Thursday, August 24, 2006

 
THE OUTER BANKS ARE RUINED. PASS IT ON.

Let the word go forth.
The Outer Banks of North Carolina are ruined. Pass it on.
On a recent sentimental journey along those once-pristine barrier islands that string south like a foam-laced necklace from Nags Head to Morehead City, I could not help but feel that "progress" had not simply overtaken me, but passed me by.
To put it as simply as I can, the problem is that too many people from New Jersey in shorts, black socks and sandals have not only discovered the Outer Banks, which jut like a sun-speckled elbow some 30 miles out into the Atlantic from mainland North Carolina.
These interlopers with prickly manners and carpetbags full of money have bought up all the best views of the peaceful sounds and bays, the churning surf, the places where I would liked to have built.
Plus there are absolutely too many of them.
Allow me to establish my credentials as an Outer Banks observer by saying that I’ve been going to the Outer Banks for more than a third of a century. That’s longer than Jimmy Carter was President, which, looking back, seemed like an eternity.
In the early days, the Outer Banks and the provincial little fishing villages – Ocracoke, Buxton, Salvo, Waves, Rodanthe, even Nags Head and Kill Devil Hills – were composed of mom-and-pop motels and restaurants catering to devoted and knowledgeable anglers who came every spring and fall to chase the massive schools of bluefish and channel bass that traded up and down the beaches.
If you were so inclined – and many of us were – you could charter a six-pack charter boat (limit, six persons) to take you out to the Gulf Stream where the great tuna, marlin and sailfish cruised the open ocean. But you didn’t have to do that unless you liked long boat rides. The Outer Banks – especially at Cape Hatteras – was as far out in the ocean and as close to the Gulf Stream as you could get by car along the East Coast.
Fortunately, you could save your $1,000 a day for a charter trip. The surf fishing was usually quite engaging right behind your motel along the beach.
Week before last, it was awful out there.
There were long lines at every restaurant, every gas station, every ferry between the islands, every saltwater taffy joint and T-shirt emporium. Two-lane Highway 12 is the only road up and down the barrier islands. It was bumper-to-bumper in both directions for miles on end. Where all those people were going in both directions, I do not know. Apparently the New Jerseyites had brought their cousins with them, and nobody had a compass.
Most surprising, all those quaint little villages and towns I mentioned before are now (prepare yourself) smothered with gigantic homes and condos taking up the most valuable places along the water and costing (according to a ferry worker on whose shoulder I was crying while crossing from Ocracoke Island to Hatteras) somewhere in the neighborhood of $3 to $5 mil. "Some of ‘em have up to 10 bedrooms," he said. "The whole place has been turned into – not a fishing destination – but a series of resort villages and towns."
The Outer Banks are ruined. They are overbooked, oversold, over-visited and – when you come right down to it – loved to death.
However (there’s always a however), some things don’t change. Most of the Outer Banks is National Seashore, which means they belong to you and me. Development is verboten. You can pull off at one of the parking lots along nearly 100 miles of Hatteras Island, let’s say, take a short climb across the dunes built by the CCC in the 30s, and possibly see only one or two people up and down the coast for five miles.
The most remarkable crab omelet I’ve ever eaten is still being served at The Dunes in south Nags Head. The crab omelet is so big, they serve it on a platter, not a plate. If I could, I’d eat breakfast there every day for a week.
My wonderful old Channel Bass restaurant on Ocracoke is closed. But Sam and Omies – that’s where local people eat – is still bustling in Nags Head.
The Cape Hatteras lighthouse is quite beautiful in its new location. And on the docks at Ocracoke and Oregon Inlet about 4 o’clock every afternoon, the charter boats return from their all-day run to the Gulf Stream and unload their catches of dolphin, tuna and wahoo to the oohs and ahhs of the assembled crowds.
Truth is, you can still find the old Outer Banks, if you know where to look.
Just the same, the message today is: The Outer Banks are ruined. Pass it on.
Maybe that’ll keep more people from showing up.
END

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