Editor’s note: This story was produced in partnership with The Sanderling Resort and the Outer Banks Visitors Bureau.
I hadn’t been to the Outer Banks in thirty years, and nothing looked familiar. The last time I came down this way I was shirtless, in the bed of my buddy’s overloaded pickup truck, with cheap beers, my friend Donovan, and a few surfboards to keep me company. I remember interdicting a giant bag of pastries a late-shift employee was about to throw out after closing a Dunkin’ Donuts. This was breakfast and munchies for the next few days. That was my last impression of the Outer Banks. I say all this to contrast the experience my wife and I were about to have.
We had the weariness of 2026 on us. Being just before the midterm elections and Halloween (and my wife’s birthday), we were ready to de-stress. A resort getaway on the Outer Banks is just what the doctor, or in this case the tourism board, ordered. They coordinated with The Sanderling and RVA Magazine to offer this assignment. I jumped at it full tilt.
We were visiting in late October, a week or so past the official end of “tourist season.” The resort was quiet, though not abandoned by any stretch. This is important because it’s kind of the point of this entire article. This is about the experience of joining the locals in their world. It feels like being invited backstage, or hanging out with the carnies after the carnival. Sharing their jokes, their beers, their time. We were there to completely unwind, and maybe meet some chill beach people. That might not be on the agenda of the summer traveler per se, but was perfect for the hush of fall.
We were halfway to Duck before we learned the road to Rodanthe had washed away. It wasn’t the end of the world, as we were scheduled to arrive at the Sanderling Resort today, Thursday, and Hatteras Island on Sunday. Rodanthe was a secondary stop after our stay just south of Duck, about thirty minutes north of Nags Head and Kill Devil Hills. It just meant that we had overpacked, our second destination only accessible by emergency ferry for the foreseeable future. There’s a charm and a curse to having only one road that goes to your town. Today, it was more curse than charm. We got over it. Sanderling got us for an extra day.
We pulled a good travel weather card and so had the windows down at sixty-five as we approached the very long peninsula. Once over the bridge, the salt air wafts like apple pie in a cartoon window. This is a perfume to me. I love the beach.
The people of the Outer Banks seem to really like double entendres in their business names. I mean, it’s not every advertisement sign making a high school joke, but enough to notice the trend. Dirty Dick’s Crab House is right down the road from Try My Nuts, both very real names of very real places. I love dirty, juvenile jokes like the rest of you do too. I smiled and made a game of spotting other ones as we got closer to Sanderling.
The town of Duck is elegantly rustic, if you can wrap your head around that. It gives the impression of humble beachery, all wooden structures painted different shades of white and seafoam, but hides the well-appointed wine shops, day spas, raw bars, and fine dining options a resort town requires. There’s a tree or bush growing there that emanates a potent honeyed vanilla aroma. I almost wanted to make a U-turn and drive through it again, just because. As you near the resort, there’s a point where the trees break on the bay side of the road offering a stunning view of a long pier monitoring a sun-dappled sea. It’s worth a swoon or two.
After an exactly three-hour drive from Richmond, my ratchet memories of the area had been dispersed completely. Our destination revealed itself from around a bend on our right. The Sanderling Resort is a sprawling complex mirroring the wooden structure aesthetic that fits so well on any shoreline. They manage to make the place look brand new, except for aging that passes for charm, not neglect. Like crow’s feet punctuating a perfect smile.
The main building is a long, gabled, three-story monument attended by a half dozen smaller, campus-style buildings. The resort was built around the historic Lifesaving Station. It is now a beach club–style restaurant, but was once the Caffey’s Inlet Lifesaving Station No. 5.
It was established in 1874 to stand watch over the “Graveyard of the Atlantic,” this treacherous stretch of beach that claimed many a mariner’s life and livelihood. After surviving a fire in 1899 and serving as a rescue headquarters for decades, it was decommissioned in 1964. It slumbered until The Sanderling Resort would restore the building in 1977, and revive it in 1985 as the restaurant destination of the same name.
Sanderling straddles the narrowest point on the Outer Banks, and takes up the entire width of land between the ocean and the bay. This chokepoint measures only nine hundred feet wide, walkable bay to beach in under five minutes. This creates a unique quality to the air, a signature chorus of waves and waterfowl, with the opportunity to view every sunrise and sunset over glittering waters.
The first taste of the exceptionally trained and accommodating staff was the cheerfully opened door and wide smiles of the desk crew. The lobby screams “The South” in the most pleasant drawl, like a white suit holding a mint julep. It was vaulted and airy. The windows held sea-salted panes, diffusing the ethereal sunbeams like heavenly revelation.
We were given our keys to our suite in the South House, a wing of the main building. Our room contained a four-posted king bed, a breakfast nook for two, an enormous bathroom with a multi-headed shower, and a door leading to a cozy covered balcony. We were on the third (and top) floor, which gave us a commanding view of the ocean, its wave-crashing music on repeat since the dawn of time. The large pool, with lap lanes, sunned below us. An oversized hot tub sat adjacent, with an ever-lit communal firepit to boot. For the remainder of our stay, we would keep this door open, enjoying Neptune’s symphony.
We were starving for each other’s attention, a shower, and dinner. The first two items scratched off the list, we put our best available outfits on and went to the Lifesaving Station ahead of our 7:00 p.m. reservation. There was a truly magnificent sunset lowering over the bay, a complete rainbow smear of sky softening the dark polished wood and brass in the room. Our bartender, Janelle, a sunny young lady, responded to our order with a perfect old-fashioned and dirty Beefeater martini. There are many, many ways to get these simple classics wrong, but it seems she didn’t know of any.
Everyone, from the hostess, the GM, the servers, and support staff, seemed to work in lockstep to deliver a seamless experience. With personality too. There was our guy who spoke to us in song, without being the least bit annoying. Mr. Hatmaker, running the place, made certain that we, and all the other guests, felt special and anticipated.
Melissa, my wife, opted for a merlot to begin as I came down from the very generously poured martini at the bar. I was standing on my sober virtue until a very nice couple, regulars at the restaurant, gifted us a round (for Melissa’s birthday). It was their anniversary that weekend too, and we were determined to return the favor. Melissa dropped by the bar the next day and left the bartender with cash and instructions to buy their first round when they arrived for their dinner reservation.
That dinner though. Damn.
The cuisine was appropriately Southern Americana as we had hoped. Southern Americana by way of the bayou to be more specific. We started off with an appetizer of Blue Crab Beignets, which were not quite what I expected. When I hear beignets I think of the French Quarter and powdered sugar. They were delicious no matter what you call them. They were very thinly crusted balls dense with lump crab meat served with a malt vinegar aioli that was itself a thing of beauty.
Our entrees described the outer bands of the spectrum of dishes on their tidy, but eclectic, menu. I had the Roasted Lamb Shank and Mel got the Rockfish Herbsaint. The lamb was roasted in a coffee and molasses demi-glace that I found harmonious with the dark game of the voluminous shank struggling to stay on the bone. It was crowned with a veil of chimichurri sauce and a nest of crispy leeks. The generous amount of coffee/molasses sauce pooled over a thick bed of pimiento cheese grits.
I am a sucker for good grits.
My father, a lifelong New Yorker and foodie extraordinaire, dove headfirst into Southern cuisine when we moved to Richmond in the ’80s. I cannot make simple grits at home because of him. There’s always cheese, cream, (garlic maybe?), saffron, truffle—something else in there. I had never considered pimiento cheese grits, but it is being welcomed in my kitchen from now on.
Melissa’s rockfish, which, if you don’t know, is a Chesapeake Bay colloquialism for striped bass—as opposed to the Pacific rockfish which is its own distinct thing. Call it Susan for all I care, this flesh flaked in that strangely satisfying way I know you can imagine in your head right now. The white fish would slide into the Herbsaint (an herbaceous liqueur) cream sauce and emerge baptized and swaddled in its glory.
There was absolutely no world in which we could have finished this meal in one go. This did not in any way deter us from getting dessert. After too long mired in a pitched choice paralysis, we decided on the Sweet Tea Crème Brûlée. It was savored slowly, but with keen attention to who was eating more than their half.
The preparations, the drive, the drinks and then this amazing dinner had us waddling like sleepy teddy bears back to the room. Once on the balcony and in pajamas, we decided to rally.
We went to the beach first and caught the high tide. The sandy banks were narrow and the waves pounded like thunder. There was a nearly full moon shining, which gave each crest of the ocean a silver crown. The experience was otherworldly, as only liminal environments in solitude can deliver.
The hot tub here is essentially a pool. It is easily the biggest hot tub I’ve ever been in. I felt like the world had receded like a crowd through headphones, the quiet interrupted only by the waves past the barrier dune and the tinny gurgle of the powerful bubble jets on the small of my back.
Like the ocean, a good and big fire mesmerizes. Conversation around a fire is great, but a contemplative silence is golden. We indulged in both. I held my wife’s hand as we walked back to the hotel, peeping a side-walking crab trying to avoid us on our path. It was pretty damn cute.
That bed was comfortable as all hell. There is something special about waking up in a new bed and feeling like you just got a massage. I liked it so much I had to look up the brand. Winndom Mattresses out of Hopewell, Virginia, if you’re curious. I bookmarked them.
This was our get-out-of-the-resort adventure day. There were complimentary beach cruisers available with special little wicker baskets affixed to the handlebars. Right next to a little bell. Adorable. It was at this moment that I realized I hadn’t ridden a bike in a while. It was a little embarrassing getting moving, but once we did, I felt like we were breezing along in a Cymbalta commercial (without the rapid-fire reading of side effects).
We were determined to get smoothies this morning to exorcise the massive hunks of meat and grits and cream sauces haunting us from inside. This required a twenty-minute bike ride down the coast to Duck. This was the same route we had driven in on, but like anywhere, taking an area in at a slower pace always reveals new details you missed from the car. Like the live oaks that grow naturally in the area. They recall a Fosse dance company in mid-lurch, twisted and bent in the trunk under a wide umbrella of foliage. The perfect shade tree.
Coastal Smoothie Cafe gave us our fix of açaí and bananas. We weren’t really paying attention to each other’s orders, so we kinda ended up with the same thing, hers as a bowl and mine in a cup. Which, if you’re in a relationship, you know is a massive fail. They were great though, and made us feel like good, healthy people again. That was until we found the ABC store and the wine shop next to it. And then we found Growlers to Go. They have gummies. Cannabis is still a little complicated here, but they’ll join the twenty-first century any day now… I probably should have waited to eat one until we were back at the resort.
I won’t harp on this, but it is totally worth mentioning. My older cousin lives in Nags Head. I love this guy. We were very tight as teenagers. He became a firefighter there and just recently retired as a battalion chief. We spoke about getting together (we haven’t really hung out in decades) but due to unshakable responsibilities, it just wasn’t in the cards for this trip. Well, out of the blue, just as we were about to get back to the resort, I heard someone shout my name (I think?) from the window of a pickup truck as it drove past. My first thought wasn’t great, but my next was rapturous.
Considering the odds of him just riding by and then also recognizing us, this was a truly insane moment. He pulled over into the next side street. We hugged and talked over each other for a solid thirty minutes. We joked on our common family members, because sarcasm and ribbing are native languages where we come from. It was old times again.
He was one of the ones in the pickup truck/old donuts/surfing trip I mentioned earlier. He just never left. There’s so much of his experience down there as a first responder that I hadn’t been privy to. Triumphs, tragedies, and everything in between. In the context of having to come home and write this story, I felt this was peak embedding into the locals’ life. More importantly though, I got to see my long-lost cousin. I’ll remember that forever.
We had a “meh” dinner at a Thai place up the island I can neither recommend nor remember. We should have just eaten at the resort again. Oof, that bed again. Damn. So good.
Having learned our lesson stepping off the reservation the night previous, Melissa and I decided on brunch at the Lifesaving Station. It was Saturday. That’s just what you do.
They had me at Lobster and Truffle Omelet. The chopped lobster claw meat sported a creole savory seasoning which was giving more crawfish than it meant to, but it was delicious anyway. The truffles fell more on the nose than the palate, and quite honestly, I preferred it that way.
Melissa opted for the steak and eggs. This was a six-ounce espresso-rubbed filet with a pillow of scrambled eggs on its arm. Cooked faithfully to temp and adjacent to a tangy tomato vinaigrette, the only way I could convince her to share was to remind her I had to write about it.
To round things out and because it looked too good on the menu, we also ordered a stack of their Lemon Ricotta Blueberry Pancakes. They fit the job description perfectly and found long employment as an all-day snack back in the room.
Melissa had some work to do and I had a tour to take. I met up with Sara, Sanderling’s marketing executive, to do the official walkabout of the premises obligatory to this quest. I generally like discovering things on my own, but Sara was cool as hell and had plenty of stories to tell. On the mezzanine level above the main reception area resides their library and game room, perfect for these off-season visits.
There were the event spaces—large, bright rooms for weddings and conferences that seem to get regular play with locals and corporate visitors. There was a women’s wellness retreat happening that weekend, so the large room was festooned with yoga mats, floor pillows, and a gong or two. We walked through one of the five mansions the resort acquired that butt up to the property. These are available to book, just like a regular suite, but are complete residences with multiple bedrooms and full kitchens. They were definitely impressive, and had some of the best views available.
Speaking of views, my favorite part of this walk with Sara was the bayside pier behind the impromptu yoga studio. She mentioned being from San Diego on the way to this spot, and I recalled one of my favorite moments from my travels. I was at Pacific Beach years ago with a friend when we were stunned by the final bow of the lowering sun over the waves. When the scene concluded and reds became cobalt blue on the horizon, all the beachgoers transfixed by the same sight erupted in applause. My friend that was with me beamed and told me this happens every day there. Seeing her pride as a transplanted “Daygo” paint her smile was special.
This was reflected in Sara’s expression as she loaded her next comment on the tradition. Evidently, they brought that whole experience to Sanderling as well. They have a daily champagne toast and appreciation moment for the sunset here. It ends in applause, as it should. There is a strong connection built during a communal hat tip to the infinite. Sanderling gets it. Melissa and I would return to this spot that evening and the next.
I smiled at the chess board in the sitting room of the South House. Melissa had been playing an anonymous stranger, making a move each time we walked past the thing on our way in and out of the building. Evidently, the unknown opponent was as enthusiastically engaged, as the game advanced every time we passed it. It was a fun little pen pal moment that makes trips like these memorable.
We were both determined to take in the local music scene while we were in town. A friend of the mag, Andy Howell, had been feeding me recommendations since before we left Richmond. I “maybe-ed” the lot of them until he pointed out the local legendary venue Goombays was hosting a locals’ “Farewell to Tourists” party with bands Murder Basement and Zack Mexico.
Goombays was a bright, eclectic beach bar with all the trappings of a punk club that takes over its personality in the evenings. The clientele demographic was as varied as the decor. The dour, more muted-fashioned punks held court alongside the frosted-tip-haired surfers, off-shift landscapers, grandmas, and slurring barflies. As long as you have a drink in your hand and a smile in your heart, you are welcome. Everyone was friendly even though we felt we stuck out like a couple of typical New Yorkers. It was nice to see the obvious comfort all had with their neighbors.
Murder Basement came on like an angry, rusted piston, slipping between ’90s-era pop punk/grunge and hardcore screamers—depending on which of the guitarists had the mic.
Zack Mexico was phenomenal. I was a little pissed I was just finding out about them actually. They’ve been around forever. Their drummer is astounding, first of all. They had a psychedelic take on post-punk energetic surf rock that recalled Built to Spill, a little Pixies, and a lot of just original sauce. I was floored. Melissa and I ended up listening to them on Spotify on the way back to the resort AND on the drive home. I highly recommend introducing yourself to their music, if you, like me, are very late to their game.
This was our last full day at Sanderling and the one our tired bones and joints had been looking forward to for weeks. The spa is located on the bay side of the street, a short walk across a large parking lot from the hotel building. We were greeted by Emily, a gem of a person that exuded calm ownership of the experience we were about to enjoy.
The steam room could fit about five or six comfortably and was perfectly tuned in temperature and aromatherapeutic enhancement. I stayed as long as I could, and probably a minute or two more, before rinsing off and gliding over to the lounge for tea and exhalation.
Our scheduled time arrived and we were greeted by our masseuses and led into the couples massage room. I put a very high priority on massage and indulge as often as I can. As I write this, I am aware that the neck pain I had been struggling with for months still feels muted by Sanderling’s masseuse staff’s ministrations. While I could have stayed on that table all day, there was complete satisfaction with what was given. A perfect portion.
We were given champagne flutes and led to the pedicure station where we met Larissa. She immigrated here to the Outer Banks from Siberia over twenty years ago. We talked about that and Russian literature while she rejuvenated our feet with deft and gentle hands. While my wife could find online employment with her dainty toes, I could be well cast as a velociraptor from the ankles down. Big props to Larissa for being kind to me, laughing just a little at the neglect I show these things I call feet.
We visited the sunset pier before heading back to the room for an afternoon nap. Melissa made her final move on the chess board before getting in the elevator, releasing her king’s bishop to an open lane of attack. We’d never see the end of that game, but the ghostly exchange was joy enough.
That evening was our last chance to enjoy the hot tub again, and so we did. The stars were bright and the sky was clear. We spent some time pointing out constellations and finding the ecliptic plane that houses the string of planetary gems on the heavenly necklace that informs our horoscopes. We slept like babies.
As we packed up our things and readied for the morning drive back to Richmond, I reflected on what made this entire trip special. Sanderling gave us the platform from which to appreciate a natural beauty easily taken for granted in this life. It punctuates that beauty with modest curation. It lets the Outer Banks speak for itself, adding a bit of music to its voice. We will be back.
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