A Corker of a Kayak Trip

"Stay here a week, and you'll know everyone," Dave said. "And whether you like it or not, they'll know you." And sitting on a log with our feet in the sand, drinking merlot from a plastic cup under a soft gray sky, that suddenly sounded tempting.

It was almost dark by the time we knocked at the door of the Sea Gate Bed and Breakfast, a Victorian with one of those front porches that almost commands you to sit, stop rushing, relax already.

"Come in. Come in. Come in," bellowed Chris Bannon, the inn's proprietor. "Have you been here before? No? Well, it's very safe. If you find anything exciting, call me."

Apparently one of the things that happens when you live in a town like Cape Charles, whose downtown takes up eight square blocks, is that you have time to think up some great lines.

Another example: "If you run into any locals, count their teeth. If it's less than 22, run." A third: "This is Mr. Kitty, and there's only one rule in this house: He's pretty, and you're not."

Fair enough. It stung worse when Bannon said he had paid just $40,000 for this five-bedroom house two decades ago, so we sulked for a while, then picked ourselves up and got ready for dinner. Our host recommended "Chez Exxon," which turned out to be a truck stop named Sting-Ray's known for its "shrimp on the run." Sounded delightful, but it was back on the highway and we'd had it with driving, so we set off on foot.

Outside you could hear the water but not much else. Dave had said earlier, "The word used most often about Cape Charles is 'potential,' " which he much preferred to "overdevelopment." As it stands now, Cape Charles is the type of place where kids have to find their own fun -- at the beach and on bikes and wandering around with their new best friends Jack and Spencer, who are staying one street over and want to know if everyone can come over to roast marshmallows. Please? Can we?

We passed three cats but not a single soul before ducking into the Chesapeake, a little spot that at least showed signs of life. Turned out to be a wine bar and bistro with a jazz band just getting ready to play. (Telling facts from Chesapeake owner Robbin Smith: You've got to make Saturday night reservations weeks in advance during summer, but the restaurant brought in less than $10,000 for the whole of January.)

Half a pretty decent set later, we wandered a few doors down to Kelly's Gingernut Pub, where it seemed everyone younger than 50 who lives within a 30-mile radius had gathered for the night.

"God, everyone's so friendly," Allie said. And it was true. Chris Bannon's line on the matter: "You feel like the pope or the queen of England here, with people waving at you wherever you go."

We ordered oysters, calamari and cod -- all fried, of course -- and wound up rhapsodizing about the not-too-gloppy coleslaw. Normally we'd switch into high gear at this time of night, but we'd reached that lovely point of full, contented exhaustion and so, for the first time in a long time, we were both ready for bed by 11 p.m. on a Saturday.

Sleep came easy, but I woke suddenly when a car with a roaring sound system passed. It was unnerving. Not the noise -- the ensuing absence of noise.

Anyway, Dave was right. If you stayed here a week, you'd know everyone in town. And if you stayed here a week, you'd paddle and sip and ride bikes and roast marshmallows and relax on command. If you stayed here a week, you'd stop being startled by silence.