When I was in second grade, a new boy joined our class. He was quiet, shy, very smart, and the first left‑handed person I remember meeting. His family had just moved into a tall, imposing two‑story colonial on a little street off mine — a house I’d watched rise from the ground all summer. His name was Stephen Wright.

The Wright name is woven into Dayton’s history — a bicycle shop, two brothers, and the moment the world learned to fly. Stephen was the great-grandnephew of those Wright brothers. Growing up, we took regular trips to the Wright‑Patterson Air Force Museum, where one of the original Wright Flyers sat proudly as the first exhibit. Because of that, I always felt a small personal connection to the brothers… but somehow, I had never been to Kitty Hawk.

So when Jeremy, Hoggin and Nicoletta, and I headed toward the beach, our first stop was the place where it all began: Kill Devil Hills, home of the Wright Brothers Memorial and the exact spot where the first 12‑second flight changed world history. I’d even prepped for the occasion by ordering kites for the littles — a butterfly for Seraphina and an airplane for Rhu.

The brothers chose Kill Devil Hills because the winds there were steady and predictable — perfect for gliders, experiments, and yes, kites. They flew kites here long before they flew planes, so it felt fitting to let the kids do the same.

Inside the memorial museum, I pointed out the names of Stephen and his sister Amanda, who still help preserve their family’s legacy. Hoggin leaned down to Rhu and said, “Hey buddy, your grandma knows someone who’s related to someone famous.” Rhu’s eyes got huge. “Really?” he said — and then immediately ran off. So much for impressing almost‑four‑year‑olds.

The boys — Jeremy, Hoggin, and Rhu — walked the path of the first flight and climbed the hill to the monument. Meanwhile, Nicoletta, Seraphina, and I stayed below and got the kites ready. The wind was perfect. The kites soared exactly where the Wright brothers once flew their own. I doubt theirs were as colorful or made of plastic, but the feeling was the same — a small, joyful connection to history.

For reasons none of us fully understand, Rhu had been obsessed with the idea of “the beach” for nearly a year. Television? YouTube? A dream? Who knows. But he talked about it constantly. So on the way back from Kitty Hawk, we made a stop.

The walk from the parking area to the shoreline was long and sandy — the kind of trudge that makes you question your life choices — but we wanted his parents to see his reaction. We covered his eyes until we crested the dune. When he finally saw the ocean, his whole body froze. His mouth dropped open. His eyes went wide. I wanted the picture but he was quicker than I was.

“Mommy, LOOK! The BEACH!”

And then he ran. Full speed. Jeremy chased after him, laughing the whole way.

We didn’t stay long — the sun was dropping fast — but it was enough to hook him. The next day would be a full beach day.

After a great breakfast (thank you, Hoggin), we headed back — this time with a beach driving pass. No lugging gear through sand. My truck handled the beach beautifully; its sand‑and‑mud mode earned its keep.

We had everything:

• Cornhole boards Jeremy brought
• Sand toys
• Life vests for the littles
• Towels, snacks, drinks
• Enough sunscreen to protect a small army

Wonder who won the cornhole game? We spent the entire day there. I got a solid tan — maybe a little too solid — and even Hoggin showed signs of darkening, which I wasn’t sure was possible.

It was Hoggin and Nicoletta’s anniversary, and Jeremy and I offered to watch the kids so they could go out. They chose to stay with family instead and save date night for home. We had a wonderful dinner together…and then the bugs arrived.

Avon’s mosquitoes and flies were relentless. I bought a bug zapper, but the bugs seemed to treat it as a suggestion rather than a threat. With enough repellent, we survived, though I swear some of those flies were big enough to carry off Seraphina.

When I called Rhu an almost 4-year-old, I wasn’t exaggerating, his 4th birthday was the day they were leaving. So the night before, Uncle Jeremy took charge of the birthday preparations, and there were cake and presents for breakfast on the morning of their departure.  Happy Birthday, Rhu!

According to Nicoletta, they hadn’t made it far up the main road before Rhu piped up from the back seat: “Mommy, when can we go back to the beach?”

We have a convert.

For an hour or so after they left, I enjoyed the quiet. Then I missed them. But I also appreciated the rare luxury of staying put for a whole month. I caught up on photos, postcards, blogs, and avoided the campground as much as possible — the mosquitoes there were far worse than at the beach.

Over the next few days, I drove out for sunsets, caught one sunrise, and wandered into town. RV life has its quirks — like needing special toilet paper — which required a 45‑minute drive back to Walmart because I hadn’t paid attention. I made the most of it with some sightseeing.

I’d always assumed “OBX” was a brand of shirts or bikes. Turns out it’s simply the abbreviation for Outer Banks, a string of towns along Cape Hatteras.

Toward the end of my stay, I took the free ferry to Ocracoke Island. It’s small, charming, and full of character. I browsed shops, ate good seafood, and visited the local museum.

Another day, I visited the old meteorological station — one of the first hurricane evaluation centers in the U.S. — now a museum.

I also stopped by the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse in Buxton, only to find it wrapped in scaffolding for structural repairs. So instead of a postcard‑worthy photo, I got a picture of…construction. My luck.

The Bodie Island Lighthouse, painted in the same black‑and‑white spiral, made up for it. I passed it several times and got plenty of good shots.

Buxton, however, was struggling. Houses were literally falling into the ocean. Watching the erosion and rising tides eat away at the coastline was sobering.

After three weeks, I was preparing to leave when news broke about two hurricanes forming in the Atlantic. Even if they didn’t make landfall, they would bring dangerous surf.  And here’s something I learned: If you’re tired of plowing snow, North Carolina DOT might be your calling. Every high surf event dumps sand across Route 12, and they plow it just like snow.

I didn’t want to tow my trailer across sand‑covered roads. My truck could handle it; my trailer, not so much. So I made the call to leave early. Friday, I packed everything, hooked up the trailer, and left the stabilizers down to help brace against the incoming winds. It rained all day Saturday. It was still raining Sunday morning when I had to pull out.

I had secured the last large‑rig spot on the Ocracoke ferry to the mainland. The alternative route involved high‑profile bridges under high‑wind warnings — not an option.

I was soaked by the time I climbed into the truck, but I made it. The first ferry crossing was rougher than before, but manageable. The second ferry — from Ocracoke to the mainland — was rougher still. Everything on Ocracoke was closed (Sunday, 2:30 p.m.), so lunch was whatever I had in the truck.

I watched the sun set as we approached Elizabeth City, still in the rain, and found a national forest campground for the night. It was cheap, not level, and still raining. I slept crooked, but I slept safely.

And I was grateful not to be riding out a hurricane on Cape Hatteras Island.