I’m Done Car Camping At The Beach

Tuesday, July 9, 2024

2:58 a.m.

Coinjock, North Carolina,

At least in the summer. At least in the Southeast. Now I understand why all these #vanlife folks head north this time of year. Good gravy—it’s sweaty.

It’s 79 degrees, which wouldn’t be bad, but the dew point is 78 degrees. That means the humidity is above 95 percent, and the only rain is what is dripping off my forehead and onto the sleeping bag inside my bootleg RV. It would be nice to use the Planet Fitness membership I got last July while melting in Charleston.

Unfortunately, the nearest gym is in Elizabeth City, and frankly that’s a little far for me at this hour. But it isn’t all bad. I could at least cool down with the open-to-the-public shower at Coquina Beach, and full-blast AC on the 40 or so minute drive to the only rest area near the Outer Banks where you won’t get the dreaded knock (if you know, you know). However, this might be it for me.

Opposite the soundside, shade is quite fleeting down here. Much of the local vegetation is short to medium-height shrubs, with a smattering of Red Oaks and Dahoons, mind you, but not enough to provide coverage anywhere on Route 12. You’ll have better luck getting out of the sun at the gas pumps. Even campsites, only a few back up against a true swath of forested land. Incidentally, those are the first spots reserved.

Why do I not pay the 30 or so dollars at the south end of the barrier islands to spend the night at NPS sites? Because I’m cheap, irrespective of the fact that I probably don’t save much with the gas it takes to do the Coinjock-to-Frisco run in the morning. And anyways, I need to run the truck to charge the fridge.

But the real reason? I can’t seem to drum up the calmness to stay in one spot for too long. After all, there’s a whole lot of interesting things to see around here, and the hordes of inland tourists seem to make getting to them a bit more tricky.

It would be cliché to blame tourists, and hypocritical, considering I am one. It would also be dumb to blame the weather because that would be tantamount to calling for a local council meeting to formally censure an incoming storm front. There’s no getting around it. If you’re in the Outer Banks from June through September, you’re gonna sweat—even if you’re in one of these 20-bedroom Hollywood mansions for the trust-funders. You can see them sweating while they’re bitching about waiting an hour for their table at 6:45 on a Friday night. If it isn’t the humidity, it’s the near-constant coastal breeze that’ll upset those curls and coifs.

The locals seem to have gotten around the weather by ditching the Lilly Pulitzer skirts and pleated khakis and wearing relatively the same things. Shorts or lightweight pants with a tank top, t-shirt, or sweater, and either some form of hat or a bandana tied one of many ways. Basically, everyone dresses like it’s 1993 but with more breathable fabric that's easier to wash in a pinch—or in a rest area sink or campground shower. My laundry routine notwithstanding, the sweatiness is a bit more than I can handle, especially rolling past 3:00 a.m.

It’ll be chance or God’s blessing for me to fall asleep tonight. But that means I can watch the sun peek over the horizon while on top of Rodanthe Bridge as I make my way to Frisco. However, I think I’ll save this view for the cooler, quieter months when the kids are back in school and their Duck, Duck, Jeep parents have run out of vacation days until next fiscal year.

In the late fall and winter, it may not be tank-top weather, but everything is a little less annoying. Less mosquitos. Less traffic. Fewer lines for the catch of the day. No one taking TikTok videos at the shipwrecks. No bro dozers rutting up the beach. At that point, you can avoid curated experiences summer beach towns are known for and come to enjoy the coast for what it is.