Ocracoke Island

There is an island in the Atlantic, tucked far away from the unobservant eye, accessible only by ferry or plane.  A tiny little island graced by sand and by sun, by wind and by waves, by cotton ball clouds and sapphire skies.  The grasses that grow on the dunes whisper as the gentle ocean breeze upsets them.  Waves crash beyond the grassy mountains of sand, the percussion that completes the island's symphony.  Seashells can be found by the hundreds, even thousands-- their scalloped edges and whorled corners breaking through the sand just as flowers press through the soil in spring.  Occasionally, a starfish can be found clinging to the rocks, nestled among the seaweed and barnacles that have also found shelter in the boulders' cool enclave.  From far away, the stark light house can be seen, shining its centuries-old beam across the entire island. There is no need for cars here; all corners of the little haven can be reached by bicycle or by walking.  And time?  Ask the natives and they'll tell you that the only form of timekeeping here is found in the rising and setting of the fiery sun.