Assateague Island
It was cold, and windy, and that am-I-even-allowed-to-be-here eeriness of the off-season was pervasive. What had been plans to camp on the beach and see the wild horses of Assateague Island at first seemed like they were going to be thwarted by nature, as efforts to set up the campsite began to play out like a silent slapstick routine—the tent would go up, get blown over, and get put up again, only for the wind to knock it on its side; the fire would spark, and go out, and spark again, and go out again; and throughout this farce, the dog was losing his mind, arguing with the invisible forces disrupting his peace.
But then—the weather calmed, and the sun started its descent behind the dunes as the moon simultaneously rose over the water. As if recognizing this universal balance, a horse finally appeared, nibbling the leaves of a small bush, unaware or uncaring of its audience. The Atlantic sky dissolved into the hue of purple cotton candy, and the soundtrack of whistling winds gave way to the rustling ocean and calls of migrating birds.
What had felt like a ghost town suddenly felt like an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the natural beauty of the island and its majestic inhabitants. And you realize this is better than the experience you were trying to have—walking in the crisp, white sand; collecting seashells; feeling like you are the only ones in the world, sans loneliness.
