Across the bridge and into the heart of Ocean Isle I charged, my kung fu fighting cane on the passenger seat beside me, my jaw set like a bayonet, my face, had there been anyone around to see it, was a study in fearsome intensity.
Today would be a day of reckoning.
My trusty steed, Wynd Horse, flew valiantly into the off-shore breeze as we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway. Mighty Quinn, on the dashboard, led the charge. Beignet's banner urging us on.
Half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, as the poem goes, into the Valley of Juice Bars, Beachwear, and Outlandish Hair Highlights I rode.
I'd come to the dunes of Ocean Isle, on the edge of the Atlantic, where the veil separating this world and the next is thinnest because in recent weeks the Universe had messed with me at unprecedented levels of heinous anxiety and mental weasel-osity. I intended to kick some Universal ass.
There are no reasons to justify these emotional excesses. Mood disorders don't make sense. The limbic system is out of whack and acts out in ridiculous ways at the most inconvenient times.
I've done it before and I'll keep on doing it when I've had more than I can bear. And I've had enough! I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.
Please don't start with the questioning comments. I'm aware that my AA sponsors wouldn't condone my behavior and my Buddhist teachers would urge me to return to the middle way.
Despite the AA sponsor's and Buddhist teacher's objections, I must take action. Sometimes a man must stand up and make his voice heard.
As we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, my eyes scanned the area near the pier for parking spaces. There were none. Perhaps an available space could be found near Drift Coffee Cafe. Nope, that was a bust too.
It was the final week before school and we'd just finished with a month of thunderstorms. The entire population of three states must have decided to come to the beach.
I stopped at Sharky's and found parking near a construction site. It was only a quarter-mile walk to board one of those 6-passenger golf carts that tour the island. The cart would get me to the fishing pier and the dunes were only half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward from there.
The golf cart charged into the thick of Ocean Isle at about 6 miles an hour. Not exactly supportive of the attack mode I'd planned.
The slow ride was sapping my anger, so I imagined the cart to be a Viking longboat lined with war shields and with warriors hanging off the sides waving long swords while a booming drum drove us into a battle frenzy.
The cart stopped at the play area to let a mom and two kids get off before continuing to the pier. The driver explained that Netflix was filming a family-oriented movie in the area and some of the attractions were closed to accommodate the production crew.
The ice cream shop was open. I bought a double-scoop of vanilla bean to soothe my disappointment. The ocean breeze melted the ice cream making my hands a sticky mess. I rinsed them in the sea. The day wasn't going as I'd planned.
Something had changed. My anger had dissipated. I came here to kick ass but now... I would have been satisfied to give someone a piece of my mind. But there's the rub, who would hear it?