Our annual beach pilgrimage, took us this time to the edge of Virginia, where the land finally surrenders to the water and civilization gives way to pine trees, sand, and RV hookups. This year marked our 12th straight trip with Ed and Chris, our partners in crime for these beach getaways. They checked into a neat little cabin with all the creature comforts while we rolled into our nearby campsite with our RV, staking our claim like pioneers (only with air conditioning, internet TV, and a fridge full of snacks). By the time we finished leveling, plugging in, and waving at what seemed like fifty hayrides full of kids circling the campground, we realized we still hadn’t eaten. Surely dinner was just a few minutes away? Wrong.
Our GPS cheerfully informed us that the nearest open restaurant was not only far away but in another state. Yes, to find food we had to drive fifty minutes across the line into Moyock, North Carolina. So much for “local dining.” But hunger makes you brave, so we set out down winding backroads that looked like the perfect backdrop for a moonshine chase scene. Eventually, we arrived at the Southland Restaurant, a place that could feed a small army and then sell them fireworks for dessert. Dinner was hearty and filling, the kind of meal that reminds you the South never skimps on portion sizes. Afterward, we wandered through the adjoining store, which had everything from hand-painted signs to cigar cases to enough firecrackers to light up the Fourth of July twice. It was the sort of place where you half expect to see Elvis pushing a shopping cart.
On the way back to camp, the adventure wasn’t quite finished. We pulled into Doodle Doo Farms, where Kevin, the farmer-owner, greeted us like old friends. He proudly explained his operation while I locked in on the ice cream freezer. Hand-dipped chocolate ripple. That was all I needed to know. I was halfway through the first scoop before Kevin could get to the part about his zebras. Yes, zebras. Apparently, he has a couple of them hanging around, and he invited us back the next day for a closer look. Charlie, our four-legged companion, also gave the ice cream a big paws-up, which I think counts as a five-star review in dog language.
The day wound down the right way—with us gathered around the campfire. RV awning stretched overhead, the fire popped and crackled, and we settled into our camp chairs swapping stories and sipping whatever cold drinks we had left. It wasn’t anything flashy, but that’s the magic of this trip: it doesn’t need to be. Twelve years in, we’ve learned that it’s the combination of misadventures, detours, embellished story-telling, and simple evenings with friends that makes this a tradition worth keeping. And while the first day gave us enough material to laugh about for weeks, something tells me tomorrow is going to top it. After all, how often do you get promised zebras at a beach campground?
