run,” since back then at the turn of the century, my fiancée and I knew only one thing for sure — that whatever adventure lay ahead of us, it might be hard.

Not because it was new — that was part of the attraction. What worried us more than anything else was not being able to make a stand, to carve out a life in a place where we knew no one and could end up wishing we could undo the decision we’d made.

And guess what?

Those fears dissipated almost immediately, and 23 winters later, all I can do is be grateful that the place we chose over all others turned out to be the one I’ll find so very difficult to leave behind.

But I don’t want to dwell on our departure. I’d rather focus on everything we’ve experienced here, in a place we’ll treasure.

I was in my mid-40s when we left home, and now, as I can see clearly turning 70 in the not-too-distant future, I’m still the same man I was, though I have a feeling I’m not the best judge of that. I mean, in a lot of ways, I haven’t grown up since I was a kid.

Again, though, that’s certainly not your fault, just part of my charm.

I think we need a little music … someone cue up James Taylor.

“In my mind, I’m gone to Carolina

Can’t you see the sunshine

Can’t you just feel the moonshine

And ain’t it just like a friend of mine

To hit me from behind

When I’m gone to Carolina in my mind?”

I’ve loved that song since I first heard it, way back in junior high school, the way it offered a different way of life, a chance to leave the cold, dark Ohio days and nights, the only ones I’d ever known.

But I never imagined actually living in a place where, if you wanted to see the ocean, all you had to do was drive a few miles, a luxury I’d always associated with the well-heeled and the lucky of birth, the sort of folks who populated books and movies and songs.

Far too fortunate for someone like me until, well, it wasn’t.

It isn’t going to be easy leaving the Atlantic, but it’s better to cultivate those memories of days spent in the sunshine, the sea at your feet, the water meeting the sky on a distant horizon, seagulls wheeling in the air, dolphins surfacing playfully, pelicans diving straight into the surf, seeking a noontime snack, the world perfect.

I’d have a cooler and a boom box, both loaded and ready to make my life complete, the crowds getting bigger but not too big, though there were times when I despaired of too many little children, their parents blissfully beached and otherwise occupied, causing me to think I might have to actually save the day, but no.

God looks out, I think, for those least able to protect themselves, and that was me when I tempted fate and rode those 10-foot swells.

Those prehurricane days were always the best for boogie boarding, though there were times I pressed my luck a little too far. Once, I’ll always remember, I drifted way too far out in the surf, alone, and I got smashed into the seabed by a monster wave, sort of like being a spike driven by a hammer into a railroad tie. Disoriented, I surfaced, only to see an even bigger wall of water curling into a whitecap, and once again, I was forced deep down into the depths.

I don’t like to think about what might have happened had there been a third wave roaring toward me as I broke free and got air.

You’re probably wondering why I’d even try such a stunt; I mean that wasn’t my first hurricane watch party and I knew the risks, but there was a voice in my head that whispered, “You gotta go for it.”

When I finally crawled ashore, shaken and quivering after having fought my way through the powerful undertow and a rip current, I staggered to where my wife was sitting, pretty as a souvenir picture.

“I was watching you,” she said, holding up her binoculars.

“So you saw?” I gasped, collapsing. “How I almost died?”

She flicked her wrist in a loving, if dismissive, fashion.

“You looked like you were 10, having the time of your life.”

Then she went back to her beach book, and I popped a cold one as I slid an Allman Brothers CD into the player. “Whipping Post,” from the Fillmore East concert, seemed an appropriate selection, so I turned up the volume and savored the sensation of being alive.

But Carolina has been so much more than beach life. We’ve camped and kayaked, ridden bikes, and hiked mountain trails.

We’ve spent wonderful summer nights taking in Minor League Baseball games, and once, during a promotion, I got to run the bases, joining in with a mob of youngsters who probably were thinking, “Who’s this old dude and what’s he doing trying to finish first?”

We went through an ice-hockey phase, becoming honorary Caniacs, on the way toward trying to win a Stanley Cup. We took in an NC State basketball game and got to watch Notre Dame score a satisfying win over a not-too-shabby Wake Forest squad. I’ve played ping-pong and pickleball, sat up late at night in marathon card games, made my mark as a cornhole up-and-comer, and rolled my way to more victories in beach bocce ball than was my share.

And I don’t think I’ll ever forget about Carolina’s seafood, especially those steamed oysters … must have inhaled a thousand.

The coast is an oasis for live music in those little beachside bars, and you could go a long way finding a better concert than Elton John on his farewell tour. Our little town held a reading of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” and I appeared on our local cable access station to discuss my column, which ran every Sunday.

I was invited to speak at a Knights of Columbus dinner and talked for an hour about my time here for the Carolina Newcomers club.

But mostly, I’ve kept to myself, enjoying a new life, all the while knowing it couldn’t last forever, that I was going to go home.

And now that time has come, and I find myself struggling to say a proper goodbye. If the only thing that mattered was I got married on a Kitty Hawk beach, that’d make it all worthwhile, but there’s been so much more than even the best day of my life.

Who am I kidding? We’ll be back again in the fall, my dear friend.

Mike Dewey can be reached (for now) at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where memories and music and all that good stuff still live.