Does Ocracoke Island mean anything to you? Most people don’t really remember the sleepy township that makes up the southern tip of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Ocracoke is most famous for being where the infamous pirate Blackbeard made his last stand and lost his head.

Ten years ago, I used to vacation there with my family. The place drew my father like light draws a passing insect. We would make it a point to make the drive to Ocracoke, pretty much every summer. Though, to be fair, the drive to the mountains was longer. From Cedar Island, we would take the ferry to the unincorporated township. Ocracoke gathers mostly on the southern tip of the 13-mile stretch that is Ocracoke Island.

My father made an instant connection days after meeting my mother for the first time. She took him to Ocracoke, and he fell in love. He became attached to the spirit of Blackbeard. I am paraphrasing here. Blackbeard “haunted” my father for almost 15 years. This led to our year-long siesta in Mexico where he and my mother wrote "Thatcher: The Unauthorized Biography of Blackbeard the Pirate."

We stayed one of two places once we reached Ocracoke. Some summers we pitched our camping gear at the campground. The only thing I remember about that was the vengeful mosquitoes who had to have been bigger than was normal. Believe me, Off spray just made them angry. I never left there without looking like I’d contracted chicken pox. I also remember our last camping trip.

We were due to leave for Mexico. We had sold the house and divided our belongings. We looked like the family in "Grapes of Wrath," with our Land Rover Discovery packed to and over the rafters with things. We were meeting my sister's godmother, Julie, for a night or two of vacation before we began the long journey. I was not yet over my fear of thunderstorms, and one rolled in that first night. I wish I could remember that night because it had a surreal feel to it. I think I was still reeling from the fact that all this talk about moving was no longer just talk.

What I do remember is our stays at the Blackbeard's Lodge. The Blackbeard Lodge is a wooden hotel, the oldest still-operating lodge on the barrier island, having opened in 1936. If you believe in ghosts, this place definitely has the feel for a haunting. I just hope it isn’t the mean old lady who once ran the place.

Blackbeard’s Lodge has a game room. It consists of a few game consoles, like "Ms. Pac-Man." It also has a few tables, like for pool or air hockey. There’s also a toddler’s castle in one corner and a shelf for battered board games.

In the morning, a continental breakfast is held in the lobby. Until about 10 a.m., the game room is off limits. Being a child, I did not know this. I was never really a breakfast person. This story begins when my sister and I wanted to play in the game room until our parents woke up.

We left them a note, but I later found it had blown off the dresser and under the bed. The elderly caretaker found us trying to operate a console and reprimanded us. She wasn’t kind about it. She nearly dragged us to a table on the covered porch. We wanted to go back to our room, but she would have none of that. Instead, she slammed down two paper plates of rubbery scrambled eggs. I am pretty sure my sister began to cry a little.

If we had been a bit hungry before, that was long gone. We didn’t want any trouble, but she had it out for children. I think she would have banned children if it hadn’t spelled the end of the old hotel. I didn’t really have a grasp on this whole manners thing, so what I did next is a bit rude. I took a few minuscule bites off of both plates before I dumped them in the trash. She flew off the handle and stormed upstairs to fetch our dad.

After moving here, our trips became long day trips. We lived about three hours away, so if we left early enough we could enjoy a nice day. One year, my father finally marched us all down to the spot known as Teach’s Hole. The path looks like a dirt driveway to passersby. It’s tucked back in a back street neighborhood and, thus, the closest parking is probably the lighthouse (though I think you’re not supposed to park there for very long). If you thought you’d gone backward in time when you drove off the ferry, you would feel wrong once you lost sight of the paved road on the trail to Springer's Point (a.k.a. Teach’s Hole). Ocracoke, the town, used to feel like it was stuck in the mid-1900s. Once you get off the road, you feel like you slipped further back in time, like maybe back to when this was a pirates hang out.

Once, my dad recalls, he took his father on a weekend trip to Ocracoke. His father never expressed sharing the same adoration for the place.

Fast forward something like 15 years. My father’s father, whom I called Pop, finally passed to the other side. Interestingly enough, he stated in his last will and testament that he wished to have his ashes scattered at Teach’s Hole. Because he and my dad had fished at Springer's Point on their one and only visit Ocracoke.

For the first time in nearly two decades, the remaining Carrolls gathered at our house. With 11 extra bodies, we were packed to the rafters. It was the first (and probably last) actual Thanksgiving we ever had. The occasional trip to my mother’s mother doesn’t really count. Every difference we had was set aside to keep things civil around the youngest members of our party.

We drove down to Ocracoke and made the trek to the point. It was surprisingly warm for the end of November when we got to the beach. My sister and my cousin’s kids ran off to play at the ruins of the former Ocracoke lighthouse, a rock pile originating from 1795. I managed to snag the youngest one to ensure that at least one great-grandchild was present for the scattering. I doubt he even knew what was going on.

As aforementioned, Ocracoke is known for its pirate history. For years, as I understand it, plans were not quite made to establish a pirate-themed festival. Every year they have Ocrafolk, which is more of a bluegrass and local festival. I once painted a shirt with a fish and told a man his fish tasted like chicken. In my defense, I thought that was a compliment.

Three years ago, the masterminds were finally able to announce that the Pirate Festival would take place at the end of October. As in, I would have to miss my favorite holiday to attend a festival in Ocracoke. The first year wasn’t too bad but it also wasn’t all that interesting.

My family and I set up a tent and tried to sell our Blackbeard books. We were all dressed in pirate costumes. It was another unseasonably warm weekend, and we were in long sleeves. I’m not complaining. I’m just making a statement. I often slipped away to explore the festival.

In one of these side trips, I happened upon a pirate encampment. As in, people in full costume and supposedly living in the period-appropriate tents. I ended up buying an awesome wooden saber.

At the end of the weekend, there was one final event at some ungodly hour. On the weekend, that is before 10 a.m. In costume, we all marched to Teach’s Hole and held some sort of service. I can’t be sure because I was too busy trying to zoom in on something way out in the water. I think it was a tanker of some kind.

Year two proved to be more exciting. The night before the festival, they held a pirate-themed party at the community center. It was actually kind of fun. The day of the festival was off to the same humid start. Except the day took a turn. From Silver Lake (the manmade harbor that lies next to the center of town), we could watch the stirrings of a storm. Before we knew it, bad weather was upon us.

The call was made, and the day's events were canceled. We barely got the truck packed and covered with a tarp before the clouds broke. It was like a hurricane by the time we got back to the Blackbeard's Lodge. The hotel was the main hub of where participants were staying.

We had a customer swing by before the weather rolled in. He showed interest in buying our books but was coming back later. We had told him where we were staying, because of aforementioned foreboding precipitation. My parents decided to go out and swim to the local coffee shop, leaving my sister and me in charge. We were to stay in the room in case he dropped by.

We don’t often get along, but this was one of those afternoons when we did. The TV was shot. I don’t think I need to explain why. We have all seen what happens to our dish under certain conditions. We took turns. One of us would stay in the room with the goods, and the other would go to the open game room and pick up something for us to play.

The gentleman eventually arrived. He paid for the entire trilogy in cash. It was like a spell had been broken, because not long after he left, my sister and I got sick of playing with each other.

The next morning, they decided to hold the memorial service again. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t done with us yet. Springer’s Point was off limits, due to high tides. We gathered at a private boat launch. I admit I wasn’t paying attention for the second time. It was raining, it was cold, and I think Aunt Flo dropped by a week early.

We headed home that afternoon. The weather only let up once we got to the ferry docks at Hatteras. It made the journey home like some gut-clenching fair ride. The usually smooth ferry ride was now a rocking nightmare. Trust me, it probably felt worse on the second deck. I never left the car. Instead, my mother and I listened to an NPR talk about Orson Scott Wells “War of the Worlds” original radio broadcast. I have to admit I could understand the slight panic it caused. Especially if listeners missed the beginning where it was introduced as a radio play.

Once we reached stable land, my mother volunteered me for service. She didn’t feel well enough to drive. I agreed because I still had the itch to drive. That was quickly crushed. Before we left Hatteras, we ran into trouble. The storm had whipped the ocean into a frenzy. That area, after you cross into Pea Island, is prone to flooding.

The first problem I had was when traffic slowed to a crawl because the ocean waves were crashing over the road. This was a few hundred meters away from where it usually crashed, after bypassing an entire collection of condos. The rest of the way home was mostly smooth sailing. There were some high puddles to wade through, but I was fine if I could avoid the ocean.

Not long before we reached relative safety, we encountered another stressful issue. After a hurricane (Sandy, I think) washed out the road and carved a new inlet, the army engineers installed a semi-permanent bridge. Right before this bridge, traffic came to a grinding halt again because the ocean was again sweeping across the road. Cars crossed the dangerous section at a snail's pace. We were all afraid of drowning out our engines. There was also the slight issue that we lost visual of the edge of road and there was real danger of maybe possibly being pulled off the road because your tires lost traction on pavement.

I only share that because when you plan a trip down that way, keep an eye on the weather. Those roads are dangerous in adverse conditions.

I love Ocracoke, and I want to return.