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| Marine Matters: On the Way Home | | 3/4/2010 8:50:00 AM | Email this article • Print this article |
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| The lighthouse on Cape Hatteras, North Carolina |
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by Melissa Waterman
Feature Writer
It's been a bit breezy lately, hasn't it? And raw, damp, grey and generally inclement to boot. Could it have been this combination of typical March weather that drew me inexorably north from the dulcet climes of the south? (No!)
The return trip took me along the coasts of South and North Carolina to the Outer Banks and Cape Hatteras, across the Chesapeake Bay and up the Delmarva Peninsula. My venerable car records a return trip of approximately 2,500 miles, many of which were traversed along the shore on roads bearing no resemblance to the monotony of I-95.
So what did I see? Strip malls, gated communities, fields full of dark green collards, innumerable signs pointing out the benefits of the Baptist religion, forgotten forests of
turpentine pines, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, McDonald's... the easy mix of the modern and the old that manages still to exist far off the interstates.
I caught the last ferry from Cedar Island, North Carolina, to the little island of Ocracoke on an evening full of imminent snow. A single pelican bobbed on the grey water of Pamlico Sound as I walked the beach adjacent to the ferry terminal. Behind the beach a salt pond was alive with flickering barn swallows and placid black ducks. In the overheated terminal, ferry employees clutched cups of coffee and talked together in softly slurred North Carolina voices.
On the ferry I caved in to the fatigue of long-distance driving. In my dozing I could hear the sparse scattering of other passengers talking over the events of the day, the subterranean delight of return ringing like a bass note in their conversations. The snow had not begun by the time I arrived on the island, although as I checked in, the woman behind the motel desk said that this promised to be the biggest snowstorm in 12 years.
In the morning the wind was blowing hard from the east. Heavy, wet snow fell on the streets but refused to stick.
At the northerly end of the 13-mile island was the second ferry, which would take me over to Hatteras and the 70-odd miles to Kitty Hawk, my next destination. During the winter the ferry left on the top of the hour, every hour, although it was likely to cease running at any minute due to the weather, said my pessimistic motel manager. So, fueled by coffee and adrenaline, I sped out of the tiny village with the clock ticking.
I would like to return to that little island. Other than the small cluster of houses, motels and boats at its southern end, the rest of Ocracoke Island is wild. The sand dunes, wetlands, scrub trees and beaches are all part of Cape Hatteras National Seashore. One can search for the island's wild ponies, wander along the beach, fish and birdwatch while camping on the shore for a mere $23 a night.
But a snowy day in February is not the best time for exploring the island. In driving snow I managed to hurl my car with seconds to spare onto the 40-minute Hatteras Island ferry, then hopped out to watch from the leeward side of the boat as its captain negotiated his way across the inlet channel. White-topped waves lined the horizon. To my eyes the entire route was indecipherable. The sand of these channels moves with each storm. What was deep water last week may be shoal the next due to wind and waves. I could see a channel marker pop up amid the snow, then disappear as a churning wave swept over it. Chilled, I returned to my car pondering the training and navigational talents of my invisible skipper.
On Hatteras Island, reality set in. There the houses are painted in Easter colors: pink, lettuce green, canary yellow. They stand high on stilts as mandated by the federal National Flood Insurance Program, which requires break-away walls on the bottom floor of houses liable to be flooded. These houses are certainly prone to flooding. A winter storm the week before had washed out the sole road from Hatteras to the north, breaching the barrier beach and moving tons of sand from the east to the west side of the roadway.
But the precarious position of their homes doesn't stop the owners from building big. These are 5,000- to 10,000-square-foot houses, said a local resident. They stand cheek-by-jowl, with side yards that can be measured in inches. The density of homes on Hatteras Island was modest compared to the ant hill quality of Rodanthe, Salvo and Nags Head farther north. There a single wall of monolithic houses lined the sand as far as my eye could see.
I spent several days on the northern Outer Banks. I walked the beaches, scouted for trumpeter swans and snow geese at wildlife refuges and napped in the sun in a maritime forest of miniature trees. Where there are not houses, this world is still a touch wild, with motion its dominant trait. The birds move, the sand moves, the waves crash and the acres of marsh grass waver. But where the houses sit, motion is forbidden. The pilings reach down in a valiant attempt at stability. The driveways and green turf laid for lawns speak of long-term residence. And yet, these are houses built on sand on a barrier beach that in some places is just yards wide in a time of documented sea-level rise. How long can they possibly stand?
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