Shaping Our Lives in the Outer Banks

Journal Entry No. 1 – by Hunter

Olivia and I met the way two stars might collide—unexpectedly, and with gravity.

She was visiting the Outer Banks for the summer, and around here, girls—especially the beautiful, bright-eyed kind like her—are a rare commodity. Maybe it’s the salt or the surf, the trucks, the fishing... something about this rugged island just tends to attract more guys than gals. Whatever the reason, I managed to fend off the other suitors long enough to pitch Olivia on my wild idea of building a life out here—not just a vacation, but a vision.

She was from D.C., used to seasons and structure and espresso shots. But there was something in her—just rebellious enough, just tender enough—that let her entertain the dream of starting fresh in this wondrous, windy, and often desolate place.

That dream wasn’t paved in gold. I promised her winters off, tropical getaways, the kind of travels she’d always known before she met me. But season after season, I kept talking her into one more sacrifice. She’d take her hard-earned savings from long shifts as a waitress—often a sum several times what I could manage—and we’d put it toward “someday.”

Someday came unexpectedly.

An old local surfer—one you might know if you’ve been around the lighthouse a time or two—tipped us off to a piece of land just a stone’s throw from the jetties in Buxton. A sacred place, really. Where the waves peel right and the sky feels bigger. We looked at our pockets and knew we had no chance. But we made a pact, and we stuck to it.

Eventually, with a little faith and a lot of grace, Olivia’s parents helped us get started. And at just 22 years old, we turned a napkin sketch—a tiny home crossed with a treehouse—into our first home.

It wasn’t built by contractors or capital. It was built by neighbors and friends. People who brought their tools and their time. A debt I still carry, proudly.

Eight years later, the house still isn’t done. But we are. We’ve been shaped by it—by the storms, the setbacks, the scraped knuckles and shared coffee. And every skill we learned—how to dig a footing, how to trust, how to stretch $40—would eventually be what we’d draw from to bring Tower Circle Motel back to life.

This journal is where I’ll keep telling that story, one entry at a time.
Thanks for reading.

—Hunter