The Ghosts of Saturday Night

By Paul Hansard

I was rushing down to Shell Point, anxious to rig and hit the water, when I noticed that the restaurant was gone. Though missing buildings generally give me pause, this day I hurriedly rigged a small one, threw on my Saturday wetsuit, and went out in the 25 knot westerly that had developed in the wake of the passing front. I sailed alone for an hour or so, stopping every now and then to tweak the rig and adjust the straps. The wind had a hint of north in it, and my reach carried me to the outside of the west flats, where I turned for the ride back in. The wind was gusting to something evidently outside my range, and I came out of one of my turns looking like Beetle Bailey after one of his encounters with the Sarge. After I regained my board and my 3-dimensionality, I paused and looked back at the beach.

It's this view of the beach from offshore that I live for, and that I take home with me after a great sailing day. The entire experience condenses into this one picture of Shell Point; an image from a couple of feet off the water, looking back a half mile at the tiny houses, the radio tower, Live Oak Island, and the distant lighthouse off to the east. I carry this image with me for a day or so, and it compensates for my post-sailing depression; sitting at my desk, standing in line, or waiting in traffic, the image comes to my mind, and it makes my experience seem unique.

On this day, standing in the chest-deep water, I reflected on how the image had changed. The tiki huts were gone, and so were the drying racks, which marked the leeward-most point to which one could shamelessly return. The old Coast Guard station was gone, which marked both the rocky area in front of it and our western border with Armenia. And the restaurant and hotel were also gone; together these had marked the eastern edge of the oyster bar. All of these structures provided visual reference points to a wayward windsurfer wanting to get home. But the restaurant was more than a mere navigational aid - it was a training device.

You see, back in the day, the wind always blew on Saturdays, and on Saturdays, the restaurant was always full of people. From the vantage point of a sailboard, you could see all the patrons through the enormous "bay" windows, and they of course could see you. As a beginning windsurfer, it didn't take me long to realize that the only place in all of Shell Point where you absolutely could not fall was in front of the restaurant. Nothing was worse than falling off your board in front of 60 diners, who had nothing better to do than gawk and chuckle as you struggled up out of the water looking like a drowned cat, uphauled for 15 minutes, then tentatively sheeted in on a new course. I quickly learned that any maneuver performed in front of the restaurant required timing and skill, and a little bit of forethought. My first tacks were done in front of the restaurant, and it was there I learned to do them with speed and authority, snapping the cambers and hooking in, with what I hoped was real panache. Later, as I progressed to shortboard, I would pinch in high on the return reach, and initiate my jibes only when I could see the yolks of the eggs-over-easy. Exiting, I would congratulate myself on not falling, and contemplate my next crowd-wowing move. Fast tacks, helicopters, and one-handers were all learned in front of the watchful (and sometimes wholly imaginary) restaurant patrons, each of whom I envisioned holding an olympic-sized score card.

At some point, I became one of those patrons. The restaurant, under the management of Genevieve Oaks, had pretty good food. Soft-shelled crab, fried mullet, and the all-you-can eat popcorn shrimp for $7.99 on Saturday night were all Shell Point specialties, but the best kept secret of the modest little cinderblock restaurant was the fried grouper sandwich (with french fries and cole slaw). I have never in my life tasted its equal. At some point, a tiki hut was built on the deck of the restaurant, and the SPSC adopted it as its tiki away from tiki. We enjoyed many a fine apres-sail evening under this tiki, sipping frozen drinks and Melisa's fine top-shelf margaritas, and listening to the raga sounds of Red Plastic Bag. The fact that I really believed those days would never end is a sad tribute to my naivete.

Now, standing in the chest-deep water looking back at the beach, I could see the sand and palm trees but I could also see the ghosts of Saturday night. In time, I am told, wealthy humans will build something to fill this vacant space. I hope it will be something nice and that it will bring people together the way the old restaurant did, and maybe the ghosts of the past will dine and lift glasses at the same tables as the patrons of the future. Regardless of what comes, in that little patch of sea between the oyster bar and the beach, I know my transitions will always be a little snappier, a little faster, and full of grace and style.