A couple of months ago I wrote an essay called “All Things Must Pass.”

I began by lamenting the disappearance of people and things that I’ve come to cherish: the JVC Jazz Festival in New York; the demolition of Shea Stadium (yeah, it left a lot to be desired but it was there that I saw my first baseball game and there that I watched the Mets win the World Series); the layoff of my mentor, Nat Hentoff, from the Village Voice; the prospect of losing touch with friends who are planning to move to other cities; the closing of favorite establishments. But in the end, I concluded that life is not about clinging to the past; it’s about growing with each encounter and feeling gratitude for the richness of our experiences, however fleeting they may be.

I started thinking about this again recently when I visited Ocracoke Island for a few days to mark the summer’s end.

I’ve been traveling to Ocracoke annually for the last 24 years. In that time, I’ve seen a number of changes in this jewel by the sea.

Take the Island Inn, for example. When I first started going there, it had the finest restaurant in the village. The seafood platter was one of the best I’ve ever had, and I couldn’t start my day there without enjoying one of their hearty breakfasts. What’s more, the inn had charm to spare. In a pen out front, the owners kept a couple of peacocks. When my children were young, we’d dine on the enclosed porch and let these birds entertain us; it was better than any dinner theater I’ve ever attended.

Alas, about 10 years ago, the peacocks disappeared. And a few years back, the restaurant closed altogether. I felt as if I’d lost an important sanctuary—a place I could always count on the provide comfort and a sense of continuity amidst life’s changes.

Photo | TR

Howard’s Pub was another early favorite. Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s it exuded local flavor. Some years later, the owners built an extension that tripled its size. The pub is still there—and still offers one of the best beer selections on the east coast—but it’s not quite the same.

There have been other changes as well—some for better and some for worse. But the astonishing thing is that over the last quarter century the island has retained its essence.

Before I continue, let me take a step back and share a few facts for those of you who are unfamiliar with this extraordinary place.

The 16-mile barrier island, which separates the Pamlico Sound from the Atlantic Ocean, is maintained by the National Park Service. Nearly 15 miles of it are undeveloped—nothing but surf, beach and dunes on one side of Highway 12, and maritime forest on the other. The tiny town at the island’s southern tip was established as a fishing village in the 18^th century. One remnant of history is the 160-acre pony pen, home to descendants of Spanish mustangs that once roamed the island freely.

With the advent of ferry service in the 1940s, Ocracoke started to become a popular tourist destination as well as a permanent home to a growing number of people. Growing, of course, being a relative term. Today, the island is home to about 800 permanent residents.

For as long as I’ve been visiting, the Jolly Roger, an open-air bar and restaurant on the natural harbor known as Silver Lake, has been an evening destination for locals and tourists alike. Today people still gather at the Jolly Roger each evening to watch the sunset and listen to good music. (When I was there recently, I heard a band from Brooklyn, which seemed appropriate somehow. I grew up just across the Verrazano Bridge in Staten Island, so it was as if two of the places I feel most at home—New York City and Oracoke—were connected.)

Photo | TR

Silver Lake hasn’t changed much at all; commercial and recreational fisherman still drift in every afternoon with their catches of bluefish, flounder and other species. More noteworthy is the lack of change in the beach. Years ago, I went there on the Fourth of July and was astounded to find just a handful of people at the water’s edge. Having grown up in the New York area, where people pack the beaches blanket to blanket on summer weekends, I felt as if I’d found some forgotten paradise. A quarter century later the crowds have grown a little, but not much. During my recent visit I spent several hours a day on the beach and had vast stretches to myself. On my last day—in August, mind you—I sat down in my beach chair with my books on one side and a cooler of beer on the other and noticed that to my left there were no more than a dozen people; to my right, there was not another person as far as the eye could see.

As I sat there reflecting on all of this, I was reminded of my earlier essay—“All Things Must Pass.” It’s true—clinging to the past is unwise. As the Buddhists remind us, change is the essence of life, and clinging to the illusion of permanence is the root of all suffering. Still, it’s profoundly comforting to know that in the midst of life’s volatility, there are some things—including this little slice of paradise—that promise a feeling of continuity.