Beyond busy beaches filled with sun bathers and raucous children lays an undeveloped stretch of North Carolina's coastline. Bird Island, named so because it is home to pristine bird watching wilderness, is also home to a romantic mystery. A lonely mailbox. That's right, a mailbox.
But this mailbox doesn't correspond to any house out here, nor does it have numbers on it's metal siding - instead only the words "KINDRED SPIRITS." Letters and notes delivered here are not addressed to anyone person, but rather all Kindred Spirits.
The last beach access to Sunset Beach, just outside the town of Calabash, is the closest you can park to make the trek to this secluded stretch of beach. This is where my journey began.
I walked along the wooden planked access through dune grass and squatty palmettos until the walkway opened up and the great expanse of Atlantic blue welcomed me.
This access is where the last of the homes on the island backing up the the beach are built, beyond it is only ocean, beach, and dunes. Here there are still many people. Families playing corn hole, kids digging in the sand, skim boarders running along the glistening strip where beach and water meet.
I zigzaged through the groups for just a few minutes until fewer and fewer people were left surrounding me. Within ten minutes of walking, all detectable human figures were no bigger than a grain of rice on the horizon.
Twenty minutes of walking and I came across shallow tidal pools that sparkled in ripples under then heavy sun. There are more seashells on this stretch of the beach where less feet stamp their way across the sand. Tiny clam shells lay split open and mimic outstretched butterfly wings.
The only sounds are the waves crashing beyond the shore before they break into foam that stretches over the sand. At the edge of the dunes is yellow caution tape fixed around four wooden poles marking sea turtle nests.
After thirty minutes of walking I notice a slight concave in the dunes and as I get closer I can make out the faintest outline of a mailbox nestled between tall grass that lounges in long strands around it. Trudging through thick sand, I reach the top of the dune, and open the mailbox.
A note in the front of a notebook in scribbled handwriting reads: "About 41 years ago Claudia and I put this very post up by the ocean. The mailbox has been replaced many times. I can not make this trip any more, but you kindred spirits continue to come. - Keeper of the Kindred Spirits Mailbox."
Filling the rest of the damp pages are letters, poems, well wishes, and prayers. I take the notebook and set upon the bench to write my own letter. This letter isn't for the Keeper, for myself, or even the person whom I would typically have addressed it to, but for all Kindred Spirits. For all others who make the quiet journey to this untouched retreat to find comfort in writing their thoughts on a notepad with full anonymity, and reading the pen marked sentences of the Kindred Spirits before them.
If there is one lesson I can take from my experience and pass on it would be this:
Personal Photo
In a life full of moments as fleeting as footsteps in the sand, take every chance to reflect and connect with your own Kindred Spirits.
