(Editor’s note: This column is the second part of a two-part series)

While the sights, history, and legends of the Outer Banks left me in awe, it was the people who call this place home and the lessons they unknowingly taught me that left the deepest impression.

On our first day in Buxton, I asked the hotel clerk what there was to do in the area, the things I shouldn’t miss. Her answer stunned me. “Nothing,” she said matter-of-factly. I stood there in surprised silence unsure how to respond. I had two full pages of attractions I’d researched before our trip, yet here was someone in the hospitality business dismissing her own hometown.

When I gently pressed, she admitted there were, in fact, things to do: lighthouses, quaint shops, ferry rides, surfing, and more. She even mentioned that Buxton hosted the world’s largest surf fishing tournament, drawing more than 800 fishermen from around the globe. To me, that sounded like something to brag about, not hide.

Her answer reminded me of conversations I’ve had back home, where locals tell visitors there’s “nothing to do.” We become so accustomed to our surroundings that we stop seeing them. It’s as if familiarity causes us to overlook what is right in front of us. Yet to outsiders, what we see every day is new and beautiful. This realization stayed with me for the rest of the trip, and it’s something I carried home: the importance of looking at your own community through fresh eyes.

Of course, the Outer Banks has a way of driving home its lessons in dramatic fashion. On our final day, we awoke to driving rain and a message from our hotel warning us to move our cars; the parking lot was flooding. Overnight, an unnamed tropical storm had swept in, and the island was already feeling its fury. We checked out quickly, only to find ourselves driving north through 70-mile-per-hour wind gusts. A bridge closed behind us as a trailer overturned. Rain pelted the windshield so hard it felt like gravel, and at times the road seemed to disappear beneath the deluge of water.

It was exhilarating, as well as terrifying. For us, it was just one harrowing drive. For the people who live there, it is a way of life. These storms come often, sometimes without warning, eroding away the sand and forcing residents to rebuild again and again. Yet they stay. Many families have been rooted here for generations, their love for the sea outweighing its risks.

That resilience struck me deeply. It takes a special kind of courage to not only endure such challenges but to embrace them as part of who you are. The people of Buxton, Hatteras, Ocracoke, and all the Outer Banks, embody that spirit: hardy, hardworking, and unshaken by the storms that try to drive them away. They reminded me that adversity doesn’t erase beauty; it defines it.

Since our return home, the instability of the Outer Banks has only become clearer. News reports told of additional tremendous loss in Buxton, the very place we stayed where several more homes were claimed by the constant pounding of the waves. Seeing photos of houses collapsing into the sea was heartbreaking, especially knowing the resilience of the families who had built their lives there. I couldn’t help but picture the shoreline we walked, the places we ate, the friendly faces we met, and wonder if they had been touched by this latest round of devastation. What struck me most was how quickly the landscape changes there. One day a home stands proudly against the backdrop of sand dunes, beach grasses, and breaking waves, and next it is gone, stolen by the ocean. It gave me a new perspective on just how fleeting and precious life along the coast can be. The beauty that draws over five million visitors each year is the same force that relentlessly hammers and reshapes it, and that contradiction has stayed with me ever since.

This trip to Cape Hatteras was more than a birthday gift; it was a gift of perspective. I left with stories of pirates, shipwrecks, and a lost colony. With memories of sunsets and ferries, and the taste of apple uglies still lingering. But more than anything, I left with a renewed appreciation for resilience, of both people and places.

The Outer Banks showed me that beauty and hardship often walk hand in hand. It reminded me to look at my own community with fresh eyes and to value the things I may take for granted. It taught me that storms, whether literal or metaphorical, don’t have to push us away; they can strengthen our roots and deepen our love for the places we call home.

I know the ocean will call me back again, it always does, and the Outer Banks will remain etched in my heart as the place that shared its legends, its strength, and reminded me of my own. And now, as I think of the homes that have recently been lost in Buxton, I hold even greater admiration for the people who choose to stay, rebuild, and carry on, living proof that courage and love for home can endure even the mightiest waves. My thoughts and prayers are with you, residents of Buxton, North Carolina.

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Rhonda S. Kelley is the executive director of the Juniata River Valley Chamber of Commerce.