Phil Holt, a Kitty Hawk resident was taking his usual morning beach jog, heading north of the Hilton Garden Inn. What happened next sounds like a vivid dream, or perhaps a hallucination. But Holt insists it was real.
“I was having a really good run and decided to push further north than usual. Suddenly I was shrouded in an incredibly dense fog; the kind you might see on an episode of ‘Sleepy Hollow’ or one of those GOP presidential debates last winter.”
Holt said when he emerged from the fog bank he found himself on a pristine beach occupied by a mere handful of beachgoers.
“There were beautiful oceanfront homes, dolphins frolicking in the water and not a single kid in sight. Wild unicorns roamed the beach and seagulls were swaddled in diapers. The scent of collagen mingled with suntan lotion.”
Holt said he spied a small gathering of four elderly people and as he approached he could hear them in engaged in animated discourse.
“I’m telling you, the quality of The Club’s food has declined,” said one lady who appeared to be in her seventies and sporting a tennis visor.
“I know,” said a man who appeared to be her husband, wearing an ensemble that included a knit Polo shirt, Bermuda shorts, held up by a belt decorated with gamefish and sailboats. On his feet were beach sandals with black socks.
“Who pairs squab with Pinot Grigio? Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows squab demands an earthy Burgundy,” he sniffed. “Next thing you know they’ll start serving grits without shrimp and unpronounceable cheeses folded in.”
A third member of the group, a timid looking male warned the others in sotto voce, “Be careful. People have been ‘disappeared’ for criticizing The Club.”
Holt said he approached the group, complimented them on their unspoiled and virtually empty strand of beach, and then innocently asked “What is this place?”
The gentleman who had been ranting about the squab narrowed his eyes, according to Holt, and demanded to know “who I was, how I got there, and whether I thought the C-Class Mercedes line was diluting the brand.”
One of the ladies whipped a cell phone from her purse and said she was calling the police.
Alarmed, Holt ran back in the direction he came from, re-entered the fog bank and emerged a few seconds later right in front of the Hilton Gardens.
After dinner, Holt got into his car and drove north on Highway 12, through the town of Southern Shores looking for signs of the magical beach.
“I didn’t see one public beach access. Not one. I looked for hours, but near as I could tell, there is no beach north of Kitty Hawk.
Holt has tried to replicate his beach jog but has been unable to relocate the fog bank.
“I’ll keep trying,” he promised. “You can’t keep a beach hidden from the public forever.”