OBX I (Hatteras & Ocracoke)
07 October 2011 | Ocracoke, NC
Sailors like to have choices and North Carolina's waterways provide many. The protected arms of the ICW and AIWW on the mainland ("The Inner Banks") afford an array of sleepy country towns with a throwback feel while the exposed Outer Banks offer a series of legendary villages known for their rugged, wind-blown survival. What's a sailing couple to do? Do we choose the slow, narrow, safe but often dull meandering path along the ICW or do we cross the shallow Albemarle and Pamlico Sounds, both notorious for their short chop, to venture out to the wild Outer Banks? Long ago piqued by my younger brother's tales of teenage surfing expeditions to these famed shores, I vote for the OBX. Naturally, the Captain, always primed for an adventure, is happy to oblige.
As we leave the peaceful beauty of The Great Dismal Swamp, we plan to regroup on the ICW taking advantage of The Harbor of Hospitality - Elizabeth City - before heading out to the OBX. So named for the FREE city docks, we are salivating as we enter the port only to realize that with the widest slip offering at 18', our beam is two feet too wide to benefit (look at all the 2's in that sentence!). Bummer. For Cats, apparently, there is no such thing as a free lunch slip. Fortunately the weather is favorable and Albemarle Sound is only moderately choppy so we push on through. Eschewing the more built-up destinations of Kitty Hawk and Nags Head, we put in a long day and choose Manteo for the night's rest, excited about tomorrow's sail to "the REAL Outer Banks"- Hatteras and Ocracoke.
HATTERAS: We eagerly shove off at dawn in order to reach Hatteras by mid-day allowing time for bike exploration. Again, we are layered to the hilt (it is 45 degrees!), bracing ourselves against the strong cold winds that are persisting from last weekend's front. And then we hit Pamlico Sound - or should I say, then she hit us. She hit us with some of the worst short uncomfortable chop I have ever experienced. While we were probably never in any real danger per se, nonetheless, with each crest followed almost instantaneously by each subsequent slamming, pounding smash, my heart jumps, my stomach knots, my hands grip, and my whole body seizes. The motion is so severe screws begin to loosen from the helm station panels, the floor boards lift from the floor, EVERYTHING that has any degree of freedom bangs, clangs, rattles and rolls. I know reaching the OBX on the Atlantic side is even more treacherous, but let me tell you, this is certainly no joy ride.
I'd like to say it was worth it, but we found Hatteras disappointing. It had promise, what with the splurge of being dockside rather than anchoring and with the friendliness of the guys at Oden's Marina. And Hatteras Village was more or less as I expected: multi-tiered stilt-homes - popular family reunion rental properties - clustered together on the dune beaches of The Cape Hatteras National Seashore. But much as I was anticipating it, weathered and worn as we already were from our stressful sail, our 24 mile round trip bike ride - out and back to the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse (the tallest in the nation) - did us in. Maybe the grueling, relentlessly-windy ride skewed my perception, but the crappy, gravelly, no-shoulder single main road dominated by the endless stream of super loud intimidating pick-up trucks aggressively roaring by us inches from our limbs with no margin for error, well that didn't help. Nor did it help to see random piles of roadside debris discarded from derelict houses or strewn from abandoned trailers. And it definitely did not help that once we reached the fabled, distinctive black and white lighthouse, we were forced to quickly snap some hurried, obligatory photos by the full-on swarming mosquitoes. The final insult: positioned as we were in the marina, the fetching waves had us banging into the dock all night long. Maybe we just didn't hit it right getting here on a blow-up, gnarly day...but then that's what Hatteras is known for. Surfers pleasure, sailors pain?
OCRACOKE: Unfortunately, it is back into the staccato chop of Pamlico Sound to reach Ocracoke, the last link in the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. I hold on, grin (and clench) and bear it and after a thankfully short sail, I am relieved to anchor in the calm harbor. Accessible only by boat, this slither of an island, 15 miles long, remains much as it was generations ago. In sharp contrast to the throaty rumble of Hatteras, this tiny village, with as many walkers, cyclists and golf carts as cars, has a subdued, easy, low-keyed hum. There are a few two or three story waterfront homes and condos on Silver Lake, but most residences - and craft shops, ice cream shacks and other businesses - are small, worn cedar shake cottages. The town is not really quaint so much as natural, authentic, unspoiled.
The wind has subsided some, the weather is perfect, and we have earned a much-needed day to chill, so exercising the cruising option, we decide to spend two full days here in this delightful island. Day One we stroll on foot to get oriented, have lunch in the sun at a village bar, see the British Cemetery, and bring home some fresh local fish (red drum) to grill for dinner. Day Two is our Backroads Ocracoke day. Again, in sharp contrast to Hatteras (gratefully), this ride is an effortless 20 plus miles on the smoothly paved main road, complete with wide bike lanes and scant passing vehicles. We cycle through the marine pine forest and briefly peek in on the Pony Pasture (dedicated land for the island's originally wild ponies), before enjoying our picnic lunch on these breathtaking, almost-deserted beaches (recently voted number-one in America).
Back in town, we hit the hardware store, liquor store and grocery store - all under one roof - before our second trip to the fish store for more of that delicious red drum (this time to freeze) and some littlenecks for tonight's linguine and clams. The evening still cool but finally mild enough to eat in the cockpit, we set the table, pour the wine, light our flameless candles, toss the salad, drain the pasta and prepare our dishes. It is a stunning sunset, a perfect night.....But, regrettably - this time NOT in contrast to Hatteras - the one fly in the ointment at perfect Ocracoke, well it is not a fly at all. It is those darn persistent mosquitoes. Swatting, we scramble and scurry inside with our savory pasta, surprised that even in the swirl of this sustained breeze, 'skeeters are a very REAL part of the REAL Outer Banks. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.