The temporal morphing continues to wreak havoc on being anything but blissful. Until the solar rays break through the cooking grease you sprayed all over, and your skin begins to lobster and pinking like newly boiled shrimp. All the collective calm is slightly diminished , when a burn ward’s pain stalks your every move. The beach, where a sunburn has always been a constant companion. It is like sand in your shoes or smelling something fishy it will occur at some point. There is always some forced march or long range patrol that ends in low moral and some prolonged lobstering. Then there is the more serious issue of the approaching hurricane, the first of the season. Apparently the beaches of North Carolina are the nose of the face of the east coast so we are a favorite target of Mother Nature’s punches. The barrier islands of the outer banks get beaten all the time almost washed away, wild ponies drowning in the treacherous sea swells. Great walls of water stacking itself into moving citadels of liquid battering rams. A great excuse to have what is locally known as a hurricane party. Getting pickled and blistered with great gusto for it might be the last time. A giddy excitement fills the air as you wait for the storm with it’s great rotating crimson eye. As wave after wave goes further and further and band after band of horizontal rain rushes everywhere you sit and wait for it to get better or worse. A tradition to get behind and be fully supplied for. Then there is the anticipation of what will be washed up on the beach , drug up from the deep to be deposited for collection or removal.