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The Last Island

There was little daylight left as I disembarked on the south shore of Ocracoke from the W. Stanford White, so there was not much to see as I drove towards town and my place of rest for the night. Again, the campgrounds were closed and I had surfed the web for an interesting looking place to spend the night. It had been awhile since I had first dropped out of the sky here for lunch and my first look at the Outer Banks. Maybe the thing that had attracted me here in the first place, other than the unusual name, was the fact that Ocracoke's history was significantly effected by two things that have always interested me very much - lighthouses and pirates, which meant I was on a "research expedition".

I have always found excuses to go wandering the planet in the name of book or song research. Though you have to spend a lot of time at a desk when you become a writer, being an obvious admirer of people like Hemingway, Beryl Markham, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming, Bruce Chatwin, Anne Lindbergh and a host of other writers, I believe you have to find the substance of a story or a song, as Twain said "out there in the territory". Thus my writings cover my love of different latitudes, hot climates and remote stretches of beach front, which is what brought me to the Outer Banks in the first place. Oh yes, and the other thing that seems to work for me is to find and explore the local libraries in these outposts, where I can do a little bound book archeology and dig up facts, photos or other information that might blossom into a full blown plot line or a character or a song title.

When I was "researching" the character Charlie Fabian for my book "Where is Joe Merchant?" I knew I wanted to model him on the notorious pirate Edward Teech, better known in the pirate culture by his bad ass name of "Blackbeard". I had seen a movie about Blackbeard when I was a kid and the image of this wild pirate with pigtails in his flaming beard swinging through the rigging from his ship to the one he was attacking, stuck with me. And when I needed a likeable villain for my novel, I knew Blackbeard would be the model. It was in the Key West library where I first discovered the North Carolina connection to Blackbeard, which took me to my aviation charts to figure that Ocracoke lay almost directly on the air route I usually traveled in my plane back and forth between Florida and Long Island. It is always nice when your work and your fun can come together like that. Ocracoke was now on my song line.

On that first "research expedition", other than the library, I checked out several bookstores, where in an afternoon, I armed myself with more than enough factual and fictional information about Blackbeard to help me create my version of the bad ass pirate - Charlie Fabian.

It seems, that all these pirates, probably to their collective chagrin, wound up as tourist attractions, bar names, and the nuclei of a score of cottage industries. There's the Key West Pirate and Torture museum in Key West (always one of my favorite places back in my early days there). You've got the Jamaican buccaneer Henry Morgan's likeness on a rum label, and the Lafitte Brothers blacksmith shop in the French Quarter of New Orleans, just to name a few, and Ocracoke is big time in the Blackbeard "bidness''. I guess if you grow up in Texas, Colorado or Montana, as Willie Nelson says, "your heroes are cowboys", but if you are an east or Gulf coast creature, well hi diddle dee dee, it's a pirate's life for me.

The other big discovery that fit right into my world was the existence on Ocracoke of the oldest working lighthouse in North Carolina. This led to more research, which illuminated the story of the Fresnell lens system, which became one of the main plot points of a later book "Salty Piece of Land". For having spent only one day on Ocracoke years back, it seems that I had dug up a lot of literary treasure in these parts, and I was glad to be back for another quick but timely visit.

I drove past the airport at twilight, stopping for a moment when I saw several wild ponies loping along the beach. I love the fact that as much as we all perceive of the East Coast of the United States as one continuous string of cities, sidewalks shopping malls and endless streams of traffic along Interstate 95, there is still a lot of land left where wild horses rule the beach. I spotted the large "Howard's Pub" sign and pulled the Green Tomato into the parking lot where Sarah, my real estate lady, told me she would meet me. One of the things I always try to find when I am on the road in a place like Ocracoke is authenticity. In too many coastal towns that I have lived in or visited, progress, or what some people call progress, seems to take hold in more ways than some of us not so progressive types would like. To me, that means finding a local cottage or funky beach hotel to sleep in that reminds me of the kinds of places I used to go with my parents down on the Alabama and Florida Gulf Coast when I was a kid, as opposed to a hotel chain or high rise. The same goes for eating. It comes down to one of my simple rules of travel. Sleep local and eat local. Sarah was there and guided me through town and out to my spot for the night.

My "Little Duck" cottage was perfect for the evening and the old Lighthouse was visible to the east above the tree line. The signs of foreboding weather were still not evident in the evening sky, so I unhooked my bent bicycle from the rear of the Tomato, got directions from Sarah through a maze of sand paths that eventually led towards the lighthouse and peddled away, with my trusty Garmin GPS all set to mark my route so I could find my way home in the dark.

For all its pirate history, the town of Ocracoke is one of the most picture perfect harbors I have seen. Summer is of course the tourist season and it bustles like all the other beaches where people go to marinate in salt water, but when the off season comes and the population settles to basically just the locals and a few kids playing hooky from school to catch a wave or a fish, that authentic charm blossoms while the trees and flowers are shedding their leaves. Being off-season even added to the charm as I wobbled along the road that lines the waterfront, hoping my tire would stay attached to the frame and I wouldn't have to walk back to the Little Duck cottage. I peddled all the way through town and down to the ferry dock to check my reservation for the early ferry back to the mainland and see what times the later boats left in case I stayed. There was more night than day in the sky as I started back and it was made even more apparent when the first sweep of the "sword of light" flashed across Silver Lake.

I can see how the harbor got its name, as the next beam shimmered across the water. After spending several years working on a book about lighthouses, I knew Fresnell lens beam when I saw one. If you want to know more about this lens, I suggest you refer to the description in "Salty Piece of Land". Let's just say the short explanation is that they are functional and works of art, like old seaplanes and sextants. One of the interesting things about the Ocracoke light was that Confederate soldiers removed the lens during the Civil War as a defense against a Yankee invasion through the inlet. It would be like turning off the runway lights at an airport at night. I followed the beam and tracked on my GPS down the oyster shell covered back streets that lead me to the wooden plank walkway at the base of the light. As wonderful, powerful and mysterious as a lighthouse beam can be at close range on "terra firma", I think that if you have ever been at sea and really needed it as a navigational aid to keep you from grinding your hull on to a coral reef or find a channel on a pitch black stormy night, then you hold an ever deeper appreciation for such a timeless invention as a Fresnell lens.

I arrived back at the Little Duck cottage where I met Sarah's fiancé Bert, and her soon to be in-laws, and we had a glass of wine and talked about what else-surfing and fishing and food. I asked if the Back Porch, the restaurant I had eaten at on my first trip here, was still around. "Yes, and it is still great" was the answer. I thanked the Edwards for their hospitality and headed for dinner. It may have been off-season but the Back Porch was jumpin' and the charming hostess greeted me. "Welcome back" she said with a smile, like it was only yesterday that I had eaten there the first time. The older I get, I find myself trying to put governors on time, making it not go as fast as it really is. It doesn't work, but we all try. "When was I here last" I asked, confident that 3 or 4 years was the correct answer. "13 years ago" she answered with a laugh. It was time for a drink.

Eating by one's self might seem very lonely to some people, but when you are a road dog, you get used to it. Besides, if you aren't looking to do anything but enjoy a good meal, dining solo is quite relaxing. When eating by myself, I always prefer the bar, or a table close to it, because there is always entertainment, and talking is an option. The hostess seated me at a table near the bar, and I ordered a "boat drink" and sipped my rhum as I listened in on the local chatter and gossip from the customers on the barstools behind me. The topics in beach town bars stays pretty constant no matter what coastline I find myself hugging - weather, boats, love, local scandal, sports, fishing, surfing, over-building, and how it used to be ten years ago. I opted that night not to join the discussion and just fiddled with my cell phone until my dinner arrived.

After dinner, as I headed back to the cottage, I noticed the moon and stars were now hidden from view by what I suspected might be low hanging clouds that were announcing the bad weather that had been predicted, and as I read myself to sleep that night, the light from the lighthouse swept by my window in a constant pattern like some guardian angel standing watch.

Boat Houses To Build

The hope of an inaccurate weather forecast and the vision of a morning paddle through Ocracoke harbor and some more "Blackbeard" time was immediately thwarted by scattered big drops of rain that were illuminated by the lighthouse beam as they dripped slowly down the window pane above my head. Day broke slate gray to the East and I knew I needed to get up and make that morning ferry at 6:30a.m. As always, I had packed up the Tomato the night before. I made myself a cup of tea and sipped it as I wrote a note to my kind hosts and drove through the deserted streets of the town to the ferry dock. The loading area was situated next to one of those great old Coast Guard bases that had been turned into a school. I do love the designs of all the old Coast Guard stations and one day, somewhere on some stretch of protected water; plan to build myself a boat house based on one of those original designs.

The S. S. Manteo was tied up at the end of the dock. A few other "early birds" sat in their vehicles, waiting to board. I checked the weather radar on my computer and the predicted big glob of red, which was rain, was alive and well and covered the complete western half of Palmico Sound from Brant Shoals back to Cedar Island. We were in for a blow and there would be no casual breakfast on the fantail of the ferry that morning. I was sitting in the back of the van, checking e-mails to pass the fifteen minutes until our scheduled departure, when the face of a man appeared at my window. Thinking the obvious, that he was a fan in search of an autograph or picture, I rolled down the window to greet him.

"Do you run bio-diesel or straight WVO?" he said. He was a fan all right, but of the Tomato. Turns out, the gentleman was a former Air Force flier and a turbo diesel engine expert headed home to Jacksonville, North Carolina. I won't bore you with the details of diesel engine addicts, but that is what we talked about until the rain picked up and the bell rang and the arms of the boat crewed waves us forward towards the ramp.

I was lucky enough to have been guided to a space that was under an overhanging deck and gave me a bit of protection from the weather. I watched from the drivers seat as the captain of the ferryboat executed a perfect 360-degree maneuver in the tight confines of the Ocracoke channel and then headed out into the sound. I knew the ship was in good hands. The rain was now coming sideways across the deck of the ferry as I made my way out of the van and up to the lounge area to stretch my legs and survey the the onboard accommodations for the two hour ride. There were no tattoo parlors or discos on board the Manteo, just a few benches occupied by passengers clutching mugs of coffee headed to the mainland in search of things they couldn't get done, or buy or see on the Outer Banks. A nice fellow said good morning to me and complimented me on the van and then quietly whispered, "I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but I've been to 25 shows." Now I don't have any kind of rewards program for loyal fans, like the airlines or credit card companies, but in my way of thinking, anybody who has been to that many of my shows and has contributed that much to my way of making a living is somebody who gets my attention. Turns out the gentleman was also a Park Service ranger who worked on Portsmouth Island, the last and most remote stretch of the Outer Banks that I had not visited. We had a great conversation about remote surf spots and fishing holes out on Portsmouth and he said I had an open invitation to drive the Tomato to the island, which I plan to take him up on when I return north in the spring. I know you can't wait for that bunch of stories -"Return to the Outer Banks". We exchanged contact info and headed back to our mutual nesting vehicles. The growling in my belly signaled that it was time for breakfast and I was more than prepared in the galley of the Green Tomato.

Besides, the miles covered, the people met and the inspirational spots I had visited, the other great thing that had been accomplished on the trip was getting to know my van. It was not just a means of transportation. The Tomato provided shelter from the storm. It was a diner, a wi-fi hot spot, a bunk for a tired body and breakfast nook, and most importantly, it was the incubator for this series of articles. I have long believed that the creative process roots itself in a strange kind of magic. Like the mythical sword in the stone in the legend of King Arthur, many want to think they can pull that sword out of that rock, but only a few really posses the power. I don't know much about alchemy and sword play but I do know that the same basic rules apply to storytelling, and, if you are lucky enough to be one of those who got the magic, you still have to discover and develop your own way of getting words and stories on paper, or in these days, onto a computer screen.

I had spent 36 hours traveling, at times at light speed, along highway 12 with certain fantasies filling my brain - fly around the Wright Brothers Monument, test the SUF board, find some stand up waves, connect up with surf buddies, find some great seafood joints. Then, there were the unpredictable events that you always have to leave room for in your travels. There were plenty of those as well. Yes, my creative reservoir was overflowing, but then there is always the core truth that as a writer, you must leave the world of making up a story and simply do the hard work it takes to get it on paper.

Alone in the Green Tomato, bobbing across Pamlico Sound on a ferry boat, I knew it was my time to do the work, and that is where this journal began. It ends this evening watching the sunset from my desk on the Continental Drifter to the west over the Sir Francis Drake Channel in the British Virgin Islands where I am here to surf with my buddies from the Outer Banks. I never planned it to conclude this way, it just did. The actual journey was something I had promised myself I would do and from that came the idea for the journal. I have had a ball doing both and I hope you have enjoyed the trip as well.

As I was finishing up this journal today, the thought popped into my brain, that I am often accused by those who know me well, of trying to cram thirty-six hours into a twenty-four hour day. To that crime, I plead guilty as charged. To quote my favorite lines about the passage of time, which I saw long ago scribbled on the men's room wall of the Napoleon House Bar in New Orleans, "Life and ink run out at the same time." - The Squid. So, when someone tries to tell you there are just so many hours in a day, don't believe them. Fit in as many as you can, because unlike my friend the squid, we don't really know when the ink is going to run out. You really never know if the next day is going to come or not.

It is a new year and hopefully a new era being ushered in. My next trip is to the Pacific in February, where I plan to do this all over again, on another island on another latitude. I will give you a clue - Aloha. Farewell Outer Banks. It's been a lovely cruise.

Over and out

- Jimmy
Aboard Continental Drifter
Somewhere In the Caribbean Sea

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4