Assateague Ponies
Admiral Biscuit
The Grand Terrace Hotel in Ocean City, MD, is located about a mile north of the southernmost end of Fenwick Island. Room prices are reasonable, especially in the off-season. Granted, not all the amenities are available; the scenic terrace at the sixth-floor restaurant is closed. The beach isn’t officially closed, but it’s difficult to get to—mostly because the city hasn’t gotten around to digging out the beach access points yet.
It's also frequently foggy in the spring, which comes as more of a surprise than it should have.
As they should in a proper coastal hotel, all the rooms face the ocean; all the rooms have big sliding doors and a private balcony where one could sit and overlook the ocean, revel in the sea breeze and salt air.
There’s even a sticker on the window listing bottle-nosed dolphin facts, implying that one could dolphin-spot off the balcony.
Given the current thickness of the fog, you can barely see the ocean. Maybe the first hundred feet of surfline? Certainly not far enough out for dolphins. Still, the sticker is a nice gesture; if the weather clears, and if there are actually dolphins out there, you might get to look at them.
You slide the door open and step out on the balcony. The salt air is bracing. Refreshing. The perfect thing to take the edge off after hours of driving. If it clears up later, you might get a chance to see stars spread out over the night sky, or ships out there in the ocean if not.
Well, so be it. You weren’t in town to be a tourist anyway; you had a conference to attend and most of your time should be spent with that. The ocean view, if it ever appears, is just an extra blessing.
You check the time on your phone—the hotel has a cheap digital clock on the nightstand, but you don’t trust its accuracy. You’ve been in plenty of hotels where it’s wrong: it’s probably not a priority of housekeeping to ensure that the clocks are accurate.
There’s a telephone and a small local guide: things to do in Ocean City and the surrounding area. Lots of restaurants and local tourist traps, bike rentals for the boardwalk, a Ferris wheel and fishing pier at the south end of town, wild ponies, saltwater taffy. . . .
Right now, it’s time for a shower, time to wash the road dust off.
You leave the balcony door open, why not? You’re on the eleventh floor, nobody’s going to steal your stuff.
The bathroom fixtures are dated but clean and functional. The hotel provides plenty of linens and decent soap.
•••
Standing on the balcony is like standing on a ship’s bridge wing. You’ve never done that, but you can imagine this is what it’s like. Looking down at the ocean below, the open sky above, nothing in the distance but more ocean. Well, right now it’s more of a foggy day where you probably couldn’t even see the bow of the ship. . . .
You can only imagine what the view must be on a sunny day or a clear night, what it must be at sunrise. You’re not normally an early riser, but it might be worth it to start the day sipping coffee on the balcony, watching the sun rise over the ocean.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement. A pair of seagulls in flight, searching over the boardwalk for food. When tourist season is in full swing, they’ll have no lack of opportunity. Right now, there doesn’t seem to be much for them. What do seagulls eat when they’re not being fed by tourists or raiding garbage cans?
There’s an almost post-apocalyptic vibe to the boardwalk and beach--both are empty, although the beach is covered in tire tracks from the beach maintenance crew.
Off in the distance, almost lost in the fog, you can see headlights, floodlights, and a rotating beacon on some beach maintenance machine. Getting the beach ready for Memorial Day, no doubt digging the drifted sand off the seawall gates.
The hotel room’s still humid—the exhaust fan in the bathroom doesn’t work, and the foggy outside air doesn’t help dissipate the lingering steam. Leaving the balcony window open while you go downstairs to check in will be fine.
•••
After dinner, the sky still hasn’t cleared. It might even be foggier, you can’t tell. It’s dark, and the ground is lost in the mist. You can see a dozen or so streetlamps in either direction along the boardwalk, and that’s it. By your rough count, that’s about a block in either direction.
The weather has cooled down but it’s not unpleasant. How much temperature difference is there in sunlit fog vs. moonlit fog?
You don’t have to be up first thing in the morning, so instead of relying on an alarm clock, you leave the curtains open. The sun will wake you. And you also leave the balcony window open, to let some sea air in. In Ye Olde Times, it was supposed to cure ailments, and you’re not opposed to seeing if it actually does.
You set a backup alarm just in case.
•••
To your surprise, your plan actually works, and you’re up not long after sunrise.
How not long, you don’t know, but the hotel clock says—and your cell phone confirms—that it’s six thirty-three in the A.M.
The fog has not thinned in the least. Doesn’t matter. You start the coffee maker and enjoy your first cup of coffee while sitting on the balcony, looking out over the ocean.
Today will be a busy day, but right now it doesn’t matter; right now everything is right with the world. The sea breeze is still bracing, shorebirds are keening off in the distance. The beach maintenance crew has gotten off to an early start; backhoes and wheel loaders are at your section of the beach, shoveling out the drifted sand.
No need for a morning shower, you took one last night. You’ve got a couple hours to kill before it’s time to go downstairs and mingle, and what better way to spend them than sit out on the balcony, watching the ocean? Watching the seabirds dance in the breeze, one of them flying close enough to the balcony to touch. Listening to the crash of the waves as they break on the bar and then roll into shore.
•••
By the time eight pm rolls around, you’re physically and emotionally drained. The day had been fun; you’d have plenty of good conversations, an okay lunch, and an excellent dinner. Now you’re looking forward to slipping on something more comfortable and sitting on the balcony, looking out over the ocean once again. Even though with the fog it looks like you still won’t see much of it.
Before you can get to your room, there’s the obligatory waiting-for-an-elevator smalltalk, followed by the new-elevator-friends chat. You’re the last one out—everybody else is rooming on a lower floor. They should have gotten to the hotel sooner and gotten a better room.
Suckers.
Your room is near the elevator bank. You only have to walk a few yards, use your keycard, and then—
The lock clicks, you turn the door handle and push open the door to a scene of utter chaos. The refrigerator door is flung wide, and all the snacks you’d set out on the counter are gone. Towels and some of your clothes are strewn about on the floor.
For just an instant, you wonder if you’re in the wrong room or if the hotel maid grossly misunderstood her job. And then you see the real culprits, the hotel hooligans—a rainbow of pegasi, occupying your hotel room, watching your TV, and one of them is even drinking your Mountain Dew.
There are five mares on the two queen beds. Two of them are preening each other’s wings, two are watching TV, and one of them has her muzzle buried in a bag of Doritos. Your Doritos. As the hotel door swings shut, they all jerk their heads up. Miss Doritos has her snout dusted in neon orange nacho flavor.
The sixth pony is a stallion and he’s nesting on your open suitcase—which is bad enough—and he’s also got your nearly-empty two liter nested in the crook of his forelock.
In a flurry of fur and feathers, the mares make their escape through the open balcony slider. The stallion doesn’t hurry off. He looks you directly in the eye, drains the bottle, then takes his leave as well.
You rush to the balcony and catch sight of them as they glide out over the ocean, and then the six of them are lost in the mist.
Calling the front desk to report this atrocity isn’t good enough; you need to go down there and let your feelings be known in person. But just as you rest your hand on the door handle, you really notice the informational signs: the evacuation plan, checkout time—and a sign informing you that seabirds and pegasi alike may fly in if the balcony slider is left open, for which the hotel takes no responsibility.
Author's Note
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