1800 Days – Seg. 25, Ch. 6, Pg. 12-21

    It is Sunday, the twenty-ninth day of December, but as I step off the boat onto the dock into the early morning air I sense a smell and a warmth and a softness as in spring. I can see no wild horses on Carrot Island across the creek but the scene is one of surpassing beauty with absolutely calm water reflecting like a mirror the masts of the sailboats at anchor. I fetch the morning paper from the store on Front Street, but by the time I return to the boat I have already lost interest in conforming to our usual Sunday morning routine of reading the paper over Bloody Marys followed by a large brunch of an omelet, fried potatoes and perhaps some fish. I say to Nancy that, if we really want to visit Shackleford, this may be the day to do it.

    Yet we delay and peruse the paper. The small public dock on the beach at Shackleford is five miles away, almost an hour of travel if there is no opposing tidal current at the speed our stubby little inflatable can travel with its 3.5 hp motor. We know how quickly the weather can change on the coast and we want to make sure we have a safe and comfortable outing. As we leaf through the paper we listen to the weather forecast on the VHF radio and we monitor the radio talk among the fishing boats out on the ocean. We had thought about and talked about this excursion so many times that we are now very excited to think that we may actually be able to go.

    After more than an hour conditions still seem perfect and we begin our preparations. I climb up to the bridge to get the various items we will need: the paddles, a floatation cushion, the spare gasoline container, the canvas bag containing our folding anchor and line, our floating water-proof bag that we use to carry essential items such as a small tool kit, a spare sparkplug for the motor, and a patch kit for the inflatable. In the cabin where Nancy is packing our lunch in the small cooler, I collect other items: a camera, our portable VHF radio, some sweaters, a small hand-held compass that I hang around my neck. I take one last look at the chart that is open on the salon table, noting the two navigational markers, set on pilings, that will guide our way across Back Sound: the "59" marker near where Taylor Creek empties out into the mouth of the North River, and the "NR" marker near the shore of Shackleford Banks where we will land. They are over a mile apart and I measure and make note of the compass bearing between the two.

    Finally all is ready and we lower Recess into the water and load our things. I mount the small outboard. It starts with the first pull of the rope. It is 10:15 a.m. and we are on our way. We feel exhilarated.

    There is a strong flood tide running and we ride the swift current down Taylor Creek toward its junction with the North River about three miles away. Even this close to the cold water the air is warm and there is no need for our sweaters. The creek gradually narrows as we continue and there seems to be a slight haze in the air. Near the mouth of the creek we pass the menhaden processing factory and come abreast of their two large fishing vessels. We are surprised and very pleased to see that, on the ships and adjacent docks, there are many birds: gulls and cormorants and pelicans, white egrets and great blue herons perched precariously and improbably on the rigging, ibis and night herons in the nearby trees. After the factory we are overtaken by a large motor yacht that, with great consideration, passes us very slowly leaving no wake. We follow this boat through the red and green channel markers at the mouth of the creek, out into the waters of Back Sound and the mouth of the North River.

    I turn Recess to the south to head across Back Sound toward the beach on Shackleford, still following the motor yacht that is slowly leaving us behind. It is evident that what was haze in the narrow confines of Taylor Creek, is fog out on the waters of Back Sound. We pass marker "59" but I can not see either marker "NR" or the shore of Shackleford Banks through the fog. I remove the compass from my neck, place it on the seat so I can see it easily, and set our course according to the compass bearing I noted from the chart. The motor yacht we are following seems to be heading in the same direction but gradually it disappears into the fog. Now we see nothing, even with the binoculars, no markers, no boats, no shoreline, just a uniform white mist, but we can distinguish the outline of the sun overhead. It seems that the fog is a low layer just over the water and we hope it will soon lift. I intentionally alter our course to point more directly to the shore of Shackleford, reasoning that once we find the shore we can follow it to our planned landing spot on the beach at the Park Service jetty. But for the hum of the small outboard all is quiet and mysterious. I find the fog strangely disorienting and I have to keep looking at the compass to keep ourselves from drifting off course. Suddenly we see the bottom about five feet below us and then Nancy exclaims that she can make out the faint shoreline through the binoculars. We go in close to shore, careful of the depth, and travel for about a half mile until we find the Park Service jetty and picnic area. We beach Recess, step out onto the hard packed sand and tie our dinghy securely well up on the beach. It has taken us a little over an hour to make the trip. Now that we are on Shackleford we are very excited and not a little relieved.

Looking Across Back Sound from the Shackleford Dock Area

The Distant Fog Obscures the Town of Beaufort

    We feel famished. What is it about the beach, we say, that always makes you hungry? We decide to use the available picnic table and eat an early lunch before setting out across the island. The fog has become thinner and we can feel the welcome warmth of the sun. There is the smell of the sea and the faint sound of the breakers on the ocean beach a half mile away across the island. As we eat the fog becomes rapidly less dense and then dramatically lifts completely, revealing the "NR" marker less than a half mile off the beach, the shores of Carrot Island and the water tower and taller buildings of the town of Beaufort. All seems safe and secure.

Following A Horse Path Through The Dunes

    After lunch we climb the dunes just behind the beach and strike out across the island toward the ocean, but before we leave I take a compass bearing on the "NR" marker just in case. The interior of the island is flat with many paths and, everywhere, droppings from the horses. We pass a fenced-off area with a sign that tells us it is a research area used by the National Park Service to determine the effects of grazing by the wild horses. Beyond this area across the flats there is another set of dunes. As we approach, trudging along the sandy path, we see two horses peacefully grazing between two low hills. We walk more quietly, directly toward the horses, trying to get close enough for a good photograph. Then a colt appears from behind the dune. Now we are quite close, taking some photographs, the horses watching us warily. Then with a snort they are gone. No longer quiet, we exclaim in our excitement and we feel privileged to have had this encounter.

A Banker Pony In The Dunes

    We climb up over the dunes and the ocean beach appears suddenly as we round a hill, surprising us, making me almost catch my breath at its beauty and seeming isolation. It is broad, of moderate slope, and disappears mysteriously into the mist on either side of us. There is no one in sight. There is a fog bank over the ocean beyond the breaker line and we pause to watch it and to express our concern. Before we walk up the beach we plant a stick in the sand to mark our path back through the dunes.

    We walk slowly, examining the thousands of shells collected along the beach in two distinct lines. Never has either of us encountered a beach with this number and variety of shells. We find clam, mussel and oyster shells, the conch-like shells of the whelks, moon snail shells, olive and slipper shells, the large and thin fan-like pen shells, and others we cannot name. This is the dream of my childhood, Nancy says, and instructs me to only collect the perfect ones. We slowly start to fill the large plastic Ziploc bags we have brought. We become aware of the sound of boat engines and we look out over the ocean to see two small open fishing boats running parallel to the beach at the edge of the fog bank, which seems nearer than before. Why does anyone risk fishing from an open boat on the ocean in such a fog, I ask Nancy. The boats vanish from sight and the sound of their engines is lost in the sound of the surf.

The Shells On Shackleford Beach

    After a moderate distance, perhaps a quarter mile, we come upon a sand spit where there is a gathering of a large number of gulls. As we approach they do not fly but rather walk out of our way, reluctantly it seems. Where they were gathered we see a lone gull floating in the shallow water, flapping one wing tiredly and sporadically as it is washed back and forth in the surf. Evidently it can neither fly or swim or walk due to injury or sickness. There is sadness here and we understand we are watching a small tragedy slowly unfold.

    When we look up from the gull we realize the fog has gradually moved in to the beach and a slight but very cool breeze is now blowing from the ocean. The beach is enveloped in mist and our visibility is much less than it was when we began our walk. We turn and retrace our steps. The beach seems now even more remote and mysterious, even thrilling, with the breakers rolling onto the sand out of a white nothingness. By the time we come upon the stick that we had planted in the sand the fog is very dense. Visibility is much less than a hundred yards. We had better go back, I say to Nancy, and we start off through the dunes.

Fog Coming In To The Shackleford Beach

    As we recross the island we walk slowly and quietly. Several times we have to pause and decide on which path to take in the fog. I know that Nancy is worried, as I am, about what the conditions will be when we arrive at our dinghy on the beach of Back Sound. As we near the other side of the island the dunes materialize out of the mist and we see a group of at least ten wild horses standing quietly in the mist off to the side of the path. They are silent and motionless and wary but seemingly unafraid. And then they are gone. We know that we have had a moment of extraordinary enchantment.

    We come through the dunes to our dinghy on the beach and are dismayed to see dense fog over the waters of the sound. The "NR" marker is no longer visible. Neither is the opposite shoreline. Nancy asks what are we going to do, and we talk about our alternatives. It is late in the afternoon. Only about three hours of daylight remain. If we stay on the beach waiting for the fog to lift we may well be forced to spend a long, cold, hungry night on the island. We agree to leave immediately steering by the compass and hoping for the visibility to improve. We carry Recess back in the water, fill the gas tank of the outboard, and strike out for the "NR" marker using the bearing I had previously determined.

    I am timing our travel across the water. Ten minutes go by, then fifteen, and I know that we have missed the "NR" marker. I tell Nancy and then turn the dinghy onto the bearing for the "59" marker near the mouth of Taylor Creek. There is a strong ebb tide running across our path and I know that, even if I maintain our compass course perfectly, we can miss our destination by a wide margin due to being swept to the side by the cross current. I turn the nose of the dinghy somewhat into the current, hoping to compensate for the side-wise drift, but I know this can only be a very rough correction.

    We stare blindly into the fog as the motor drones on, louder now that I have increased the throttle to fight against the strong current. The fog is thick. There is no hint of sunlight. We are in our own gray world at the center of a bubble of visibility surrounded by a pool of flat dark water. I watch the compass constantly as we motor onward, without talk.

    Amid the course changes and corrections I have become confused about the elapsed time, but it seems that we are traveling for an inordinately long time. Now we talk. Are we lost? Yes. Should we anchor? - no, because another boat might run into us in the fog. Should we call the Coast Guard on the VHF? - no, because they would not be able to find us even if they could send a boat. Should we call a mayday? - no, because our lives are not in immediate danger. Our greatest danger, we agree, is missing our target to the right, because then we would enter the main body of the North River and become helplessly lost in its maze of small islands and shoals. If we miss our target to the left we should run into the south shore of Carrot Island, we say, and we may then be able to follow its shoreline to the mouth of Taylor Creek if we don't get caught in some blind channel of deeper water.

    I change course again, turning Recess more to the left, hoping that we will eventually find the shore. It happens suddenly. There's the bottom, Nancy yells, and I feel the outboard strike the bottom. Quickly I shut down the motor and tilt it on the transom to bring it clear. Although there is no visible shoreline we are in very shallow water, which is racing past us at an alarming speed. We use our paddles to push Recess back into deeper water. Quickly I lower the motor and pull on the starter rope. I feel a very brief moment of panic as I wonder what we will do if the outboard fails to start. But the motor comes to life on the first pull. I steer out into the deeper water and then set our course on the original bearing for a while, and then I gradually turn to the left again, both of us staring intently into the water. The bottom looms up at us yet again as we enter the shallows, and I repeat the whole procedure. After another encounter with the shallows I try to keep us in the deeper water for a longer time. And then we see the faint outline of a pole stuck in the water. I steer directly toward it and find that it is our long sought marker "59." We yell and cheer. After a short distance, though marker "59" is now somewhere behind us lost in the fog, we enter the mouth of Taylor Creek.

    We are not merely relieved, we are exultant. We laugh and talk and congratulate ourselves. I steer the dinghy close to the north shore finding it reassuring to be so close to land. The fog is so thick that the opposite shore is merely a shadow though it is less than fifty yards away. The mist is palpable. Our hair and eyebrows are wet and dripping. We don our sweaters and find comfort in their warmth.

    Eventually we reach the marina and enter the small boat basin when it is almost dark. We tie Recess to the swim platform and enter the familiar cabin of Summer School. What great feelings of relief and contentment we have as we sip our hot sweet tea. We listen to the VHF radio, to the Coast Guard replies to the various requests for help. There is a boat lost on Back Sound trying to find a marina on Harkers Island. There is a boat out in the ocean, using its radar in an attempt to locate Beaufort Inlet. Amid the radio traffic the Coast Guard announces that the search for the two Harkers Island fishermen, missing since the day before, has been discontinued because their bodies had been found south of the inlet. Now we understand the reason for the two small open boats we saw cruising the shore of Shackleford through the fog. I think of the gull dying slowly in the surf. We sip our tea and feel grateful for each other and all that we have.

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1800 Days – Seg. 24, Ch. 6, Pg. 6-12

    The North Carolina coast in the area of Beaufort and Morehead City runs essentially east-west. Beyond Morehead City the coast begins a very gradual turn to the south, while east of Beaufort the coast bends toward the south for a short distance until Cape Lookout is reached, and then continues in a northeasterly direction toward Cape Hatteras. Beaufort itself is situated on a fairly narrow neck of land between the North River to the east and the Newport River on the west, across which lies Morehead City.

    As in many places this coast is comprised of narrow barrier islands separated from the mainland by shallow bodies of water here called sounds. Across from Morehead City and extending to the west for about 25 miles is the barrier island of Bogue Banks, separated from the mainland by Bogue Sound; Bogue Banks is home to the ocean front beach resorts of Atlantic Beach, Pine Knoll Shores and Emerald Isle among others. On the other hand, across from Beaufort and extending to the east for almost 10 miles is the barrier island of Shackleford Banks, separated from the mainland by Back Sound; in contrast to Bogue Banks, Shackleford Banks is undeveloped and home to yet another herd of wild horses. Between Shackleford Banks and Bogue Banks is Beaufort Inlet, the northern most of only three reliable all-weather inlets on the entire North Caroline Coast. (The other two are the mouth of the Cape Fear River and Masonboro Inlet near Wrightsville Beach.) Because of this inlet Beaufort is sometimes known as "The Gateway to the Caribbean" since many southbound boaters leave the coast through Beaufort Inlet for open ocean cruises directly to the Bahamas and onward into the Caribbean. (Many boaters follow the ICW to Beaufort before going off-shore through Beaufort Inlet; in this way they avoid going around Cape Hatteras and navigating through the infamous shoals that extend almost to the Gulf Stream.)

    For travelers on land the main highway in the area is Highway 70. From Beaufort you can take this highway west across the Newport River into Morehead City, and then northwest for 35 miles to New Bern before it heads into the interior of North Carolina. To the east of Beaufort, Highway 70 curves somewhat to the north and then runs northeast through the neck of land that lies roughly between the lower Neuse River to the north and Core Sound on the southerly side. The communities along this section of the highway, which include Harkers Island (accessible by side road and bridge), Sealevel and Atlantic among others, are sometimes known collectively as "Downeast North Carolina." Eventually Highway 70 reaches land's end at Cedar Island where you can take a ferry across Pamlico Sound to Ocracoke Island.

    We found this whole difficult-to-describe complex of land and water around Beaufort, with the islands and rivers and sounds, to be almost endlessly fascinating during our winter's stay, and we would often take car trips to explore places of particular interest. But mostly we explored the town of Beaufort itself, slowly and by foot.

The Carteret County Library

    The central area of town is small, only about three to four blocks square, and it makes for delightful walking in almost any weather. Front Street along Taylor Creek is home to most of the businesses including Clawson's Restaurant, the Spouter Inn, Beaufort Marine Discount, the Dock House Restaurant and, of course, Beaufort Docks. For a number of blocks on Front Street there is a boardwalk bordering the creek that is especially inviting to walkers. The main intersecting street is Turner Street down which are several bed-and-breakfast inns, the Beaufort Historic Site, and the Carteret County Library. The North Carolina Maritime museum is at the intersection of Turner and Front Streets. Ann and Broad Streets run north of Front Street and parallel to it. These streets provide shaded walks by fine old houses, and a historic cemetery named the Old Burying Ground. Altogether, this is the small area where we spent most of our time during our winter's stay.

A Crape Myrtle Tree in Winter

The Old Burying Ground

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    "What do you do with all your time?" "There's nothing going on in Beaufort during the winter; what do you do?" "How do you live?" "Aren't you bored with nothing to do?" On more than a few occasions we were asked these and similar questions, by friends from our previous lives, by people wandering the docks who would sometimes strike up conversations with us, by acquaintances we met through our friendship with Earl and Ann. And we found that it was not easy to explain in any reasonably concise way how our lives were so rich and full, and, though not without problems, so varied and satisfying and so endlessly interesting.

    It is true that the nature of Beaufort changed from that of the summer resort as winter set in. When we took up our residence in mid-November the southern boat migration was still in evidence though it was certainly different and diminished from that which we observed in mid-October. At that time, the marina filled up every night with large yachts including some in the megayacht category, more than a hundred feet in length and worth millions. And at that time there were still significant numbers of tourists who would walk the docks and generally enjoy the Beaufort waterfront. By mid-November there were not nearly as many boats coming into the marina at the end of the day, and these were generally much smaller, mainly sailboats, and their owners not nearly so affluent. There were also fewer visitors or tourists along Front Street and walking the docks. By mid-December the waterfront area of the town was, if not deserted, certainly very sparsely populated and in some senses, shut down. There were no more migrating boaters except for the rare straggler. Some restaurants, such as Harpoon Willie's and the Front Street Grill, had already closed for the winter season, while others, such as the Beaufort Grocery Company and the Finz Grill, posted signs that they would close in January. But we welcomed these changes; we especially rejoiced when the Beaufort House Restaurant and Bar closed because this establishment was near us on the dock and it played excessively loud music well into the nights on weekends. Enough good restaurants, particularly Clausen's and the Spouter Inn, remained open to satisfy our cravings. Furthermore the town became quieter and seemingly more private as winter wore on, though a number of special events still took place.

    Onboard our boat we had our writing and reading, our talk and our music. I would spend some part of almost every morning writing in our office in the forward cabin, working on Lessons from Summer School, seeing portions of this project slowly, frequently painfully take form. Nancy would also devote some of her time to writing. She had already enjoyed considerable success in publishing short articles for the magazine, Motor Boating & Sailing, and she was working on longer pieces that she would eventually publish in Living Aboard and Coastal Cruising magazines. Within the first week of our residence in Beaufort we joined the Carteret County Library, which we found unusually well-stocked for a town of this size. Each of us always had one or more books on the go; we would read at odd times during the day and always some part of every night, and soft music from our tape player often filled the cabin. And we talked - of what we were trying to write, what we wanted to do to the boat to improve it, where we wanted to go and what we wanted to see, what books we were reading and how we felt about them. And frequently the cabin resonated with the sounds of our laughter.

    During the afternoons we often took long walks throughout the town. We would visit the shops in the business district along Front Street and sometimes stop at the maritime museum or the library. We liked to walk along Ann Street and view the old stately homes and we enjoyed examining The Old Burying Ground located there. We especially liked the beauty and grace of the winter-time crape myrtle trees that lined this street. The eastern section of Front Street beyond Beaufort Docks was also frequently included in our walks. There was a good sidewalk here that took us along the shore of Taylor Creek, opposite stately homes that frequently had their own private docks. There was also a town dinghy dock provided for the convenience of the anchored boats. We especially delighted in the wildlife, not only the wild horses across the creek on Carrot Island, but also the pelicans and herons and ducks in the shallows, and the dolphins that frequently swam in the creek.

    Just the business of living occupied a significant amount of time. Once a week we got our mail and there were always bills and other matters of business to tend to. And about once a week Nancy would fetch the dock cart from the storage area in the bridge, load it with laundry and roll it down the dock and across Front Street to the neighborhood laundromat. And there were always maintenance and upkeep chores: oil the heads, exercise the seacocks, run the engines, clean the bilge, wash the accumulated salt off the boat, service the car, dust and vacuum, adjust the lines and fenders. We spent considerable time grocery shopping, not only at the large supermarkets out on Highway 70, but also at smaller neighborhood specialty markets, especially the Ottis Seafood Market in Morehead City where we delighted in fresh shrimp, salty oysters, grouper, flounder, swordfish, tuna, etc. We made celebrations of our dinner-time meals, always eaten at our small salon table surrounded by the glowing teak of our cabin, with candlelight and wine and music, usually classical baroque or soft vocal jazz. Almost always we used more than two hours in the preparation and consumption of these wonderful meals during the dark winter evenings.

    After dinner we would frequently take a walk through the marina and on the boardwalk along the waterfront. These walks are most memorable, especially those taken during the coldest and the darkest days in January when the docks and the town streets were essentially deserted and the vacant boats in their slips seemed to have a mysterious, waiting quality. We discovered that night herons would come into the marina after dark and perch on the moored boats, on their rails, in their rigging, even on their dock lines. These large hunch-shouldered birds would balance on their perches absolutely silent and motionless, watching with great intensity some patch of dark water, waiting to pounce. We made a game out of learning to spot them in the dim light of the docks. Some nights we counted more than twenty, yet we never saw one on the docks during daylight hours.

    Aside from our routine activities there were also some special events. On December 4 there was the annual Beaufort Christmas Parade along Front Street, with marching bands, floats, old cars, fire engines, the works. An amazing number of people lined the street for this event. (My notes state that we were told there were over 10,000 spectators, but I still find this difficult to believe.) There was also a Christmas Boat Parade later in the month that began in Morehead City and ended with the decorated boats slowly cruising along the nighttime Beaufort waterfront. There were many spectators for this parade also. Our favorite holiday event was Coastal Carolina Christmas sponsored by the Beaufort Historical site. This special day included open houses at all the bed and breakfast establishments where we stuffed ourselves on cookies, cider and punch.

The Beaufort Christmas Parade

The Christmas Boat Parade

    Of course we also created our own special days. There was an exploration of the "down east" area including a visit to the annual Harkers Island Decoy Festival. There was a long day-trip to Ocracoke Island that included the ferry ride across Pamlico Sound; we longed to make the trip there in our own boat sometime in the future. There was a visit to the North Carolina Aquarium at Pine Knoll Shores on Bogue Banks, and there were other trips to this island for walks along the ocean beaches at Fort Macon and Atlantic Beach.

Our Cabin Decorated for Christmas

Atlantic Beach in Wintertime

    But of all of our outings there is one that rises above all others in adventure and meaning, in its indelible quality that remains in my memory. It occurred on one winter's day when we lowered our dinghy into the water and went to Shackleford Banks.

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