The Weekend That Wasn’t—And Turned Out Better

There’s a line from an old Eagles song—something about how you can spend all your time making money, or all your money making time. I don’t remember it exactly, but I know what it means. You blink, and five years have gone by. You’ve worked, raised kids, paid bills, cleaned floors, and maybe you even squeezed in a family vacation or two. But somewhere in all that chaos, you forgot to take each other somewhere. Just the two of you.

That was us.

Me and Jamie realized one day—probably in the kitchen, over lukewarm coffee—that we hadn’t been alone in years. I don’t mean just date nights. I mean away. Gone. Phones ignored, dogs with someone else, no kids asking what’s for dinner or who took the charger. Alone.

So she said, “Go ahead. Plan something.”

I asked her what she wanted, and all she said was, “I’d like to be by the ocean.”

That girl loves the ocean.

---

The Plan (and the Breakdown)

I had it all mapped out. I remembered a National Geographic article I saw once in a waiting room, about how the Outer Banks were disappearing—storm by storm, wave by wave. I remembered cedar shake fishing shacks and wild horses and a coastline holding on for dear life. I didn’t want Myrtle. Didn’t want Topsail. I booked us a weekend in Kitty Hawk.

There were horses. Restaurants. An itinerary. I even remembered to pack the charger.

And off we went—5 ½ hours to the Outer Banks. Jamie, always the trooper, didn’t flinch. I said “Trust me,” and she did. Because even if it was a dumb idea, there was beach at the end of it.

---

Turtles and Trouble

We drove through nothing—just a 2-lane road hugging marshes and canals. Every log was covered in turtles. Not one or two. Whole congregations. (Is that the word for turtles? A dignity of turtles? A slow stampede? Doesn’t matter.)

About an hour and a half out, I got the call:
“Your reservation has been canceled due to a… domestic disturbance.”

I never got the full story, but the words drywall and carpet replacement were involved. If that wasn’t enough déjà vu, I once had a hotel in upstate New York that also got shut down for a fight involving chicken wings. But this wasn’t a solo fishing trip. This was our weekend. And now we were stranded.

---

Pivot to Magic

I fought the urge to get mad and ruin the whole thing. I pulled over, fired up the smartphone, and by some miracle found a last-minute spot over an hour south at the Avon Motor Lodge. room 100 S.

Not fancy. But clean. Comfy, Close to the beach. Studio-style. And more importantly, available. They accepted us with open arms and handed us a key to our paradise for 3 two nights.

We crossed the now-defunct Bonner Bridge, and something shifted. No high-rises. No chains. Just sky, dunes, and miles of sea oats. The Oregon Inlet shimmered on one side, the Atlantic on the other. Every little town—Waves, Rodanthe, Salvo—felt like a secret.

By the time we got to Avon, we already knew: this was it.

We climbed the dune behind our little studio, the wind hitting hard enough to sting—but when we turned around, there wasn’t another soul in sight. Just sand, sky, and water.

We felt like millionaires. On a $140  a night resort budget.

Room 100S Shenanigans

---

Course Correction = Lifelong Detour

We drove to Buxton. Found Duck Donuts. Took a detour up to Duck and Corolla, and instantly hated it. Too polished. Too busy. Too built. Nope—we were heading south from now on.

We walked the Oregon Inlet jetty and watched the sunset paint the sky in purples and reds. The bridge lit up like a necklace of fireflies. We talked about the kids. We talked about coming back. And we did—again and again.

We saw lighthouses. Shipwrecks at low tide. We rented big off-season Airbnbs for cheap. But we always stayed on that side. The quiet side. The side where dunes still outnumbered buildings. Where sea oats still waved like they owned the place.

---

The Truth About Perfect Plans

If our Kitty Hawk plan had worked, I think we would’ve had a nice weekend and never gone back. But because the plan fell apart, we found something better than nice.

We found our place.

And here’s the truth: I over-plan everything. I map it, list it, Google it, check reviews, compare mileage, and then double-check the weather. But somehow, the best stuff always happens when the wheels come off. When the hotel cancels. When the GPS reroutes. When the plan changes and you don’t.

You’ve got to make time to make time. Even if it’s not the time you thought you’d have.

.And if you’re lucky—really lucky—what you get instead is better than anything you could’ve planned.

That weekend wasn’t supposed to start like that. But it started something. It gave us a place that feels like ours. A stretch of sand and silence we keep going back to. A reminder that even when everything goes off course, the trip isn’t ruined. It might just be getting good.

We didn’t need luxury. We didn’t need a perfect weekend. We just needed each other, a beach, and a little space to breathe.

So yeah, I’ll keep over-planning. It’s who I am. But now I know—when things go sideways, that’s when the story starts. That’s when the wind hits your face, the sky lights up, and the whole world slows down just long enough to remind you why you needed to get away in the first place.

Make the time. Even if the plan falls apart. Especially if the plan falls apart.

Because somewhere out there—past the canceled reservations and the detours and the dunes—there’s a version of you that finally remembers what it feels like to just be.

So now when we need a break—from work, from laundry, from whatever mysterious thing was rotting in the back of the fridge, We book a quick weekend escape and find the perfect little spot through VRBO. Nothing fancy, just peaceful, quiet, and ours for a couple of days. If you’re overdue for a recharge too, here’s where to start: