The Long-Lost Story of the Lost Colony Waterfront Pub’s Bar Top By Renee Williams

Of resin and revenants,

of sugar sand and secrets,

unlike any tavern counter you’ve ever encountered,

discarded during a remodel of Coastal Cravings in Duck, 

Paul rescued me and made me the centerpiece 

of his Lost Colony Waterfront Pub in Nag’s Head.

Closer now to the Pamplico Sound, I bristle from the Atlantic 

breeze, hear herring gulls cackle, and savor

the nearness of my ocean home. Cradled by indigo casing, 

peer inside this epoxy and you’ll see golden beige silt 

strode upon by warriors Manteo, Wanchese, and even Sir Walter Raleigh, 

remnants of angel wing shells, egg cockles, calico scallops 

and coquina clams, a single penny, dropped by a young boy, 

walking to the pier for an ice cream cone, 

and a silver fishing hook belonging to a future championship 

angler when his blue fish got away. Behind me, bartender Dirt

holds court, serves tourists and locals alike, though his overly

boisterous yell of, “HEYYYY!!!” and, for emphasis,

slap upon me whenever someone enters the bar chafes my ears and startles 

the heck out of me. Dirt and Charlie, the establishment’s best patron, 

devised a bootleg menu of combined beer concoctions, much to Paul’s chagrin, 

though a Shad Boat can still be served when Paul isn’t watching. 

Aquamarine ceramic beer mugs cloak me most days and hold beverages 

like Buxton Nut Brown Ale, Hatteras Red Witch, Holy Hand Grenade, and Santa Sleigher.

On my acrylic top—smooth as glass—Monday night trivia scorecards  

scatter about as the crowd debates the answers to such burning questions 

as the number of Bond films that feature Sean Connery

while at my far end, space is reserved for Paul’s 

deceased father with a glass of Kitty Hawk Blonde,

freshly poured each day, and the book, Finding My Way, held open

by a pair of reading glasses, and no one sits in this spot without buying

the house a round. While in Duck at Coastal Cravings, Guy Fieri glanced upon me 

while filming a segment of his Food Network show, but

I’d rather be here, listening to Dirt ramble on about the Braves 

or eyeing photos on Uncle Ray’s phone of cathedrals he saw in Europe.

A single white hair from the Great Pyrenees, Gandalf, floats by the door. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for Guitar Digest, Alien Buddha Press and Fevers of the Mind.