I was miserable. I had a headache, I needed a bathroom, and I wanted a cup of coffee. And now, stuck in traffic on a two-lane road.

I had been living in an apartment since moving to Wilmington while I searched for a permanent place to live. Time was running out on my six-month lease and it was time to pick and choose. I had left Surf City, at that time a forest of single-wides. Depressing, I thought, and now the traffic through Hampstead was not moving at all.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small real-estate office, thought I might find relief there, and snaked my way through the stalled oncoming traffic into the sandy parking lot.

I walked up the outside steps and entered the building.

There was a man at the desk just inside.

“What can I help you with?” he asked.

I told him my three needs and he answered, “Bathroom’s down the hall, coffee pot’s over there, and I think I’ve got some aspirin in my desk somewhere.”

I told him I wanted a nice, but inexpensive, place to live because I wanted to put my money into something sensible, like a bigger sailboat.

“Got just what you want,” he said, and we drove a short distance and he showed me a house, gave me the price, and I said, “Yes, that’s it.”

That was in 1993 and I’m still in the house today.