August 29, 2006
Standing the test of time...
The sea has a powerful calm beneath a black summer sky, when the stars vanish into the distant horizon. The sound of cresting waves transcends time and space, as the white florescence breaks on the sandy shore. It was, I can only imagine, the first sound that was heard when man crossed the line from reaction to reason. And since then, it has calmed infants to sleep, and sent fear down young sailors throats.
The calm masks the mighty power that has carved the world where we live. And despite its brute force, we continue to build castles made of sand where the tide goes to rest each day before crawling back to the sea.
Sitting just off the North Carolina coast is Topsail Island. For the sailor, it is fifteen nautical miles north of Wilmington harbor, Carolina’s industrial port where the Cape Fear River stretches out into the Atlantic. It’s a long skinny island, running along the Inner Coastal waterway from Holly Ridge, up to Sneed’s Ferry, coming to a point just off the sandy shores of Camp Lejeune.
Camp Lejeune is a 246 square mile marine bass, home of the Marine’s 2nd Division and a host of other marine and navy tactical operations. Each year, more than 12,000 marines pass through its gates, the base boasting the largest concentration of marines and sailors in the world. It is comprised of a central camp with four outpost camps entrenched along the heavy pine forests common to the Carolina coast. It was the home for the marines killed in October 1983, after the marine barracks in Beirut were bombed. A memorial commemorates the soldiers who died, standing in front of the gates at Camp Johnson, a Lejeune outpost that was a major training site for African-American marines before FDR desegregated the military.
Nights and days on Topsail mix the rising and falling of the surf with the repetitive thud of artillery from Camp Geiger, another Lejeune outpost that trains soldiers using live rounds of explosives. The sound could be mistaken for thunder, if not heard on the clearest nights when the Milky Way makes the marsh of the New River glow. Days are spent with the sound of helicopters and winged aircraft running missions along the coast, running low along the twenty-two miles of exposed shore line that topsail bears to the Atlantic winds. There’s a small pier on the island, just north of when you cross into Onslow County. And standing out on it, you can see the glint of the pilots sunglasses as the combat helicopters fly out over the shallow waters, where old men fish for king’s and sea bass off the weathered planks
There’s a beauty found on the island. Not so much in the lay of the land, most of the vista giving way to new construction where thick bush had once lined the paved road. The island is only a couple of blocks deep, more like a high sand bar that buffers the marsh of the ICW from the force of the sea. What is beautiful about the island is its timeless sense of Low Country life.
The Low Country is the stretch of land in the southeast that runs flat along the coastline until you start to gently rise into the piedmont of the Deep South. Much of this land has been left unchanged since after the Second World War. Hurricanes and flooding kept out the interstates, and much of this part of the south is accessible by two lane highways that run reminiscent along road side peanut stands and old soda shop pharmacies.
while LK and I visited her family’s home on the Island the other week, we stopped by the Shrimp Fest in Sneed’s Ferry, which was something out of a John cougar Melloncamp video, or a Pat Conroy novel. When you leave Sneed’s Ferry, and drive across the long, white, cement bridge that takes you onto the island, just north of Surf City, you’re welcomed by an old rusted Dodge van where the Shrimp Lady, a local celebrity, will sell you fresh shrimp out of the stacks of blue and red coolers that sit just off the back bumper of the van.
Nature has a way of keeping what she wants, and the timeless beauty of topsail knows well that Mother Nature always gets what she wants. Recent years have led to a high rate of development on the island, with the north side of the island undergoing heavy growth over the past ten years. LK’s home was built at a time when it was the furthest most north house on the island, its porch facing a good mile of undeveloped marsh and bush to the northern point of the island. Her family is considered to be amongst the locals, receiving a sort of old-timer status, building before the rush. Her grandfather, CK, served on the island during World War II, when there was little more than the high concrete towers used to spot German submarines off the coast. Now, the island feels as though it were the rising new suburban homes of Wilmington or Savannah, developers finding ways to mask the traditional stilt homes with vinyl siding.
Just down the street from the K’s home is a newly built monster of a house, with sculpted arches over the double doors and a chandelier that hangs in the main room, clear through the front windows. Just up the road, the dunes spread out beneath newly constructed condos, whose porches lean out over the dunes.
What is interesting The about the homes is that they are all very modern in appearance. The timeless look of the traditional beach home, standing no more than a story atop high stilts, has been lost to the modern suburban look of comfort. Though what I find most interesting is that insurance is no longer offered to these homes, making me wonder just how timeless they’ll be.
To the north of the K’s home, walking along the beach until the island can go no more, there are several homes that have seen the hand Mother Nature has handed them, and folded their hand along with their weathered shutters. These homes, of which LK and I counted to be around a dozen, now lie just beyond the dunes, not on the bush side of the high sand barriers, but on the seaward side.
The tide was coming in as we walked along the shore, finding that we had to dance over the high sand bags and turn through the maze of stilts under one of the homes in order to avoid the water. The Army corps of Engineers is working on combating the beach erosion. But it looks outmatched to the force of the sea, which now crashes under several of the homes, their stairways already taken out. One of them still had trashcans sitting in front of the high driveway that trailed up to one of the homes, making me wonder if the owner knew how the sea was recycling their house.
The ocean gives, and the ocean takes. And looking at the sight of the lifeless homes standing alone on the open beach, I feel an eerie loneliness in their solitude. Hurricane season is not yet over, this being the one-year anniversary for Katrina. And I can’t help but wonder what the north shore of this island will look like next year, as nature’s clock keeps on ticking.
In the spring of 1970, my father sailed through these same waters. His last station of duty was at camp Lejeune, a staff sergeant working in the post office. It was only for several months, a short-term tour until he was to be honorably discharged from the marines, where he would rejoin my mother in Atlanta, who was pregnant with my older sister. Sitting in the still of the night along the shore, I can’t help but wonder if my children might someday return to this island. And if so, will they see what I have seen? Or will it look more like what my father saw thirty-six years ago, when nature ruled this part of the island, and not man? Looking at the shrimp lady, perched in her chair along side the road as we left town, I can’t help but think just how timeless Topsail Island is—and so much of the low country, for that fact. There was a quaint rustic feel staying at the K’s beach cottage. It’s weathered many a storm,just as the island has weathered many a transplant from the MidWest. And I’m sure they both will weather many more. But as for the larger homes, the ones that try to defy the test of time, I can see how nature has much more control over our lives than we wish to think. It’s an interesting observation on this anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Special thanks to the K family for allowing such a wonderful trip, so many of my childhood years spent in the Low country.
The calm masks the mighty power that has carved the world where we live. And despite its brute force, we continue to build castles made of sand where the tide goes to rest each day before crawling back to the sea.
Sitting just off the North Carolina coast is Topsail Island. For the sailor, it is fifteen nautical miles north of Wilmington harbor, Carolina’s industrial port where the Cape Fear River stretches out into the Atlantic. It’s a long skinny island, running along the Inner Coastal waterway from Holly Ridge, up to Sneed’s Ferry, coming to a point just off the sandy shores of Camp Lejeune.
Camp Lejeune is a 246 square mile marine bass, home of the Marine’s 2nd Division and a host of other marine and navy tactical operations. Each year, more than 12,000 marines pass through its gates, the base boasting the largest concentration of marines and sailors in the world. It is comprised of a central camp with four outpost camps entrenched along the heavy pine forests common to the Carolina coast. It was the home for the marines killed in October 1983, after the marine barracks in Beirut were bombed. A memorial commemorates the soldiers who died, standing in front of the gates at Camp Johnson, a Lejeune outpost that was a major training site for African-American marines before FDR desegregated the military.
Nights and days on Topsail mix the rising and falling of the surf with the repetitive thud of artillery from Camp Geiger, another Lejeune outpost that trains soldiers using live rounds of explosives. The sound could be mistaken for thunder, if not heard on the clearest nights when the Milky Way makes the marsh of the New River glow. Days are spent with the sound of helicopters and winged aircraft running missions along the coast, running low along the twenty-two miles of exposed shore line that topsail bears to the Atlantic winds. There’s a small pier on the island, just north of when you cross into Onslow County. And standing out on it, you can see the glint of the pilots sunglasses as the combat helicopters fly out over the shallow waters, where old men fish for king’s and sea bass off the weathered planks
There’s a beauty found on the island. Not so much in the lay of the land, most of the vista giving way to new construction where thick bush had once lined the paved road. The island is only a couple of blocks deep, more like a high sand bar that buffers the marsh of the ICW from the force of the sea. What is beautiful about the island is its timeless sense of Low Country life.
The Low Country is the stretch of land in the southeast that runs flat along the coastline until you start to gently rise into the piedmont of the Deep South. Much of this land has been left unchanged since after the Second World War. Hurricanes and flooding kept out the interstates, and much of this part of the south is accessible by two lane highways that run reminiscent along road side peanut stands and old soda shop pharmacies.
while LK and I visited her family’s home on the Island the other week, we stopped by the Shrimp Fest in Sneed’s Ferry, which was something out of a John cougar Melloncamp video, or a Pat Conroy novel. When you leave Sneed’s Ferry, and drive across the long, white, cement bridge that takes you onto the island, just north of Surf City, you’re welcomed by an old rusted Dodge van where the Shrimp Lady, a local celebrity, will sell you fresh shrimp out of the stacks of blue and red coolers that sit just off the back bumper of the van.
Nature has a way of keeping what she wants, and the timeless beauty of topsail knows well that Mother Nature always gets what she wants. Recent years have led to a high rate of development on the island, with the north side of the island undergoing heavy growth over the past ten years. LK’s home was built at a time when it was the furthest most north house on the island, its porch facing a good mile of undeveloped marsh and bush to the northern point of the island. Her family is considered to be amongst the locals, receiving a sort of old-timer status, building before the rush. Her grandfather, CK, served on the island during World War II, when there was little more than the high concrete towers used to spot German submarines off the coast. Now, the island feels as though it were the rising new suburban homes of Wilmington or Savannah, developers finding ways to mask the traditional stilt homes with vinyl siding.
Just down the street from the K’s home is a newly built monster of a house, with sculpted arches over the double doors and a chandelier that hangs in the main room, clear through the front windows. Just up the road, the dunes spread out beneath newly constructed condos, whose porches lean out over the dunes.
What is interesting The about the homes is that they are all very modern in appearance. The timeless look of the traditional beach home, standing no more than a story atop high stilts, has been lost to the modern suburban look of comfort. Though what I find most interesting is that insurance is no longer offered to these homes, making me wonder just how timeless they’ll be.
To the north of the K’s home, walking along the beach until the island can go no more, there are several homes that have seen the hand Mother Nature has handed them, and folded their hand along with their weathered shutters. These homes, of which LK and I counted to be around a dozen, now lie just beyond the dunes, not on the bush side of the high sand barriers, but on the seaward side.
The tide was coming in as we walked along the shore, finding that we had to dance over the high sand bags and turn through the maze of stilts under one of the homes in order to avoid the water. The Army corps of Engineers is working on combating the beach erosion. But it looks outmatched to the force of the sea, which now crashes under several of the homes, their stairways already taken out. One of them still had trashcans sitting in front of the high driveway that trailed up to one of the homes, making me wonder if the owner knew how the sea was recycling their house.
The ocean gives, and the ocean takes. And looking at the sight of the lifeless homes standing alone on the open beach, I feel an eerie loneliness in their solitude. Hurricane season is not yet over, this being the one-year anniversary for Katrina. And I can’t help but wonder what the north shore of this island will look like next year, as nature’s clock keeps on ticking.
In the spring of 1970, my father sailed through these same waters. His last station of duty was at camp Lejeune, a staff sergeant working in the post office. It was only for several months, a short-term tour until he was to be honorably discharged from the marines, where he would rejoin my mother in Atlanta, who was pregnant with my older sister. Sitting in the still of the night along the shore, I can’t help but wonder if my children might someday return to this island. And if so, will they see what I have seen? Or will it look more like what my father saw thirty-six years ago, when nature ruled this part of the island, and not man? Looking at the shrimp lady, perched in her chair along side the road as we left town, I can’t help but think just how timeless Topsail Island is—and so much of the low country, for that fact. There was a quaint rustic feel staying at the K’s beach cottage. It’s weathered many a storm,just as the island has weathered many a transplant from the MidWest. And I’m sure they both will weather many more. But as for the larger homes, the ones that try to defy the test of time, I can see how nature has much more control over our lives than we wish to think. It’s an interesting observation on this anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Special thanks to the K family for allowing such a wonderful trip, so many of my childhood years spent in the Low country.
August 04, 2006
on a cool day in Brooklyn
On a cool day in Brooklyn
With all do respect to the Pointer Sisters, the heat is off. Three days of record heat in New York, the city took on a completely different feel.
Walking down Seventh Avenue on Thursday, the street looked like something out of the Bad Lands during the bandit days. There was a ghostly air walking around and seeing hardly anyone on the streets.
Since it's become so cool today, high only in the upper 80s, I thought I'd post a video I found on youtube.com Enjoy, and stay cool!
the video is titled "Brooklyn--First Impression, produced by Adwan.
With all do respect to the Pointer Sisters, the heat is off. Three days of record heat in New York, the city took on a completely different feel.
Walking down Seventh Avenue on Thursday, the street looked like something out of the Bad Lands during the bandit days. There was a ghostly air walking around and seeing hardly anyone on the streets.
Since it's become so cool today, high only in the upper 80s, I thought I'd post a video I found on youtube.com Enjoy, and stay cool!
the video is titled "Brooklyn--First Impression, produced by Adwan.
