PEA ISLAND — Recently I had the pleasure of giving Johnnie Van Willis a tour of the historic Pea Island Cookhouse museum. Johnnie traveled to the museum from his home in Marshallberg, a historic fishing community situated on a peninsula in Carteret County and directly along the shores of the Core Sound.

Marshallberg has been characterized as a sleepy, close-knit village with a rich history of commercial fishing, boatbuilding and family heritage. Johnnie’s great-grandfather was Isaac Van Willis Sr. He’s the surfman sitting in the middle top row in the only known photograph of a “Checkerboard Crew.” This term was used in the U.S. Life-Saving Service, the predecessor to today’s U.S. Coast Guard, to identify racially mixed surfmen crews, crews with both Black and white surfmen, like a checkerboard.

In March 2023, a painting depicting this image was unveiled at the College of the Albemarle – Dare County Campus. Both the photograph and painting are on display at the “Cookhouse,” the shortened name for the museum housed in what once was a building in which surfmen cooked and ate their meals.

As background, Johnnie shares both his middle and last name with his great-grandfather and grandfather, Isaac Van Willis Sr. and Isaac Van Willis Jr. In spring 2018, Johnnie took a road trip with his wife and daughters in search of his great-grandfather’s grave. Through a friend, he had learned it was somewhere near the Marshall and Gussie Collins Trail, a trail named after my grandparents at the Collins homestead. They were part of a small and closely knit community of Black residents of Roanoke Island. It included those connected to the Freedmen’s Colony on Roanoke Island, as well as the rich Native American history here.

Like many Black people in their community, my grandparents were known for their hard work, family, friends, and record of service. They once owned a home and farmland near where the trail is now, including much of the property that surrounds the Dare County Governmental Center and not far from the Virginia Dare Memorial Bridge.

I had noticed when Johnnie and two of his daughters were walking on the trail and struck up a conversation with them. They told me they were searching for the gravesite but couldn’t find it, and they were super excited when I revealed that it was a just a few yards away. Leading them there, I sensed our special connection.

Johnnie did not know much about his great-grandfather, other than that he had worked several years in the Life-Saving Service.

I quickly realized the parallels and differences associated with our two families. My great-grandfather also worked in the service. We both had family members and friends who had lived in small, tightly knit communities and had grown up fishing, oystering, catching crabs, building boats, farming, hunting, and going to church together. Yet, we also shared the understanding that history shows the lives and experiences of our two families were very different, simply because of race. 

Born in January 1873, my great-grandfather, Joseph Hall Berry, began his career initially serving as a “substitute” surfman when the legendary Keeper Richard Etheridge commanded the historic Pea Island Life-Saving Station. He enlisted in February 1902, the same month that my father would do the same 37 years later. My great-grandfather Berry is also the only of several family members who served in both the Life-Saving Service and the Coast Guard. He retired in February 1917 after serving for 15 years.

The trail signage at Isaac Van Willis Sr.’s grave shows he served for 30 years. Given that Life-Saving Service stations that once stretched along coast were spaced about seven miles apart and that our great-grandparents worked at neighboring stations, in all likelihood they knew each other. They could have each lived on Roanoke Island, but I am uncertain where Isaac Van Willis Sr. may have lived. They also likely participated in joint rescues. Before motorized equipment was available, these rescues were especially difficult and dangerous, often requiring the manpower of several stations.

Today, Johnnie still chuckles when he recalls how we met. When I realized who he was, the first thing I told him was to wait a few minutes, that his visit was important and I needed to I grab a pen and piece of paper. Yet, as we stood talking, I realized that, other than knowing his great-grandfather spent several years in the service, Johnnie knew little about him. He died when Johnnie was just a small child.

Johnnie knew more about his grandfather, Isaac Van Willis Jr., had who worked in the U.S. Lighthouse Service at the Cape Lookout Lighthouse.

In 2018, I also knew little about Isaac Van Willis Sr., and the story of Checkerboard Crews. Yet, each time I looked at the gravesite, I sensed he was important. His prominent marker, which includes the Life-Saving Service emblem and information about his wife on the opposite side, has always intrigued me. I was delighted a few days ago to receive a call from one of Johnnie’s daughters telling me that she wanted to bring her father back to Roanoke Island and to visit the Cookhouse. The trip was quickly planned. Johnnie and his daughters were thrilled to see a framed copy of the 1910 photograph and the vibrant oil painting of the same, each showing Isaac Van Willis Sr. They had never seen either image before. The discovery even brought tears to one granddaughter’s eyes.

I also made Johnnie aware of a letter that I had discovered about Isaac Van Willis Sr. several years ago. I promised to search for it in the research material I have collected over the years. At the time he was Surfman No. 1 at the Oregon Inlet station, the position typically next in line to become Keeper. Although I haven’t looked at it for several years now, I still recall being surprised to find Keeper Richard Etheridge’s signature on it. He and several others had signed it in support of Isaac Van Willis Sr.’s desire to become Keeper. Before Johnnie left, I promised to search for it and send him a copy.

Likewise, although Johnnie did not have any pictures of his great-grandfather, he had brought along something very special for me to see. He showed me a cherished framed photograph of Isaac Van Willis Jr., a photograph showing him doing work inside the lantern at the Cape Lookout Lighthouse. He promised to send me a copy of the photo when he returned home.

After a day that began with a seafood lunch, then a long visit at the Cookhouse, and ended with a cherished joint return to the Isaac Van Willis Sr. gravesite, I have concluded that our chance encounter eight years ago was destiny, simply something meant to be.

The broader story of Checkerboard Crews is a planned topic for “Cookhouse Chats,” a new initiative for 2026 that started in February. These periodic chats are to provide information on lesser-known stories associated with the history that the Cookhouse represents. Our next planned chat will be announced soon. 

Despite the utility poles connecting the network of overhead cables along the paved, two-lane road and other obvious signs of the 21^st century, Historic Halifax State Historic Site transported visitors to April 12, 1776, during “Halifax Resolves Days,” a weekend commemoration of North Carolina taking the first step toward freedom.

“Today is a huge day for North Carolina. Two hundred and fifty years ago today, the Fourth Provincial Congress of North Carolina met here in Halifax and adopted the Halifax Resolves, the first official action by any colony to declare independence from the king,” Gov. Josh Stein said Sunday afternoon to the more than 300 gathered for the Halifax Resolves Ceremony.

Held under a sizable party tent near the Colonial Courthouse Site, where the 1760s wooden building once stood, the 250^th anniversary ceremony wrapped up the April 10-12 event. Visitors were able to watch living history reenactments, colonial life demonstrations, musical performances, and a ceremony led by the state-recognized Haliwa-Saponi Indian Tribe based in Halifax and Warren counties.

North Carolina Department of Natural and Cultural Resources Secretary Pamela Brewington Cashwell introduced Stein before he took the podium.

During her brief comments, she explained that the department is responsible for organizing America 250 NC, the state’s celebration of the 250^th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and Halifax Resolves Days is a signature event of that celebration.

“We will also have a major event at the capitol in Raleigh this Fourth of July titled ‘Capitol 250: North Carolina Freedom Fest.’ We hope that if you don’t have something going on in your local community, that you will join us in Raleigh for another massive event,” she said, then directed the audience to visit the A250 website that details 700 events taking place this year as part of the celebration, from dramatic presentations, festivals, murals that have been painted in various communities.

When Stein welcomed the audience, he encouraged them to see the Halifax Resolves document on display in the new visitor center that officially opened that week. The governor and other state officials made a trip to Halifax April 7 for a ceremonial ribbon-cutting and to view the document that will be on loan from the National Archives until October.

Stein explained that leading up to the delegates meeting in Halifax, there was tension in the colonies between those who wanted to reconcile with the crown and those who wanted to rebel.

Even after the Battles of Lexington and Concord on April 9, 1775, a large portion of the colonial population wanted to make accommodation with England. When the Second Continental Congress met in Philadelphia in July of that year, they did not declare independence. Instead, they petitioned the king for more favorable terms. From 1775 to 1776, “the tide began to turn in favor of rebellion, but that path was by no means a certainty,” stein continued.

Then, Thomas Paine published “Common Sense” in January 1776, the pamphlet that Stein said made a “powerful argument for an independent, democratic nation founded on equality. Truly a radical notion.”

Then on Feb. 27, 1776, “a militia of patriots skirmished with loyalist troops at the Battle of Moores Creek Bridge,” located just west of Wilmington. “The Patriots soundly defeated the Loyalists, putting an end to English rule in North Carolina, blocking an English invasion of the south and lighting a flame of liberty within North Carolinians,” Stein continued.

As these events were taking place, North Carolina’s provincial delegates met with residents across the colony, and brought all those perspectives to Halifax in April 1776 when the fourth North Carolina provincial Congress gathered.

The delegates in the Halifax Resolves detailed their neighbors’ grievances, “or in their words, the ‘usurpations and violences’ committed by the king. They wrote that the ‘king and Parliament of Great Britain have usurped the power over the persons and property of the people, unlimited and uncontrolled and disregarding their humble petitions for peace, liberty, and safety. They made diverse legislative acts denouncing war, famine and every species of calamity daily employed in destroying the people and committing the most horrid devastations in the country.’”

By adopting these resolves, Stein said that these 83 delegates “did something radical, something revolutionary, something patriotic. They unanimously empowered North Carolina’s representatives at the Second Continental Congress up in Philadelphia to vote to declare our nation’s independence from the crown,” he said. “With these Halifax Resolves, North Carolina became the first colony to take any action declaring our nation’s independence.”

Though the document set the colonies on a path of expanding freedom in this nation, Stein acknowledged that the resolves were “far from perfect,” but still encouraged reading the text, even though parts will make the reader “feel very uncomfortable.”

“It’s easy, when you look back at history, to assume some sort of inevitability, like of course, it happened, but this historic action and the fact that it was unanimous was by no means a foregone conclusion,” Stein said, noting that rebuking the world’s greatest superpower “would have been considered treason, a crime punishable by death.”

The colonists depended on England for military protection and economic security. “Failure objectively was likely, and failure could have been fatal,” Stein said. “With these stakes and these odds, this vote for independence was brave and truly incredible.”

The British Empire could have easily subdued a “ragtag militia or a single colony, but a united force at least stood a chance.” With every single delegate voting in favor of the Halifax Resolves, “it was a precursor of the unity that the revolution would require.”

Less than three months later, at the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, “the 13 British colonies, so incredibly diverse and different from one another, declared that we were no longer 13 separate colonies. We are the United States of America,” Stein said.

And while “250 years ago, internal division was one of the greatest threats to our nation’s success. 250 years later, I would venture that that is still true,” Stein said. “There are so many forces seeking to divide us that profit from our distrust for one another. There are so many forces making the American Dream feel out of reach, telling us that our success requires others to fail, and too often, we hear crudeness, not civility and experience division, not decency. It does not have to be this way.”

Americans can chart a different course, lust like our forebears in Halifax, “After all, we are not red. We are not blue. We are red, white and blue,” Stein said.

“We have so much to gain from bridging our differences, not glossing over them, but having the confidence to find common ground and the patriotism to remember that we are all Americans, that we all love this place,” he concluded. “It is a revolutionary idea, and it is the North Carolina way.”

Rep. Don Davis, R-N.C., who represents the 1st District ecompassing 22 northeastern North Carolina counties, was among the handful of officials who spoke in addition to the governor.

Davis said that the day “shines a light on a true treasure from our great state and nation.”

“Right here in eastern North Carolina, 250 years ago, brave souls took courageous steps towards independence. Their actions remind us of our resilience and grit, illustrating what we can achieve together when we unite for common cause. The Halifax Resolves aren’t just a chapter in our history. They are evidence of hope for our future.”

Reprinted from the Ocracoke Observer

Waterfowl memories are woven throughout Ocracoke native Eddie O’Neal’s life.

He recalls redheads, pintails, teal and great flocks of geese on the Pamlico Sound and winter days in sink boxes with old-timers like Thurston Gaskill.

Because of that history and his skill of turning a block of wood into a work of art, he was named featured carver for this year’s Ocracoke Island Waterfowl Festival from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. Friday, and from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday in the Ocracoke School gym.

O’Neal chose the Canada goose as his signature piece, honoring both the bird and the generations of island hunters and carvers who came before him.

“A Canada goose was a real trophy back then,” he said. “Something you showed off with pride and often shared with older neighbors who couldn’t get out to hunt themselves.”

O’Neal graduated from Ocracoke School in 1978 alongside classmates Vince O’Neal and the late John Simpson, two of the founders of the Ocracoke Decoy Carver’s Guild in 2018.

As a boy, O’Neal was constantly on the water.

Like many island youth, by age 12 he was already hunting and fishing around Springer’s Point and on his father’s nearby property.

He fished commercially with his father, Carson, who served in the Coast Guard, and brothers Andy and Albert, working pound nets and gigging flounder.

During his 23 years working for the state of North Carolina, he held a variety of positions: on a dredge crew, building spillways and working heavy equipment from Southport to Knotts Island.

Included in his working career, he also built golf courses, was a truck driver and worked on road paving crews for an asphalt company out of Norfolk, Virginia.

He and his wife Pam also ran the Island Galley restaurant on Ocracoke until damage from Hurricane Isabel (2003) forced them to close.

Although he appreciated decoys, he didn’t start carving as a hobby until around 2008 while living in Virginia Beach. Over time, that hobby “morphed into a full-time job.”

Among his fond memories are watching Wilbur and Clinton Gaskill, older Ocracoke carvers, who turned out small geese flyers and decoys at an astonishing pace. Wilbur could make 15 to 20 decoys a day and sell every one of them on a summer day when the island was far quieter than it is now.

His second cousin, Dave O’Neal, a retired Coast Guard man and renowned carver, has been an important influence offering tips on the techniques and tools of the craft.

Preferring to focus on his own carvings, O’Neal doesn’t collect or trade in other people’s decoys.

When he and Pam retired several years ago, they moved back to Ocracoke, and his carving became a daily practice.

Today, O’Neal does most of his carvings for the Island Ragpicker shop, run by his siblings Stephanie and Albert.

Not just decoys — he crafts shore birds, small flyers, fish, and a variety of decorative pieces that keep the shelves full and his hands busy.

Carving is his “therapy room” — something that keeps him grounded in retirement and balances time with his grandchildren Carter, Kyler, Amaya, Johnny and Angel.

He rarely sells pieces directly, except at some island events.

He prefers to stock the shop or donate carvings to local fundraisers like the Ocracoke Firemen’s Ball auction where his works have helped raise significant financial support over the years.

For materials, O’Neal favors northern white cedar, which he hauls back from a sawmill near Egg Harbor, New Jersey.

He also uses tupelo, sourced from a Mennonite mill near Pink Hill, and some pine.

Large decoys are almost always cedar, while smaller items, like flyers, often come from scrap wood he picks up from around the island, such as from the school that was torn down.

He appreciates cedar’s similarity to local juniper and its fine, aromatic grain. O’Neal shapes his birds with an angle grinder for the rough form, then refines them with a Dremel and extensive sanding, especially on the delicate heads and bills of shore birds.

He draws most of his own patterns by hand and also enjoys building furniture, having made tables and household pieces for family members from barn oak and other reclaimed woods.

This story is provided courtesy of the Ocracoke Observer, a newspaper covering Ocracoke Island. Coastal Review partners with the Ocracoke Observer to provide readers with more environmental and lifestyle stories of interest along our coast.

Editor’s note: Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the North Carolina coast. More of his work can be found on his website.

I first listened to a special group of interviews with African American community elders in Pamlico County almost 20 years ago, but I have never forgotten them. They helped me to see history as more than dates and wars, the rise and fall of the powerful, and the stuff of headlines.

They helped me to understand that history is all those things, but it is also the paths of our souls and the life of the spirit.

The oral history project was called “Preserving the African American Experience in Pamlico County, North Carolina.”

The project was led by Ms. Linda Simmons-Henry, a scholar, archivist and public historian whom I have known and admired for many years.

Ms. Simmons-Henry was uniquely well prepared to lead the project. At that time, she was the director of special collections and the senior archivist at Saint Augustine’s College in Raleigh.

She is currently the dean of the library and archives at Texas College, a historically Black colleges and universities in Tyler, Texas.

She is also a native of New Bern and has always remained deeply attached to the African American community there and in Pamlico County, just to the east of New Bern.

Over the spring and summer of 2007, Ms. Simmons-Henry and a talented team of local volunteers conducted oral history interviews with 20 of Pamlico County’s African American elders.

I found the interviews to be a rare treasure. Taken together, they are a compelling and intimate portrait of African American life in Pamlico County over most of the 20th century.

The whole tenor of the interviews is special. When you listen to them, you can tell that the project’s volunteers and the elders were people who knew and cared for one another.

In the voices of the project’s volunteers, I heard respect and reverence for the elders whom they were interviewing. I also heard a yearning to learn from their wisdom and experience.

In the voices of the elders, I heard a special kind of care. They talk about history, but they also sound like wise grandparents gently sharing love and guidance with those of a younger generation whom they know will need all the help they can get in this fragile, broken world of ours.

* * *

I first listened to the interviews back in 2007. The project’s volunteers had organized a banquet to celebrate and honor the community elders who had so graciously shared their stories with them.

I had been invited to say a few words at that banquet. To help me to prepare for the occasion, Ms. Simmons-Henry made a copy of the interviews for me.

At that time, the project’s volunteers had not yet transcribed the audio tapes, so I could not read transcripts of them. In a way, it was nicer: it meant that I had to listen to them, which I did, and it was a delight.

It made me feel as if I was sitting down with the elders and listening to their stories along with the project’s volunteers.

The interviews and transcripts are now available both at the New Bern-Craven County Public Library in New Bern and in the Southern Oral History Program’s collection at the Southern Historical Collection at University of North Carolina Chapel Hill.

* * *

The project’s oldest interviewee was a woman named Annie Rachel Squires. She was born in a little community called Maribel, on the Bay River, in 1908. At the time of her interview, she was 99 years old.

Ms. Squires and the other community elders shared stories about many different parts of Pamlico County’s history.

They talked about their teachers and schools. They spoke of childhood joys. They remembered long, brutally hard days of digging in potato fields and shucking oysters in the local canneries.

“All I know about my life was work, work, work,” I remember one woman saying, I believe in Vandemere, a small village in Pamlico County.

The community elders also recounted tales of the local struggle for voting rights and racial justice in Pamlico County.

Some remembered the landmark school desegregation lawsuit that black citizens in the coastal town of Oriental filed in 1951. Two or three recalled incidents involving the Ku Klux Klan.

Others told stories about serving in the Second World War and the Vietnam War. Yet others remembered the Great Depression.

My curiosity encompassed all of those historical subjects, but they are not what I remember most about the interviews.

What struck me most deeply about the elders’ words when I first listened to them back in 2007, and what I still find most unforgettable about them now, is how much they are a history of faith and the spirit.

* * *

For instance, I will never forget the project’s interview with the Rev. Kenneth M. Bell Sr., who at that time was still the minister at the Green Hill Missionary Baptist Church in Bayboro.

He was the only church pastor whom the project’s volunteers interviewed, but when it came to matters of the spirit, his words were very similar to most of the other elderly men and women that were interviewed.

Like Rev. Bell, they spoke of their faith and their struggles to know and understand God more fully.

They shared stories of Sunday schools and Bible study groups. They described a hunger to understand more fully what Scripture had to teach them about our purpose here on Earth, the nature of our existence, and what we are called to do for one another.

Rev. Bell was interviewed by Ms. Sandra Mae Hawkins, one of the project’s most devoted volunteers. At one point in the interview, she asked Rev. Bell what he considered the most important event in his life.

He did not hesitate for even a second.

He said it was the day in his boyhood that Mrs. N.F. Harper sang “Pass Me Not O Gentle Savior” at Green Hill Missionary Baptist Church and he accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior.

* * *

When Rev. Bell spoke of Mrs. Harper singing “Pass Me Not O Gentle Savior,” he was remembering a worship service 60 or 70 years earlier.

Born in Bayboro in 1941, he was the youngest of 12 children.

When Sandra Made Hawkins talked with him, he explained that he had grown up in hard times. However, he did not linger on his family’s hardships or the things they did without.

Instead, he talked about his father, who was a farmer and a devout member of the local African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church.

His father was not the pastor of the church, but he had been a missionary. Rev. Bell explained that when his father was not in his fields, he strove to live the Bible’s teachings.

He visited the sick, lonely, and down and out. He cut firewood for elderly neighbors. After hog killings, he shared the meat with those who had none.

In the interview, Rev. Bell recalled that his father’s face had been disfigured in a hunting accident when he was a boy.

When I heard that part of his life story, I wondered if his father’s malformity had helped to teach him, and maybe his son too, to look at people’s souls, not on that which is only skin deep.

Rev. Bell remembered that people in Pamlico County often referred to his father as a prophet. He said that his father understood how to listen for God’s word, and again and again, God spoke to him. God made him promises, and those promises, Rev. Bell said, came true.

He was not describing the world that we watch on TV or read about in the New York Times: he was describing a world where miracles happened.

 “He never talked much to us except about the Bible,” Rev. Bell recalled.

He spoke with great admiration and appreciation for his father. On the other hand, listening to his interview, I also got the feeling that he felt as if his father may have left some important things unsaid.

* * *

I was also taken with the project’s interview with a gentleman named Charlie Styron. Mr. Styron was born in Oriental in 1933.

I wish I had known him. He spoke with a beautiful voice, full of kindness.

In reflecting on his life, Mr. Styron described how he had always worked with his hands. Listening to him talk about his life, I got the impression that there was not much that he could not do with those hands.

For many years, he had worked at a sawmill and a veneer plant. But at different times, he explained, he had made his living as a heavy equipment operator, a bricklayer, a carpenter, and an electrician.

After he retired, he said, he found his greatest joy in playing with his grandchildren. He kept active, too. At the time of the interview, he was still operating a lawn mower repair business out of his home.

Passersby often saw him singing hymns and praying while he worked on the lawnmowers.

Sandra Mae Hawkins was also the project interviewer who spoke with Mr. Styron.

When she asked him, “What have been some important events of your life?” he, like Rev. Bell, did not hesitate even for a moment: “Well, to be born from above, that was the most important event,” he told her.

* * *

The project’s interview with a woman named Eula Felton Monk also stood out to me. Ms. Monk had grown up in Mesic, a rural, predominantly African American community on the Bay River.

I had a good friend there when I was young, Ed Credle, who was Mesic’s first mayor. Listening to Ms. Monk’s stories gave me a special joy because they brought back memories of Ed and his neighbors whom I got to know in Mesic back in those days, good people, all.

When Ms. Monk was a girl, she recounted, her father had been the captain of a shrimp trawler. He worked on the Bay River and out in Pamlico Sound, but he also followed the shrimp as far south as Key West.

At the time of her interview, Mrs. Monk had been a teacher for 43 years. She had retired from teaching full-time, but she was still working part time as a substitute teacher in the local public schools.

When asked about her childhood, she recalled long days of working in the fields: chopping cotton, digging potatoes, picking tobacco.

Her family worked on local farms, but also traveled to fields as far away as Merritt, Arapahoe and Aurora.

She spoke of her schoolteachers with great reverence. She had endless admiration for how they did so much, and cared so much for their students, back in those days of Jim Crow when Pamlico County’s schools were segregated by race and so little was given to the African American schools.

Mrs. Monk said that she would never forget the great debt that she owed those teachers.

When the interviewer asked her if she was religious, she, too, was matter of fact:

“I believe in God and I believe in being a doer of His word…, (and I) try very hard to do those things daily that He says that I should do in His world.”

The interviewer then asked a question with a kind of directness with respect to faith and religion that I do not often see in oral history projects.

She asked if Mrs. Monk believed in Jesus Christ.

Mrs. Monk was not caught off guard by the question in the least, and her reply was direct:

 “Oh, yes I do, as my Lord and my Savior. He is my Savior. Yes.”

When the interviewer asked her how she put her faith into action in her daily life — another question I do not often hear in oral history interviews — Mrs. Monk turned to Scripture.

“Second Timothy 2:15 says to study to show thyself approved of God, not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth. I study the word of God, and then I pray.”

She also said:

“And the Bible says we should visit the sick…, the Bible says that we should reach out to those who are less fortunate than we are… and to love thy neighbor as thyself.”

She said that she strove to do all those things, though of course she acknowledged that she was far from perfect.

Then she said:

“I love God with all my heart and all my mind, and all my soul. And I would like to say, the greatest point in my life, the most important event in my life, is when I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior, when I became saved.”

* * *

As I listened to their voices, I found a comforting sense of familiarity in the way that the lives of the Pamlico County elders were entwined so tightly and so seamlessly with their faith and their churches.

I grew up just across the river from Pamlico County, and I found that their voices reminded me again and again of home and the lives of my family and the people around whom I was raised.

* * *

There was a kind of cadence to the stories of their lives, like a gentle heartbeat, held steady by their knowledge of themselves as spiritual beings and kept in time by daily prayer, Bible study, worship services, Sunday school, church suppers, choir practices, baptism, weddings and funerals.

So many little things in these interviews caught my attention, and they did so in a way that, even all these years later, they remained fixed in my memory.

Listening to the interview with Annie Squires, the 99-year-old woman I mentioned earlier, I could feel how her heart filled with joy when she played the piano at her church in Maribel.

She told the young woman who interviewed her that she had been the church’s pianist for more than half a century.

Likewise, in my mind’s eye, I could see Roosevelt Stokes Jr., another of the interviewees, as he made his weekly rounds among the frail and sick in Grantsboro’s nursing home.

He had never been a pastor or a missionary at a church, but he had his own ministry visiting those people who lived in the nursing home.

On the days of his nursing home visits, Mr. Stokes would stop and read the Bible to any of the patients who desired him to do so.

He would hold their hand, and often they would pray together. Sometimes one of the nurses would join them.

His words brought back memories for me, and maybe helped me appreciate what it was like for Mr. Stokes to read the Bible by those bedsides, and how much it might have meant to those who lay there. Because, now and then, I have been called on to read the Bible at a bedside, too.

* * *

I know these are just little moments, but even some of the passing comments in the interviews made a deep impression on me.

For instance, another of the interviewees, Emma Bell, recalled how, when she was a small child, her mother began every day by giving a Bible verse to her and to each of her brothers and sisters.

They would read the Bible passage at breakfast.

I could see them: a mother and her children, early in the mornings of what I am sure were busy days, taking a few minutes to recite Bible verses before going out into this stormy world of ours.

I also loved a little something that one of the other interviewees, Sabia Ruth Gibbs, said.

Ms. Gibbs grew up in Maribel. Way up in her 90s, she was one of the oldest people who shared her life story with the project’s volunteers.

All the same, when she was asked to pause for a moment and think about the long span of her life, one of the first things she did was reach far back in time, as if to another world, and describe the joy of singing in the choir at St. Galilee Missionary Baptist Church when she was a girl.

She remembered it like it was yesterday.

It was a memory, in her telling of it, that seemed to be made of pure light.

* * *

I doubt that I am much different from anyone else. When I am driving through the countryside, as I did last night, on my way to my family’s homeplace on state Highway 101, I go by all the homes and see the lights on and I wonder how the people that live there are doing, and do they feel loved, and, if they pray, what they pray for at night before they fall asleep.

I wonder about their prayers, and all that goes unsaid in life, and the whispered words we have between us and our maker.

At those times, I think about the quiet joys for which we show gratitude at that late night hour. I think too of the fears that go unsaid everywhere else, the dreams that we keep to ourselves, the hungers that can’t be put into words.

The interviews in “Preserving the African American Experience in Pamlico County, North Carolina” are an invaluable historical record of life on the North Carolina coast throughout the 20th century.

The more times that passes, the more special they will seem, the more important they will be.

I cherish them for that reason but also because they help me to remember that our path through life, our history, is partly what can be seen and heard and touched, and partly what cannot.

This year, the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor wanted to shake things up, get away from what has been their traditional meeting formula, and instead offer an up-close and personal, historically engaging experience.

The nonprofit’s North Carolina Summit invites you to take part in the “Black Church Crawl,” an immersive tour celebrating the history of Black churches that have housed decades of congregants in Brunswick and New Hanover counties.

Scheduled from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. April 18, the tour will allow participants to step within the walls of three historic Black churches, where speakers will delve into the stories of how these cultural landmarks came to be and their significance as spaces of faith, fellowship and community.

“Although you might live in a certain area, you might not be really invested in what’s going on,” said Nora Williams, Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor public relations and marketing campaign coordinator. “We wanted something that was happening in their community and something that they also could get involved in. Of course, anyone is allowed to participate, but we felt like this would be a great way for people to learn more about themselves and their history and the culture.”

The summit in North Carolina kicks off the first of four meetings the commission-led nonprofit holds annually in each of the states in which the corridor spans.

The corridor is one of the largest of the 62 designated national heritage areas in the country, encompassing about 2,200 miles through coastal counties from Florida to southeastern North Carolina.

“We’re one of the ones that primarily focus on people,” Williams said.

The Gullah Geechee are the descendants of West and Central Africans ripped from their native land and shipped to America, where they were enslaved to work on the coastal rice, Sea Island cotton and indigo plantations of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas.

Their enslavement on isolated coastal plantations and barrier islands helped them retain many of their indigenous African traditions, which remain today through spiritual traditions, arts and crafts, and food.

They even created their own language, Gullah, a mixture of West African dialects and English that is not spoken anywhere else in the world.

Congress enacted the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor and the commission established to oversee it on Oct. 12, 2006, through the National Heritage Act of 2006 with the aim of recognizing, sustaining, and celebrating the Gullah Geechee’s contributions to American culture and history.

The nonprofit assists the four state governments and local governments within those states in interpreting the Gullah Geechee’s story and preserving historic sites, data and artifacts associated with its people and culture.

One of those sites sits just off Cedar Hill Road in Navassa, the first stop of the church crawl, an event that will feature public historian, performance artist and Gullah Geechee’s own Tyanna Parker-West, Wilmington native and WilmingtoNColor founder Cedric Harrison, and Pastor Derrick Parker.

Just last year, a multiyear, more than $1 million effort to restore Reaves Chapel, a one-room church built on the bluffs of the Cape Fear River in Brunswick County by people formerly enslaved at Cedar Hill Plantation more than a century ago, was completed.

The little chapel in Navassa was eventually relocated by its congregation, using logs and a team of oxen, inland on land Ed Reaves, a former Cedar Hill Plantation slave, donated to the church in 1911. The church eventually became affiliated with the African Methodist Episcopal denomination and remained an AME church until its doors closed permanently in the mid-2000s.

Today, it is a tangible testament to those who built it, maintained it, and worshiped in it.

The crawl will continue across the Cape Fear River to downtown Wilmington, where Chestnut Street Presbyterian Church, the oldest African American presbyterian church in North Carolina, and St. Stephen African Methodist Episcopal Church continue to welcome congregants.

Services have been held at Chestnut Street Presbyterian Church for more than 150 years since it was erected during the third great awakening, a time in the United States of religious activism and social reform that occurred from the late 1850s to the early 20^th century.

Roughly a third of a mile away, congregants have filled the pews in St. Stephen AME Church’s current sanctuary since its completion in 1886. The building that stands at 501 Red Cross Street today replaced the original, simple wooden chapel whose members, about 1,500 by 1879, had outgrown its sanctuary.

“The congregation of the popular church was a powerful influence on the community and the state,” according to the North Carolina Department of Cultural and Natural Resources.

When President William Howard Taft visited Wilmington in 1909, he stopped at the church to make a speech to African American schoolchildren.

Williams said in a telephone interview last week that heritage corridor officials chose to hold the church crawl in the Wilmington area because the nonprofit organization wants to preserve and celebrate the Gullah Geechee community in New Hanover and Brunswick counties.

“We understand that Wilmington and the surrounding area is growing very fast,” she said. “Our goal as the corridor is to preserve and amplify the Gullah Geechee community in these areas, so we felt like this was a great time to highlight that community.”

Registration for the Black Church Crawl is $25, which includes transportation and a lunch featuring the culinary flare of two-time James Beard nominee Chef Keith Rhodes, owner of the wildly popular Catch in Wilmington and Voyce Bistro, his newest restaurant featuring coastal cuisine infused with Caribbean flavors.

“We would love for it to fill up and have as many people as possible,” Williams said of the church crawl. “We’re flexible and we have the ability to provide more transportation if more people are interested.”

She anticipates the organization will hold future events as part of its state summits, adding “We do see this growing and being a more interactive experience as opposed to you come in and it’s a presentation. I think we really want people to experience these spaces, experience the people.”

Editor’s note: Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the North Carolina coast. More of his work can be found on his website.

Earlier today, March 20, I gave a lecture at the annual Whales and Whaling Symposium in Beaufort. It is a special event, and one that I treasure.

Sponsored by the Bonehenge Whaling Center, which is part of the North Carolina Maritime Museum, the symposium invites scientists, historians, and the public to come together and share their knowledge of whales and the history of whaling on the North Carolina coast and throughout the Atlantic.

My lecture was titled “Nye’s Clock Oil and the Bottlenose Dolphin Fishery at Hatteras Island.”

The photograph above was one of the illustrations that I used in my lecture. It shows one of the crews that was hunting bottlenose dolphins on Hatteras Island in the winter of 1907 to 1908.

This crew worked for the William F. Nye Co., a New Bedford, Massachusetts, firm that operated a bottlenose dolphin fishery on Hatteras Island between 1907 and 1928.

Arising in New Bedford when it was the whale oil capital of the world, the William F. Nye Co. was the country’s largest maker of highly specialized whale and dolphin oils uniquely suited for lubricating clocks, watches, chronometers, scientific instruments, and other delicate machinery.

The company did not obtain those oils from whale blubber, but from two anatomical structures only found in the heads of bottlenose dolphins, pilot whales, belugas and other small-toothed whales.

Specifically, the William F. Nye Co.’s “oilers” extracted those oils from the fatty tissues in the animals’ lower jawbones and from an organ in their foreheads that is called the “melon.” 

Both play central roles in the echolocation ability of those whales and dolphins. That is, they are key to the way that they navigate, find prey and generally “see” underwater by emitting sound waves and interpreting their echos when they reflect off objects around them.

On Hatteras Island, the company’s workers butchered the dolphins on the beach. They then did a small degree of refinement at a facility on Durant’s Island, a knoll on the sound side of the island.

They then shipped the oil to the company’s factory in New Bedford for far more extensive refining.

Between the American Civil War, which spanned from 1861 to 1865, and 1900, the William F. Nye Co. acquired the largest part of its supply of those oils from pilot whale strandings on Cape Cod and Long Island.

In many of those cases, local fishermen herded the whales into shallow waters where they were trapped and grounded.

To establish a more stable supply of those oils, William F. Nye’s son Joseph came south and established the bottlenose dolphin fishery on Hatteras Island in 1907. He recruited local fishermen and seafarers, many of whom had been involved in earlier bottlenose fisheries on Hatteras.

Hatteras Island was the site of the oldest and longest running bottlenose dolphin fishery in North America.

At the National Museum of Natural History’s Paleobiology Archive, I found records indicating that there had been a commercial bottlenose dolphin fishery on Hatteras Island on and off since at least 1851.

To oversee the Hatteras fishery, Joseph Nye employed a third-generation Hatteras oiler, William C. Rollinson.

Rollinson had been involved in hunting bottlenose dolphins most of his life, as had his father and grandfather before him.

His father, John W. Rollinson, had been superintendent of a bottlenose dolphin fishery at Hatteras that had been operated by a company based in Wilmington, Delaware, in the 1880s and 1890s.

Even further back in time, his grandfather had been captain of a bottlenose dolphin crew at Hatteras Island before the Civil War.

It was hard, dirty work. When I was younger, and some of the men were still alive, they described it as a very grim business, the kind of job that one only did if there was no other way to make a living. But that was often the case on Hatteras Island in those days.

The William F. Nye Co.’s bottlenose dolphin fishery remained on Hatteras Island until 1928 or 1929.

I do not want to give the whole story away here, but if you want to learn more, the North Carolina Maritime Museum has already posted my lecture on its YouTube channel.

The whole symposium was wonderful. The amazing Vicki Szabo, who teaches at Western Carolina University, gave a fascinating presentation on the extensive mythology and scientific knowledge of whales in Medieval Iceland and other parts off the North Atlantic.

Keith Rittmaster, the founder and driving force behind the museum’s Bonehenge Whaling Center, gave an extremely informative overview of the 35 species of cetaceans that have been documented on the North Carolina coast.

Keith also discussed the conservation challenges ahead for whales and dolphins on our coast, and he charted some the exciting, day in and day out work that is happening at the Bonehenge Whaling Center, also in Beaufort.

Another exciting presentation was by marine biologist Tommy Tucker of the Coastal Studies Center on Cape Cod. With a contagious passion, they are devoted to understanding and raising public awareness of the critically endangered Rice’s whale, which is only found in the Gulf of Mexico.

Their presentation was brilliant. In addition to studying Rice’s whales, Tommy also uses arts and crafts to nurture interest in them, including this tapestry in which each depiction of a Rice’s whale represents one of the 51 Rice’s whales currently known to be surviving in the Gulf of Mexico.

All of these presentations are now available on the museum’s YouTube channel. I don’t know about mine, but the presentations by Vicki, Keith, and Tommy are not to be missed!

I found the whole day inspiring. It was so encouraging to be at a museum where the staff are so dedicated to telling the story of North Carolina’s coastal history and do so in such a professional way.

The museum’s auditorium was full of people from many walks of life, including scientists, historians, students, fishermen and women, and all sorts of other lovers of whales and the sea.

All were coming together to discover more about these glorious creatures of the sea and what we might do to make sure that they are still here to inspire and enthrall our children and grandchildren.

It was a joy to be part of it.

* * *

The Bonehenge Whale Center was built by volunteers dedicated to marine conservation, education, and research on the whales, dolphins, and porpoises of the North Carolina coast. You can learn more about the Center’s remarkable work and how you might contribute to it here.

This story is presented in celebration of Women’s History Month, the theme for which in 2026 is “Leading the Change: Women Shaping a Sustainable Future.”

Heather Rose flashes a knowing smile toward her sister, Becky, across a table at Blackbeard’s Grill, their family’s seafood restaurant in Beaufort. “Honey, we’ve got some gooood memories together.”

“Epic memories,” Becky replies.

Those unforgettable moments were often squeezed into late nights between the grueling days when Heather clocked 12-hour kitchen shifts, and Becky, stepping away from the restaurant and neighboring Rose Seafood Market, worked dawn to dusk, moving dirt, hauling rocks and setting shrubs for her own landscaping company.

Their grind never stood a chance against the tide.

“When darks come and the businesses closed, we go get in the truck, go to the boat ramp,” Heather says.

Pushing off for the banks to fish until the sun touched the horizon, the women were overjoyed to be under the stars, even that night when a mud-clogged motor stranded them, exhausted and ravenous, until their parents arrived like a rescue squad with cheese biscuits.

“We just sat there in the boat eating those biscuits. We could barely hold our eyes open,” Heather chuckles, Becky nodding in rhythm. “But we had a boatload of flounders, and we had spent all night talking to each other.”

The sisters’ bond is as deep as their roots on the Carolina coast. It’s a connection forged in the salt of their shared seafood heritage and tested by the daily demands of the family business.

Despite the relentless labor of running both Blackbeard’s and Rose Seafood Market, and the looming shadow of an uncertain commercial fishing industry, Heather and Becky are unwavering. They’ve made it their mission to keep their landmark corner of Beaufort thriving for the next generation.

A legacy without blueprints

Surrounded by black-and-white snapshots of the commercial fishers and boat builders who came before, the women reflect on the proud way of life handed down to them. Today, the sisters lead that legacy: Heather oversees the seafood market, while Becky serves as the chef and proprietor of Blackbeard’s Grill.

Their ties to the coast reach back to the 1700s, Becky says. Ancestors were boat captains in the Northeast before navigating south to Swan Quarter, where a bay bears the Rose name. Some relatives headed to Cape Lookout, establishing the early Rose Town community.

In 1910, their great-great-grandfather, George Rose, moved his family from the cape to Harkers Island. There, later generations established Rose Brothers Boat Works, which became famous for crafting fine wooden yachts and charter boats built entirely by eye without plans or blueprints.

It was in that boatyard that Heather and Becky’s parents, Rodney and Mary, first met.

Rose Seafood Market was born of necessity. Frustrated by low dockside prices, Rodney and Mary founded the business in 1986 to eliminate the middleman. What started as a backyard mom-and-pop grew into a Marshallberg fish house sourcing from 30 local commercial fishers. By 1993, the couple moved to their current Beaufort location, soon after adding a take-out window. Two years later, they opened Blackbeard’s Grill to highlight “Down East” heritage recipes.

Today, the sisters manage day-to-day operations, with their parents’ constant inspiration and presence. The women draw strength from recollections of their father networking with fishermen, setting the standard for relationship building his daughters rely on today.

Dad, who still fishes, pops in — though not often enough, Heather laments, missing her father — to deliver and help process the catch, as well as share insight with customers about the challenges facing commercial fishers.

Years of watching their mother diplomatically negotiate the sale of thousands of pounds of fish weekly to far-flung markets in Boston, New York and Philadelphia, then turning around to masterfully head shrimp, shuck scallops and pack fish, made anything seem possible.

“Growing up and seeing that, I never felt like a woman was out of place in this industry,” Becky says of the male-dominated seafood sector.

The market still sources catches docked by local commercial fishers, including Heather, and carries beloved Rose family recipes, like their Aunt Dora’s shrimp salad. Locals watch Blackbeard’s specials for regional favorites such as scallop fritters and hard crab stew. Offerings depend on what’s fresh next door.

The scale is staggering. “We’re probably going to feed about 60,000 people here (at Blackbeard’s), and just on five nights that we’re open each week, for the year,” Becky says. Between the restaurant and the market’s grab-and-go section, which Becky stocks with crab pies, lasagnas, shrimp salad and more, the sisters are in a state of constant motion.

“We love the connection,” Becky says. “When you go and catch something yourself, do all the work involved in doing that, and then you prepare it and cook it for somebody, and you hand it to them and they eat it…that’s a feeling that can’t be duplicated in any other way.”

‘Don’t fight it, accept it’

Heather remembers happy childhood days clamming and shrimping with her parents and packing seafood at their then-fledgling business. “I was young, full of energy, you know, and always willing and anxious to help.”

Becky, 11 years younger, was just a toddler at the time, trying to stack boxes in her tiny oilskins. As a youngster, she headed shrimp after school at Rose Seafood in Beaufort and told customers, “My daddy caught these.”

“I still have some older ladies that come here and say, ‘Were you that cute little blonde-headed girl that waited on me in the seafood market?’”

Despite those precious memories, both women envisioned paths away from the water. In college, Becky studied marketing, a talent she skillfully applies to the businesses’ engaging social media feeds. Heather worked for 10 years as an officer with the Morehead City Police Department. Throughout their own careers, both sisters kept a foot in the family seafood business.

“I think both of us felt that was our calling,” Becky reflects.

“There was a time when I was younger, I was always trying to run away from it,” Heather adds.

“Well, I think we both knew how hard it was,” Becky says, finishing her sister’s thought.

The pair’s management era began with the COVID-19 pandemic. When the virus’s spread shuttered dining rooms, the Roses, like many restaurateurs, turned to walking takeout orders to vehicles lined up in the parking lot. By then, the market had closed, but with the public’s limited access to grocers and other seafood outlets, the Roses realized that they needed to reopen the store to sustain the community and their own livelihoods.

Heather had already left police work to help her parents at the restaurant, but she was facing burnout even before the pandemic. That’s when Becky stepped in, leaving an unfulfilling job in the wholesale plant industry to help her family keep up.

“It was really hard on me at first, because I hadn’t really been dealing with seafood for a decade,” she remembers. “It was hard to build up to the strength and endurance that it takes to clean 500 pounds of spots a day, to filet 1,000 pounds of flounder, to head 1,000 pounds of shrimp.”

The sisters stop to compare scars. “You can look at our hands, and you know,” Becky says.

Heather smiles. “Me and Beck, we look at each other when we’re exhausted and we say, ‘Don’t fight it, accept it. This is your calling.’”

‘These are the really special times’

Demanding work and a powerful desire to make their parents proud fuel the sisters’ mission. They also genuinely like their jobs.

Becky, always a foodie, found that working in horticulture deepened her interest in herbs and cooking, setting her up as a chef who understands both local food culture and how to craft contemporary dishes like crispy crab Rangoon with sweet Thai chili sauce or half-shell oysters roasted with bacon jam, a dollop of goat cheese to finish.

“She literally elevates this kitchen to a different level than it’s ever been,” Heather says of her sister. “She has a lot of pride, and she’s, she’s a perfectionist. She wants it to be right and won’t accept it any other way.”

Heather loves nothing more than fishing, but her wide-ranging experience in and outside the business make her indispensable to both operations, Becky says. Heather’s seafood chowder is an enduring menu staple, and she formulated the various breading recipes used to fry different seafoods.

“The tenacity,” Becky says of Heather, “if she makes up her mind that we’re doing something or she’s doing something, she’s doing it…And she can wire things. She’s very mechanical, and I am totally not…So when we come together, we don’t fight or argue like sisters sometimes do. We really work well together.”

Who will take on the business years from now is a constant worry, especially as North Carolina commercial fishers lose docks to new waterfront development. They also face fierce competition from recreational fishing interests with the capital to fund lobbyists and marketing campaigns that, as the sisters see it, demonize fishing families as destroyers of the very resources they depend on.

“We don’t have family to leave it to,” Heather says. “And that makes me very sad,” Becky adds, “and it’s something I think about every night before I go to bed.”

That uncertainty pulls at them, but it hasn’t slowed their pace. Instead of pulling back, the duo doubles down with new ideas, like Heather’s upcoming seafood boils to go and adding beer and wine sales to the market’s offerings. Becky takes on public education, sharing the story of the state’s seafood heritage through speaking engagements and staging fundraising dinners aimed at preserving the commercial fishing way of life.

Both agree they’d like nothing better than to fire up the boat after work more often and head out for an all-nighter. Meantime, they try to live by the advice Becky often gives Heather.

“You’re going to look back on today, and you’re gonna say, ‘Those were good times,’ even if you’re having a bad day here … We got to make the most out of each day, because these are really special times right now for this business and for our family.” 

Across from the Pleasant Plains Baptist Church and just outside of Winton in Hertford County, it remained unclear for years whether the historic but badly damaged Rosenwald Pleasant Plains School built in 1920 could be saved.

If it could not, the school building, which replaced an earlier structure built on the grounds in 1866 that may have been the first “Colored” school in Hertford County, would probably be lost.

And then, in September 2024, a driver ran their car off U.S. 13 where the school is, and slammed it into the building with such force that the entire structure was moved off its foundation. The driver was drunk at the time.

With the one corner of the building crushed, the school off its stone foundation, and brick and other debris littering the inside, things looked bleak for the building that the National Register of Historic Places described in a 2016 report “as the only graded public school that served both local African American and Native American students in the Pleasant Plains community … from 1920 to 1950.”

As the report notes, the building was “a very intact, representative example of early twentieth-century rural school design.”

Yet what at first seemed like a disaster, may ultimately have saved the building. The insurance settlement was enough put the structure back on its foundation, repair the roof and exterior and paint the building.

There is, though, still work to be done.

Even before the accident, the roof had been leaking, and a new roof “stopped the problem with the leaks,” Roy Pierce said, who has been monitoring the condition of the school and handling repairs for years. “But before that took place, there were some leaks around those old chimneys, and the water seeped in and damaged some of the wooden ceiling.”

The ceiling needs repair, but it is just one of a number of problems pushing the cost of bringing the building back beyond the means of the Pleasant Plains Church, which owns the building and property.

Pierce pointed to the windows that have been boarded up to prevent vandalism. He explained that when restoration experts looked at the windows, he was told much of the glass was original, as were the frames.

“The estimate on just fixing those windows, was $17,000,” he said.

The land where the school rests has always been owned by the Pleasant Plains Church. The church, founded in 1851, is one of the oldest multiracial houses of worship in North Carolina. When founded, the church was for the nonwhite, free people of color only.

“Permission was granted to organize a church provided no slaves nor their descendants were allowed to join the church. The church was to be solely for the use of free-born people,” Corinne Hare Brummell wrote in Pleasant Plains Baptist Church 150th Anniversary Program in 2001.

At that time, and well into the 20th century, a person of color was anyone who was Black, African American or of mixed ancestry.

It is possible that there was a school associated with the church as early as the 1850s, but early church records were destroyed in a 1941 fire. It is known, however, that as early as 1866 “ten men were responsible for building a school house at Pleasant Plains,” the Hertford County Herald wrote recounting the history of Hertford County.

The first school house was one room, and “the only elementary school accessible to people of color, including African Americans and the descendants of Native Americans, in the Pleasant Plains community,” the National Register of Historic Places notes.

By the turn of the 20th century, it was clear a one-room school house was inadequate and in 1902, the county approved $90 “for the school with a total of ninety-eight students in the three classrooms,” according to the historic places document.

In 1920, hoping to improve the Pleasant Plains school, the community raised $750, the Hertford County school board contributed another $850 toward building a new three-room school, and the community received a $300 grant from the Rosenwald Foundation.

Although about a third of the construction cost of the school was low compared to other Rosenwald schools, Julius Rosenwald, the founder of the fund, “agreed to allow … funds to help rural Southern communities erect schools for black,” the historic places document explained if the community also contributed.

The school was in use from 1920 to 1950. When it closed, students began attending C.S. Brown School in Winton, which was also a Rosenwald-funded school that is now the Hertford County C.S. Brown Cultural Arts Center and Museum in Winton.

Chief Thomas Lewis, chief of the Meherrin nation, began his formal education at the school, but he recalled, “the floor fell in, and we had to go from there to one of the county schools. So by living in this area, we went to C.S. Brown.”

When he got to his new school, he and his brother who was in the second grade, “had to repeat grades,” he said. “I don’t know the reason, but that’s what they made us do.”

Although he attended the Pleasant Plains school for only the one year, Lewis has a clear memory of at least one of his teachers.

“Miss Ardelle Garrett, she was my girl. I brought her an apple every day,” Lewis said.

Garrett who, was born in 1904 in Ahoskie, had a long association with the school. As early as the 1930 census, Garrett is listed a teacher in a public school on the census form. And “the North Carolina Education Directory in 1939 notes the school with three teachers, including Ardelle Garrett, the principal,” according to the historic places research.

As a teacher, Garrett seemed to have had an impact on all her students.

“My father’s 96 and he talks about Ardelle Garrett to this day,” Lewis said.

There are other memories of what the school was like as well. Lewis mentioned that in the morning “we had people designated to go to the coal power and get coal, because that’s how the classrooms were heated.”

There is also a mention in the historic places report that Lewis recalled using “the outhouses in back of the school.”

There was a strong sense of community among the families surrounding the Pleasant Plains community.

“This stretch of highway, at one time you could leave Winton and drive to Ahoskie, and you knew that was Roy’s house and Thomas Chavis’ house, and whoever’s house. Back then, we knew everyone,” said Dr. Terry Hall, Pleasant Plains Church deacon, in describing U.S. Highway 13 that passes the church.

Yet if the C.S. Brown School was a larger and more modern school, it still took the community keep it going.

“There were a lot of fundraisers,” Lewis recalled. “They would sell cakes and pies to buy band uniforms and football equipment, all that kind of stuff.”

“They used to show movies. You could pay 15 cent and go see a movie,” Pierce added.

Although the school did not have the resources the white schools of the county had, what it did have were very good teachers.

“The teachers were good. We had people from here that went on to colleges and did well,” Hall said. “I think in some of the competitions, they used to have debates and stuff like that. They did good.”

In 1968, Hertford County Schools began the process of consolidating their schools and for the first year, student attendance was optional.

“It was part of what they called freedom of choice. I wanted to try to get a new experience. So I transferred (to Ahoskie High School),” Pierce said. Pierce graduated from Ahoskie High School in 1968.

The greater opportunity that was offered by the white schools may now be playing a role in how difficult repairing the Pleasant Plains School has become.

“We’ve gotten into an older population and people have gone into different professions,” Hall said. “Years ago, Thomas and his father and other people that did carpentry … they would have been buying the materials would have been all that would have cost us.”

“It’s like my younger brother, he said, ‘I’m leaving here because I’m not doing nothing with my hands,’” Lewis said. “And he moved to Roanoke Rapids.”

Second of two parts; read part 1

Not every slave master in Moses Grandy’s life was cruel. Some actively worked with Grandy to help him buy his freedom.

There was “Richard Furley, who … gave me a pass to work for myself.”

The agreement between Furley and Grandy was simple.

“I obtained work by the piece where I could, and paid him out of my earnings what we had agreed on; I maintained myself on the rest, and saved what I could…He paid seventy, eighty, or ninety dollars a year for me, and I paid him twenty or thirty dollars a year more than that.”

Sometime around 1813 or 1814 Grandy noted “the English blockaded the Chesapeake, which made it necessary to send merchandize from Norfolk to Elizabeth city by the Grand Canal, so that it might get to sea by Pamlico Sound and Ocracock Inlet…”

A skilled waterman by this time, he “took some canal boats on shares; Mr. Grice … was the owner of them.”

Most likely that is Mr. Charles Grice, described in a National Register of Historic Places survey of Elizabeth City as “the leading merchant in Elizabeth City’s early years.”

Grandy’s arrangement with Grice gives an indication of how valuable and trusted Grandy was. “I gave him one-half of all I received for freight: out of the other half, I had to victual and man the boats, and all over that expense was my own profit,” he described as the business arrangement.

It was during this time, when visiting “my brother Benjamin returned from the West Indies,” that how cruel and capricious life was for an enslaved person becomes clear.

Grandy was in one room and in another room “heard the heavy blows of a hammer…went to see what was going on. I looked into the store, and saw my brother lying on his back on the floor, and Mr. Williams, who had bought him, driving staples over his wrists and ankles; an iron bar was afterwards put across his breast, which was also held down by staples.”

His brother had done nothing wrong, he was told, “but that his master had failed, and he was sold towards paying the debts.”

Grandy Tries to Buy His Freedom

Although increasingly independent, Moses Grandy was still owned by James Grandy and at the suggestion of Grice, Moses asked how much would it cost to buy his freedom.

After considerable negotiation, $600 was the agreed price.

“I then went heartily to work, and whenever I paid him (James) for my time, I paid him something also towards my freedom, for which he gave me receipts,” Grandy recalled.

When $600 was reached, Moses went to his master and “he tore up all the receipts: I told him he ought not to have done so; he replied it did not signify, for as soon as court-day came, he should give me my free papers.”

Read the first part: Enslaved in Camden County, Moses Grandy knew its cruelty

When the court date came, James “was playing at billiards, and would not go with me.”

Concerned his chance for freedom would be lost, Moses went to the Grices and asked for help. Mrs. Grice sent for James who “cursed her, and went out of the house.”

Mr. Grice then met with James and he agreed to go to court and sign the papers. Instead “he rode away, and kept away till court was over” and sold Moses for $600 to a Mr. Trewitt.

It was the first of three attempts by Grandy to buy his freedom.

Trewitt, agreed to the same arrangement Grandy had had with Grice and that $600 would buy his freedom.

After two and a half years, Grandy had paid the full $600. Trewitt on Christmas Eve asked him, though, to take a letter to a Mr. Mews on Newbegun Creek, a small tributary to the Pasquotank River, in Weeksville.

When he delivered the letter, Mews read it “and looking up at me said, ‘Well, you belong to me.’”

Trewitt had used Grandy as security on a loan and failed in his payments.

“‘Mews’ was almost assuredly William T. Muse, a Pasquotank land speculator who owned slaves and more than twenty thousand acres of swamp forest. Muse, who had not really wanted Grandy, sold him back to Sawyer,” Cecelski wrote.

Initially his time with Sawyer went well. His second wife was owned by Sawyer, and Grandy’s maritime skills afforded him a better life and more freedom than most other enslaved people.

“I got into a fair way of buying myself again; for I undertook the lightering of the shingles or boards out of the Dismal Swamp …” Grandy said.

But Sawyer had gone into business with “his two sons-in-law at Norfolk, who failed; in consequence of which, he sold eighteen coloured people, his share of the Swamp (lightering), and two plantations.”

Grandy was again in the fields, but this time may have been the worst.

“The overseer was a bad one, his name was Brooks,” Grandy said.

Working in the field, if a worker did not put in sufficient effort, “One black man is kept on purpose to whip the others in the field; if he does not flog with sufficient severity, he is flogged himself: he whips severely, to keep the whip from his own back.”

Grandy witnessed Brooks kill “a girl named Mary” and “also killed a boy about twelve years old. He had no punishment, or even trial, for either.”

After years working as a waterman, the hard labor of field work was wearing him down and Grandy told Sawyer that he had “not been used to it for a long time; that his overseer was the worst that had ever been on the plantation, and that I could not stand it.”

Grandy pointed to how little food the field hands were given, Sawyer agreed to provide more food. The slaves working in the field “much rejoiced that I got this additional allowance for them. But I was not satisfied; I wanted liberty.”

A payment of $230 had already been made to Sawyer, and Grandy again began negotiations for his freedom.

Sawyer agreed to sell Grandy for the $600 he paid for him plus the $230 already given him. Grandy, “hired an old horse and started for Norfolk.” At Deep Creek he went to the house of “Captain Edward Minner … in former days I had done much business for him.”

Minner agreed to pay the $600 for Grandy’s freedom with the understanding that he would be repaid. At first Sawyer refused to sell his property, but Minner “shewed him the paper he had given me, saying, ‘Mr. Sawyer, is not this your handwriting?’”

Unlike everyone else who had purchased him, Minner was adamant that he would not own another human being.

“Mind, gentlemen, I do not want him for a slave; I want to buy him for freedom. He will repay me the money, and I shall not charge him a cent of interest for it. I would not have a coloured person to drag me down to hell, for all the money in the world,” Moses recalled Minner telling Sawyer.

By 1828, Grandy had repaid Minner and he had his “free papers, so that my freedom was quite secure, my feelings were greatly excited. I felt to myself so light, that I almost thought I could fly, and in my sleep I was always dreaming of flying over woods and rivers.”

He moved north, first to Providence, Rhode Island, then to Boston, Massachusetts. He traveled the world as sailor, telling of trips to “St. John’s in Porto Rico…(and) several other voyages, and particularly two to the Mediterranean. The last was to the East Indies.”

He had now saved enough to purchase the freedom of his wife. “I sent it to Virginia…She came to me at Boston. I dared not go myself to fetch her, lest I should be again deprived of my liberty, as often happens to free coloured people,” Grandy said.

He was also able to buy his son’s freedom as well and learned that at least two of his six daughters had purchased their freedom.

Grandy, now a free man, found life in the northern states troubling.

“Although I was free as to the law, I was made to feel severely the difference between persons of different colours. No black man was admitted to the same seats in churches with the whites, nor to the inside of public conveyances, nor into street coaches or cabs …” he said, adding however, “the abolitionists boldly stood up for us, and through them things are much changed for the better.”

Grandy was particularly harsh in his criticism of the American Colonization Society, the organization that was founded to send Black and enslaved people back to Africa.

“As to the settlement of Liberia on the coast of Africa, the free coloured people of America do not willingly go to it. America is their home: if their forefathers lived in Africa, they themselves know nothing of that country,” he indicated.

Enoch Sawyer was a vice president of the Camden County American Colonization Society the Raleigh Register, and North-Carolina State Gazette recorded in 1825.

Although illiterate Grandy was a keen observer of events and the personalities of the people he met along his journey. There were slave owners, as he noted, that did treat their human property well, at least by the standards of many slave owners.

But overall “The proprietors, though they live in luxury, generally die in debt: their negroes are so hardly treated, that no profit is made by their labour. Many of them are great gamblers. At the death of a proprietor, it commonly happens that his coloured people are sold towards paying his debts. So it must and will be with the masters, while slavery continues: when freedom is established, I believe they will begin to prosper greatly.”

The concept of freedom and its importance to the individual is an idea Grandy returns to a number of times throughout “Late a Slave in America.”

“Slavery,” he observed, “will teach any man to be glad when he gets freedom.”

First of two parts

A highway sign installed last September in Camden County calls attention to Moses Grandy, born there an enslaved person, and the story of his life told in “Narrative of the Life of Moses Grandy; Late a Slave in the United States of America.”

The book was published in London, England, in 1843. When the book was printed, he was, Grandy guessed, 56 years old, although as he notes in his book, “Slaves seldom know exactly how old they are: neither they nor their masters set down the time of a birth; the slaves, because they are not allowed to write or read; and the masters, because they only care to know what slaves belong to them.”

The book was published the following year in the United States.

There are no kindly “Old Black Joes,” elderly enslaved people treasured for their wisdom by caring masters in Moses Grandy’s autobiography. Rather, early in the book, there is a description of his mother, “blind and very old … living in a little hut, in the woods, after the usual manner of old worn-out slaves.”

Grandy observed late in his narrative that, “As far as the owner is concerned, they live or die as it happens; it is just the same thing as turning out an old horse.”

The book is filled with Simon Legree-like characters, capricious in their cruelty, and chilling descriptions of the horrors of the American institution of slavery. Legree is a harsh slaveowner in Harriet Beacher Stowe’s fictional, antislavery novel, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

Yet the book is more than that. Grandy’s eye for detail and his memory are remarkable. What emerges from the pages is an exceptional and complex description of the institution of slavery.

It is Grandy’s penchant for remembering names that may provide the most damning indictment of slavery.

The title page of the book carries the warning, “It is not improbable that some of the proper names in the following pages are incorrectly spelled. M. G., owing to the laws of the slave states, being perfectly illiterate, his pronunciation is the only guide.” Yet, if some names are muddled in pronunciation and untraceable, there is still plenty to go on.

He describes his first master, Billy Grandy, as “a hard-drinking man” who “sold away many slaves.”

The Camden County 1790 census lists 18 slaves in the William Grandy household, but its apparent there had been more.

“I remember four sisters and four brothers; my mother had more children, but they were dead or sold away before I can remember. I was the youngest,” Moses Grandy recalled. 

His master died when he was probably 9 and the Grandy will bequeathed Moses to James Grandy, the son of William Grandy. James and Moses were the same age and there was a stipulation in the will that Moses would be hired out until “my master and myself were twenty-one years old.”

When he was old enough “to be taken away from my mother and put to field-work, I was hired out for the year, by auction, at the Court House, every January; this is the common practice with respect to slaves belonging to persons who are under age.”

The first person to buy his services, a Mr. Kemp, “used me pretty well; he gave me plenty to eat and sufficient clothing,” he then went to Jemmy Coates, “a severe man”

“Because I could not learn his way of hilling corn, he flogged me naked with a severe whip made of a very tough sapling…The point of it at last entered my belly and broke off; leaving an inch and a-half outside…On looking down I saw it sticking, out of my body: I pulled it out and the blood spouted after it. The wound festered, and discharged very much at the time, and hurt me for years after,” he said.

“I was next with Mr. Enoch Sawyer of Camden county,” Grandy recalled.

A prominent North Carolina politician immediately after the Revolution, Sawyer was deeply involved in developing the Great Dismal Swamp Canal. If the gravestone the Elizabeth City Economist found in November, 1897 is to be believed, Sawyer was a good man.

“Sacred to the memory of Enoch Sawyer, who was born on the 10th of March, 1758. and departed this life on the 16th of March, 1827, age 68 and six days. He was universally beloved and respected, and a faithful servant of the Lord Jesus. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his Saints,” the Economist reported.

If Sawyer was a good man to his neighbors and peers, to Grandy, “It was cruel living.”

“We had not near enough of either victuals or clothes … I have often ground the husks of Indian corn over again in a hand-mill, for the chance of getting something to eat out of it,” Grandy reported. “In severe frosts, I was compelled to go into the fields and woods to work, with my naked feet cracked and bleeding from extreme cold.”

If the living was cruel in working for Sawyer, Grandy learned a skill that gave him a degree of freedom very few enslaved people enjoyed.

“The young Moses Grandy tended the ferry across the Narrows on the Pasquotank River,” historian David Cecelski wrote in his 1994 article “Moses Grandy: A Slave Waterman’s Life,” written for the Institute for Southern Studies.

The Black watermen were, Cecelski wrote, “an elite fraternity … both irreplaceable to the plantation economy, and subversive of the racial bondage that fueled it.”

That skill served Grandy well, raising his importance as a commodity, and the value that was placed on his skill as a waterman underscores how complex the institution of American slavery was.

After three years working for Sawyer his services were acquired by “Mr. George Furley (probably George Ferebee, early postmaster of South Mills) … he employed me as a car-boy in the Dismal swamp; I had to drive lumber, &. I had plenty to eat and plenty of clothes. I was so overjoyed… that I then thought I would not have left the place to go to heaven.”

Although no longer working under Sawyer, the “cruel living” touched him once again.

“I married a slave belonging to Mr. Enoch Sawyer,” he said. After eight months of marriage, he was returning home on a Friday, when he “heard a noise behind me, on the road which ran by the side of the canal … When they came up to me, one of them cried out, ‘Moses, my dear!’… It was my wife. She cried out to me, ‘I am gone.’

His wife had been sold.

He was able to walk with her for a short distance “and bid her farewell. I have never seen or heard of her from that day to this. I loved her as I loved my life.”

Next in the series: To purchase his freedom

A powerhouse in the marine science and coastal management community, Dr. B.J. Copeland, 89, died Wednesday, Jan. 14.

Copeland left a lasting impact on the state as the director of North Carolina Sea Grant, a N.C. State University professor, and through his work with the Albemarle-Pamlico National Estuary Partnership. He served on the Marine Fisheries Commission, and was on the committee that drafted what is now the Fisheries Reform Act of 1997.

Copeland spent his childhood, along with his three siblings, on the family farm in rural Oklahoma. He earned his master’s and doctorate at Oklahoma State University, where he met his wife of more than 60 years, Jean Van Nortwick. They married Jan. 26, 1963.

He relocated to Texas in 1962 where he was a postdoctoral researcher and lecturer at the University of Texas Marine Science Laboratory at Port Aransas.

In a 2016 interview for the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center’s Coastal Voices Project, Copeland said his “Ph.D. degree is in Limnology, the study of fresh water. So, I went to the University of Texas to see if salt water was the same as fresh water and indeed it is, except for a little bit of salt!”

He moved to Raleigh in 1970 for an associate professor position at N.C. State. Copeland said in the Q&A that he moved to North Carolina mainly because of the beginning of a marine science program jointly between N.C. State, the universities of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and Wilmington, and Duke University.

“We were trying to start a graduate program in Marine Science and so I was a researcher and a professor in the Zoology Department, Botany Department, and the new Marine Sciences program,” he said, adding that the new marine sciences program eventually became the Department of Marine, Earth, and Atmospheric Sciences at N.C. State. 

In 1973, he took on a new role as the director for what was then the North Carolina Sea Grant institutional program, explains an article on the 25^th anniversary of the program in the October 2001 issue of N.C. Sea Grant’s Coastwatch magazine.

Congress established the program in 1966, and began awarding grants in 1968. Sea Grant then became part of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or NOAA, that was formed in 1970. UNC Chapel Hill administered the Sea Grant institutional program from 1970 to when Copeland took over and relocated the program to Raleigh.

“In truth, if Sea Grant wasn’t invented in 1966, someone would invent it today. People depend on Sea Grant for good information and to help them survive,” Copeland said in the 2001 article. “You can’t argue with priorities when they are to improve the quality of life and enhance economic opportunities. That’s what Sea Grant is all about.”

Copeland said that in the early days of trying to gather input on research and extensions needs, he talked with a man who working his eel pots and crab pots. Copeland said he asked the waterman what the program could do for him and the man responded, “’Sounds like you guys are just looking for something to do.’”

Copeland got the message, though. For Sea Grant to be accepted, the program would need to be relevant and deliver good information, he said in the article.

He began hiring staff who brought in their own experiences, leading the program to marine advisory work, promoting shellfish culture, addressing seafood processing issues, developing seafood recipes, outreach efforts, and research.

When Copeland took over the program in 1973, his goal was to elevate N.C. Sea Grant from an institutional program to be designated a Sea Grant College Program, which happened in July 1976. The program also got a budget of $1 million.

The federal-state partnership was supported with $2 in federal funds for each $1 in state funding, but in 1980, Sea Grant was zeroed out of the federal budget, leading to Copeland spending many days in Washington getting the Sea Grant message out, according to the 2001 article.

He said at the time that it wasn’t a stretch to show that Sea Grant was worth something and worth keeping.

“The direct impact was evident in the growth of the extension program. Initial work in fisheries and marine education were soon joined by aquaculture and mariculture. Coastal processes work increased, as did coastal law and policy efforts,” the article explains.

Copeland left Sea Grant in 1996 and began serving as graduate administrator for the Zoology Department at N.C. State. He retired from the university in 2002.

Current N.C. Sea Grant Executive Director Susan White told Coastal Review that she was fortunate have had Copeland as an early and regular mentor when she joined the North Carolina Sea Grant program as director in 2012.

“We had great lunches together, sometimes here in Raleigh sometimes closer to his home, and his knowledge of the intricacies of a statewide program that evolves regularly with the pressing needs of the times was relevant and timely as I was still learning the many paths for NC Sea Grant,” White said.

“B.J. always had great stories to tell about his time with NC Sea Grant, the challenges of federal funding support ebbing and flowing, the great characters of each of the team members, and his enjoyment of his time with the program. B.J. joined us for retirement parties and program reviews throughout the past decade, keeping his finger on the pulse. His practical advice, and huge laughs, were wonderful to be on the receiving end of,” she continued.

Copeland’s work with what is now Albemarle-Pamlico National Estuarine Program predates his time with Sea Grant and, once he began directing Sea Grant, his partnership with APNEP grew.

Copeland said in a Q&A with the program that he “was involved with APNEP before it was APNEP – before it even existed, in fact.” APNEP is an effort to understand, protect, and restore natural resources of the Albemarle-Pamlico estuarine system in North Carolina and Virginia, its website explains.

The only National Estuary Program in the 1960s was the Chesapeake Bay. In the late 1960s, “somebody got the happy idea that Congress ought to have an annual or biannual report on the status of the nation’s estuaries, so they commissioned one,” Copeland explained.

He went to Chapel Hill in 1968 to work on a report on the nation’s estuaries. He and the late Dr. Howard Odom wrote “Coastal Ecological Systems of the United States.”

“To do research for it, we went to every state and gathered material that had been written up or stuck in a drawer, and we took that data on coastal systems and turned it into a book. It was the first work on the status of the nation’s estuaries,” Copeland said.

A handful of Congressmen in the 1970s, including Walter Jones from North Carolina, who was chair of the House Merchant Marine and Fisheries Committee, pointed out that there’s an estuary in North Carolina.

Copeland continued that the whole setup of the National Estuary Program was changed to include not only Chesapeake Bay, but also other estuarine systems. The Albemarle-Pamlico system “includes a lot of water and a lot of territory – we were known as the second-largest ecosystem on the East Coast.”

In the early 1980s, work began on establishing the Albemarle-Pamlico as a National Estuary Program, and he helped form the first technical committee. “In 1987, we got the first grant for the program – for the Albemarle-Pamlico Estuarine Study (APES). We were a part of the National Estuary Program, authorized by Congress earlier that same year,” he said.

At the time, there were water quality problems that he described as “astronomical,” with algal blooms in the Chowan River, Albemarle Sound and Pamlico River. The Neuse River had fish kills.

“We had a crisis. You couldn’t sell seafood for a year, so we had to solve this problem. You’ve got to turn this thing around or the seafood industry is going to go down the tubes – that’s the reason for the program. But what people sometimes forget is that you can’t do all this at once. You’ve got to prioritize, you’ve get something understood and you find out it’s really connected to something else over here – it’s not easy,” Copeland told APNEP. “And so, we began to work. We had technical committees and proposals for projects and for priority research, and things began to trickle into state policies and state government.”

After the technical committee completed the Albemarle-Pamlico Estuarine Study and produced the Comprehensive Conservation and Management Plan for the region in 1994, the project was renamed as the Albemarle-Pamlico National Estuarine Program. In 2012, program was changed to partnership.

Southern Environmental Law Center Senior Attorney Derb S. Carter Jr. told Coastal Review that Copeland was leading the state’s Sea Grant program when the Coastal Area Management Act was enacted in 1974 and when the Albemarle Pamlico Estuarine Program launched. 

“Effective environmental and natural resource programs must be based on sound science.  We are all fortunate that B.J. was passionate about ensuring programs to manage our coastal resources incorporate the best science,” Carter said.

It was also in the 1980s when Copeland was appointed the first time to the Marine Fisheries Commission, and eventually helped draft the Marine Fisheries Reform Act in the 1990s.

In the 2016 Q&A for Carolina Coastal Voices project, Copeland said he became involved with fisheries management because Sea Grant has programs on commercial fishery, recreational fishing, interactions, management of fisheries, how things worked, and could translate research into management.

“And I got into fisheries management for real when I was appointed to the Marine Fisheries Commission in the 1980s, under the so-called, ah, Egghead Commission,” he explained, adding he served on the commission for four or five years before it dissolved.

“I mean, the state government decided that commissions weren’t really the way to go, so the Marine Fisheries Commission was actually dissolved and they started over again. And so there was legislative action to create a new commission, which kept getting things added to, and added to, and added to until we have a 19-member Marine Fisheries Commission,” he explained. This was in the mid-1980s.

“And that was also a disaster, because 19 people can’t make any kind of decision,” Copeland said.

The committee argued a lot and “what happened with the Fisheries Moratorium Act, I mean–that was one of the factors, that we had an unwieldy commission — no way to get there — we had regulations right and left, none of which were related to others. People were kind of fed up with the whole idea,” Copeland said. The fisheries moratorium “came because they wanted to stop, look, consider, and really come up with something. And so, we had a three-year moratorium on anything; on any regulation, on any activity, any new activity. And that resulted in the Fisheries Reform Act.”

The North Carolina General Assembly approved in 1994 the moratorium on selling any new commercial fishing licenses and established the 19-member Fisheries Moratorium Steering Committee to study the state’s coastal fisheries management process and recommend improvements.

The committee issued a draft report in late summer 1996, held 19 public meetings statewide, and adopted a final report in October 1996 that formed the basis for the Fisheries Reform Act, which was signed into law Aug. 14, 1997, according to the oral history project, calling it the “most significant fisheries legislation in NC history.”

Copeland was on the moratorium steering committee and as director of Sea Grant, he said he represented the research and information side.

As part of the moratorium, Copeland said, funds were appropriated for research that was administered through N.C. Sea Grant college program, and “I think I knew about all of the players. So, communication and interaction amongst the players was also important, and Sea Grant played a role in that, as well.”

Another part of Sea Grant’s role was to get the information out broadly and quickly, Copeland said they did that through a network “and we traded on two very important elements: one of them was the truth. If you’re a bearer of the truth, you usually get along pretty well. And so we had a reputation for doing that. And secondly, we thought that information was a necessary ingredient for anything we did. And so, we were doing that, too. It was kind of a natural fit.”

The committee was tasked with creating parameters for a Marine Fisheries Commission that “could actually function,” Copeland said, trimming it down from 19 to nine. The commission has three people from the commercial interests, three people from recreational interests, and three at large, all appointed by the governor. He served on the newly structured commission for 12 years.

Copeland said in the Q&A that “we were purveyors of the truth. We had a reputation of, you know, you can come and ask Sea Grant a question, you were going to get an honest answer. And so we could be a player without taking a side. And that was really important, because most people take sides somewhere, sometime. And so we worked very hard at not taking a side.”

He lamented that fisheries is going to take a hit because of misinformation, in the 2016 interview.

“Some of these environmental issues, which are going to get scuttled because of some misinformed position, somebody who’s more powerful than somebody else will get their way and so on. I mean, they practice the Golden Rule, you know: them what’s got the gold, rules. So, you know, I think things are going to get worse before they get better. I keep thinking that, one of these days the general public’s going to wake up and say, ‘We need to get rid of this bunch!’ but that’s not happening,” he said.

After the Fisheries Reform Act, Copeland said in an interview that he went back to the academic department at N.C. State and taught a couple of courses, retiring in 2002.

North Carolina Coastal Federation founder Todd Miller told Coastal Review that Copeland influenced the direction of coastal science and management in North Carolina for more than half a century.

“After ‘retirement,’ he continued to shape coastal policy and practice as a member of the N.C. Marine Fisheries Commission, an active participant in the Albemarle–Pamlico Estuarine Partnership, the Coastal Habitat Protection Plan process, and numerous other civic efforts,” Miller continued. “He built a Sea Grant program in North Carolina that earned international respect and, importantly, translated coastal research into practical solutions for real-world management challenges. Through his leadership and service, he profoundly influenced efforts to protect and restore the North Carolina coast and left it stronger for future generations.”

He and his wife owned a farm near Apex from 1978 until 2002 and later a farm near Pittsboro, according to his obituary, and he found joy in gardening and farming.

“For many who knew and loved him, B.J.’s deep voice and his loud belly laugh will always be remembered. His excellent memory and quick wit made him an entertaining teller of stories and jokes. We can only hope that some of us can tell them as well as he did. B.J. will long be remembered with gratitude, admiration, love and a big smile,” his obituary states.

His memorial is at 2 p.m. Friday at Pleasant Hill United Methodist Church in Siler City.

In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in memory of B.J. Copeland to: Boys & Girls Homes of North Carolina, P.O. Box 127, Lake Waccamaw, NC 28450, or Pleasant Hill United Methodist Church at P.O. Box 1322, Pittsboro, NC 27312. Arrangements are by Donaldson Funeral Home and Crematory.

From shortly after the Civil War until the mid-2000s, when the last menhaden plant was shuttered, the town of Beaufort would “smell of money.”

“The menhaden industry made Beaufort prosperous. Local menhaden companies once provided hundreds of jobs in the local community and surrounding areas with numerous factories and vessels working this lucrative fishery,” according to information from the North Carolina Maritime Museum, which has held several programs on the industry.

“The fishery itself, processing plants ashore, and support infrastructure provided steady employment opportunities, especially for African-Americans. While many visitors remember the smell of the fish, locals call it the ‘smell of money,’” It was their livelihood. Local merchants all benefited from the influx of people and money during menhaden’s fishing season. Menhaden fishing was recognized throughout Carteret County as an important part of this county’s commercial fishing industry.”

In the early days of catching menhaden, the mother boat would deploy smaller purse boats to maneuver a large net around a school of fish. Once the string draws the net shut around the hundreds of pounds of menhaden, the fishermen would haul the net by hand.

To perform this physically demanding, dangerous work, the fishermen would sing work songs, or chanteys, to help rhythmically synchronize their movements.

Barbara Garrity-Blake, fisheries social scientist and adjunct at Duke University Marine Lab in Beaufort, told Coastal Review that the menhaden fishermen used to sing these songs before hydraulic net-lifting technology was introduced in the early 1960s.

“Each vessel carried a crew of about two-dozen men, mostly African Americans, who worked shoulder to shoulder in purse boats to pull in a giant seine net heavy with menhaden — sometimes a 100,000 or more fish. The men would coordinate their pulling by singing in a call-and-response style where the leader would sing out a line and the crew would answer in harmony,” she continued.

Their songs were a seafaring tradition known as chanteys.

After the menhaden industry became mechanized in the 1960s and 1970s, and the songs were no longer sung, some of the former and retired fishermen began to perform these traditional work songs for audiences, eventually becoming formally known as the Menhaden Chanteymen in 1988.

After the group began performing publicly, they sang for the North Carolina General Assembly, National Council on the Arts, at New York City’s Carnegie Hall and on national television, including for a segment on “CBS Sunday Morning” with Charles Kuralt. The group recorded the album “Won’t You Help Me to Raise ‘Em: Authentic Net Hauling Songs from an African-American Fishery,” for Global Village Music in 1990.

The remaining members made special appearances at events throughout the county, including a handful at Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island.

Beaufort Mayor Sharon Harker awarded in 2022 the two surviving Chanteymen, Ernest Davis and the Rev. Leroy Cox, the key to the city. Cox died in 2023, leaving Davis as the “last legacy-bearer of the Menhaden Chanteyman” until the final member, Davis, 86, died Jan. 3. His service and burial was Jan. 8 Mt. Tabor Missionary Baptist Church of North River. Noe Funeral Services of Beaufort handled the arrangements.

Garrity-Blake noted that Davis was the youngest of the Chanteymen and had “explained that singing generated a special power or strength, used for nets otherwise too heavy for human strength alone. So the chantey songs were used as a tool.”

In a recording, Davis explains that the fishermen would sing a chantey when they needed to raise up a net full of fish.

“If we couldn’t sing, we couldn’t get them raised up,” Davis said. The singing “would give you more spirit, and more power” and you could raise your fish better.

“At night you couldn’t sleep because you’d be hurting and cold so you just make up songs,” Davis said. And most of the captains would be singing right along with the crew. “Music could be heard all over the ocean … like music was on the water.”

Garrity-Blake said in an interview that she worked for many years with Davis and other menhaden workers on a project called “Raising the Story of Menhaden Fishing.”

The 2005 closure of Beaufort Fisheries, the last menhaden plant in the state, inspired North Carolina Humanities Council-funded project that Garrity-Blake helped launch in 2009 and 2010 with the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island.

Davis was among a group of menhaden workers, including captains, crewmen, cookhouse and factory workers, who met several times at the Beaufort train depot to plan the project, “which was hilarious because ‘planning’ took a backseat to telling tales,” Garrity-Blake said, adding that the meetings always turned into a big storytelling session and nobody wanted to leave when the meeting was over.

“I realized that the menhaden folks had a hunger for getting together to talk about fishing. They feared their experiences and the industry’s legacy as the economic backbone of Carteret County would be forgotten. So we decided to call it ‘Raising the Story’ — just as the men worked together to raise fish, we’d work together to raise the story of menhaden fishing,” Garrity-Blake continued.

Garrity-Blake conducted about a dozen oral history recordings of people representing different skills in the fishery, from ring-setter in the fishing process to factory owner, the late Jule Wheatly in December 2009. He died in October 2011.

Fine art photographer and Beaufort resident Scott Taylor took portraits of all the folks who were interviewed, and developed an exhibit for the waterfowl museum. The oral history interviews and photos are part of the Core Sound museum’s online collection, on a Facebook page also called “Raising the Story of Menhaden Fishing,” and on Carolina Coastal Voices YouTube channel.

As part of “Raising the Story,” the group wanted to involve young people who didn’t know anything about the industry, so they collaborated with Josie Boyette’s seventh grade class at Beaufort Middle School.

“Three of the men, including Ernest Davis, were invited into the classroom to share stories, and the kids asked questions and recorded them,” Garrity-Blake said. “Davis talked about his role as first mate, although he’d also served as fish boat captain on occasion. He was proud to have made a good living, putting his kids through college, menhaden fishing. He said, ‘A lot of people think fishing is a disgrace. But I made a good living. Didn’t look to get rich or nothing.’”

She added that Davis’ grandson Trevor was in the classroom. “It was wonderful to see the pride on that little boy’s face when his grandad shared a story about fending off a shark that had swum in the net.”

The project culminated in what Garrity-Blake called a “jam-packed event” at Core Sound, where the middle school students showcased their work, captains and crewmen told stories to the audience, and the Menhaden Chanteymen performed their songs.

“When they performed, it was powerful and otherworldly; everyone was mesmerized,” Garrity-Blake said.

Historian and author David Cecelski has written extensively about coastal North Carolina’s fisheries, including that of menhaden, many of which can be found on his personal website such as “Menhaden Fishing Days” and “It Was Like a Ballet’: Menhaden Fishermen at Work, 1947,” which he describes the process of hauling a net based on a photo from the North Carolina State Archives.

He was invited to speak at the “Raising the Story of Menhaden Fishing” event held in the fall of 2010. In 2017, Cecelski reflected on the “Raising the Story” project and shared his comments from that event in an essay he titled, “Music All Over the Ocean.”

In the essay, he calls the project a “commemoration of the central role that the menhaden industry played in Carteret County for generations.”

Cecelski, who grew up near Beaufort, writes that anybody listening to the oral histories Garrity-Blake recorded for the project would be impressed with what the menhaden fishery meant to Carteret County, particularly the stink that permeated the town when the fish were being processed.

“When the wind was right, the aroma of the fish covered those towns like a blanket. Coastal visitors sometimes complained, but my cousins in the industry used to call it ‘the smell of money,’” he wrote in 2021.

Cecelski explains in his 2017 piece that Davis’s story was typical of what the industry’s wages meant to local fishermen and fish factory workers.

Davis, who left school when he was 15 and went to work menhaden fishing at Beaufort Fisheries, said in his interview that it was hard work but it was what he had to do. He fished for 41 years and became one of the most respected first mates on the East Coast, sending all five of his own children to college and helping raise and educate nine younger brothers and sisters.

The oral histories also show how the men and women watched the menhaden industry change over their lifetimes, like motorizing the process to haul in the fish, business became more corporate, unions made headway and state and federal governments enacted environmental regulations, just to name a few.

“But through it all, I could hear two things in the men’s voices: a love for menhaden fishing — master net mender Lee Crumbacker said it well: ‘it grows on you like a barnacle on a pole’— and a fierce pride in their craftsmanship,” Cecelski writes.

Cecelski writes that as a child, the first thing he ever heard about the menhaden industry was his mother’s stories about those chanteys. His mother grew up in Harlowe in the 1920s and 1930s, when Highway 101 was still a dirt road.

“Many of Beaufort’s African American fishermen lived in Harlowe, particularly in a reclusive community just across the county line called Craven Corner. As they drove oxen and carts down the road on their way to Beaufort, the menhaden fishermen sang the same songs that they sung as they hoisted the nets onto their boats,” he writes.

“Early Monday mornings, long before first light, my mother would wake up in her bed at the sound of those beautiful, haunting songs and listen to them as the fishermen moved through the darkness and toward the sea.”

Cecelski observes that the fishermen in the interviews talk about the chanteys the same way his mother did.

Davis said in his “Rising the Story” interview they “would sing all night long just to keep their minds off the cold and hurt. It ‘just seemed like music was all over the ocean’,” Cecelski writes.

“The fishermen mostly stopped singing their legendary chanteys with the introduction of power blocks and hardening rigs in the late 1950s and early 1960s, but those songs have remained a powerful memory for all who ever heard them.”

And while the chanteys have not been heard on a menhaden boat in a long time, but older people from around Carteret County still remember them, and tell Cecelski “how, on cool autumn days, you could sometimes stand on shore and hear the songs coming across the water. They filled the air and stirred the heart and got deep inside your bones,” Cecelski describes.

“And if you heard those songs, like my mother did when she was a little girl, you never forgot them or the way that they made you feel. It is hard to put into words, but it was not just the beauty of the melodies or the men’s fine voices, but the appearance that the music was rising right out of the sea.”

At first glance, the four, multi-colored snakes might be crawling across the cover of the long out-of-print paperback.

The chilling dead-eyes, the intricately patterned scales, the pointed heads and slender bodies are practically lifelike illustrations drawn by Donald R. Brothers, the same man who wrote “An Introduction to Snakes of the Dismal Swamp Region of North Carolina and Virginia” in 1992.

But what was then another modest nature guidebook, is now a remarkable collection of precise drawings created by a self-taught artist, a professional natural scientist and lifelong snake lover raised on the edge of the Dismal Swamp.

“Everyone that would see it would say, ‘Oh, man, this is so good to have,’” George Jackson, Brothers’ first cousin, said from his family’s cottage in Kill Devil Hills. As he showed off an old copy of the book, he added, “That’s what led to me pushing him to do it again.”

Jackson, 76, grew up with his older cousin in Elizabeth City, where Jackson still lives with his wife Blair. Brothers, 88, who is now retired and resides in Boise, Idaho, where he spent much of this career, was initially reluctant to do an update because of health issues.

“I said, I’ll do all the legwork. All you have to do is say yes, and I’ll make it happen,” Jackson recalled, adding he was relieved when his cousin agreed.

“I think one of the real jewels of this is that it’s written by a guy who was born here, lived here throughout his high school years, and this is when he developed this fascination with snakes.”

What’s also so impressive about his cousin, Jackson added, is that he had failed three years of school before he finally managed to graduate from high school, and it was only years later that he was diagnosed with dyslexia. Even more surprising to Jackson, he never saw his cousin draw, and had no idea he was such a talented artist. To him, the drawings provide the most unique value.

“If you’re trying to get straight on snakes, by looking at something — rather than it being a shot of a snake in the wild — it is from someone like Donald who just spent hours and hours and hours with a specimen, looking at it and drawing it,” Jackson said. “But there is an art form here that is important,” he added, not just for art’s sake, but as a depiction of nature as viewed by the artist.

When the Virginia state herpetologist J.D. Kleopfer, with the Virginia Division of Wildlife Resources, saw the drawings, he told him that he was amazed at Brothers’ accuracy in his illustrations. In fact, he said he had counted every scale on one of the snake drawings, and it was completely accurate.

In an interview, Kleopfer agrees that the book shines the most thanks to Brothers’ hand-drawn artwork.

“Biological illustrations are a kind of a thing of the past,” he said. “They’re a dying art form.” Elaborating on what he had conveyed to Jackson, Kleopfer was impressed at the beauty of the drawings.

“There’s such incredible detail with the scale count or the scale pattern on the head and on the belly and on the animal itself,” he said. “That’s really finite detail to have as a biological illustrator, and because photography, basically, you know, took over.”

After consulting with Kleopfer and other herpetologists, Jackson made relatively minor updates on species and taxonomy.

Although the information is accurate, the book, then and now, is intended for nonprofessional readers, or as the revision says, “a cultural artifact that provides a snapshot” of the snakes in the region, and the author’s relationship to them. Two appendices are included with details on snake name changes and identifying shed snake skins.

The 2025 book was published in August, with a suggested retail cost of $24 from select outlets or tidaltalebooks@gmail.com.

But Jackson, who is a semi-retired lawyer, admits he doesn’t particularly like snakes, and still remembers his revulsion as a kid when Donald Ray, as he was known then — the oldest of his eight cousins — had asked him to carry a burlap sack filled with live water snakes. And then there was his bedroom, smelling of formaldehyde, lined with big, snake-filled jars.

“At that age, snakes are like monsters,” he said. “But I just remember my grandparents letting me go in there and you didn’t have to be told ‘Don’t touch anything.’ I didn’t.”

Still, Jackson said he appreciates the importance of snakes in the natural world, and the value of a guide book on snakes in the region to all the nonscientific folks who enjoy the outdoors, or are curious about the snakes in their yard.

The guide is as thorough as any nonscientist could want or need. There’s information about the appearance, habitat, diet, behavior and even reproduction of numerous regional snakes, from worm snakes to rattlesnakes, and whether they’re venomous and how to identify them.

Brothers, who has six children, 24 grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren has been married to his wife Judy for close to 50 years. In addition to a full career in various natural sciences positions, the author, along with his wife, also managed to build a passive solar-powered home with a huge garden and numerous livestock they raised for food.

“We did the forming, framing, glazing, roofing, painting, plumbing, electrical, interior work and cabinets,” Brothers wrote on his website. “Only pouring the concrete, countertops and carpeting were done by others. Our home would be one of the first thermal envelope home build in Idaho.” 

As he described his youth, Brothers said he grew up about a 10-minute bicycle ride from the southernmost edge of the swamp — “a fine place to study snakes.”

In an earlier memoir Brothers wrote, “Swamp Water in My Veins,” he told how he began collecting articles about snakes when he was young and writing things down. But he continued to struggle in school, with one teacher reporting that “Donald is interested in snakes and not much else.”

“Dispelling false popular beliefs about snakes was one of the primary objectives of the book,” Brothers wrote, explaining why he wrote the 1992 guide. “This was important because such beliefs contribute greatly to anxiety and fear.”

A partial list: snakes are slimy, they can jump, their tongues can sting, they can hypnotize their prey, they don’t die till sunset, the hiss of a snake is poisonous and some can crawl as fast as horse can run.

“More education is needed to dispel false popular beliefs and appreciate these interesting and important creatures of the animal kingdom,” he said.

As someone who also loves snakes, Kleopfer, who has served as Virginia’s state herpetologist for 20 years, agrees that snakes are misunderstood.

“You know, snakes can be very polarizing,” he said. “Of course, you have the whole Garden of Eden story, which doesn’t help. There’s probably no other animal, group of animals that has more misinformation and folklore about it than snakes.”

But snakes eat lots of things we don’t want to deal with — such as carrion, he said.

“Snakes play an incredible role in the ecology of our ecosystems and controlling rodents and pests and stuff like that,” he said. “They’re also food for other animals as well.”

And snakes want nothing to do with people, so the best thing is to accept them and let them be.

“I always said that resolves 99% of all wildlife interactions, particularly with snakes,” Kleopfer said. “Just follow those four easy words: ‘Just leave it alone.’”

Even venomous snakes are not nearly as sinister as their reputations have them.

“Cottonmouths, or water moccasins, have a curiosity factor about them, but those things are big babies,” he said. “I mean, you really have to do something extraordinarily stupid to get bit by one. Yeah, they’re venomous, but they’re quite reluctant to strike.”

But all the better if Brothers’ well-illustrated book helps educate people about the value of snakes and basic science of herpetology.

It’s just a very cool historic document,” Kleopfer said. “It would be a nice addition to anybody’s literary collection if they’re into that kind of natural history or regional type of history.”

Though sleek and beautiful as they may be, he conceded, snakes fall short of the cute and winsome appeal of other animals that share their neighborhoods.

“They’re never going to be embraced like our furry and feathered friends are.”

Jean Beasley was one of those people seemingly born to lead, happy to work in the trenches with a fervor and tenacity that magnetized others to her.

It was her charisma, her penchant to teach others about sea turtles, her drive to protect the iconic ocean dwellers, and her determination to carry out her daughter’s vision that led to the founding of the beloved Karen Beasley Sea Turtle Rescue and Rehabilitation Center on Topsail Island.

Beasley died early Tuesday morning “in the company of loved ones,” according to a center Facebook post. She was 90.

As word has spread of her passing, the center has received an outpouring from former interns expressing how Beasley’s passion and guidance shaped not only their career paths, but also their lives.

“I can attest to that because my life was completely changed after I met her,” Terry Meyer, the center’s deputy and conservation director and Beasley’s longtime friend, said Wednesday morning.

Meyer was introduced to Beasley in 1995 at Topsail Beach’s annual Autumn With Topsail Festival. Tucked somewhere among booths featuring handmade arts and crafts was Beasley’s stand, where she explained the Topsail Turtle Project Nesting Program to any interested passersby.

“She mentioned that there was a nest in front of her house if we wanted to go look at it. She lives about a block away from my house so I did walk down there, and she came charging out of the house in a very protective mode, which I would later learn the turtle people do,” Meyer said.

Those initial, brief encounters would later prompt Meyer to attend a volunteer meeting of the Topsail Turtle Project.

“She’s so charismatic. When I left that meeting, I thought protecting sea turtles was the most important, noble thing I could do with my life. I mean, she’s just, it was like three hours of brainwashing, and I never looked back,” Meyer laughed.

By that time, Beasley had long established a home in Surf City.

The native North Carolinian grew up in Henderson, a small town a little more than 40 miles northeast of Raleigh. She was awarded a full scholarship to Duke University, where she earned a degree and received her teacher certification in 1958.

She first moved to Topsail Island with her husband, Fred, after he received orders to Camp Lejeune, according to a 2005 report in the Wilmington Star-News.

The couple lived on the island two short years before Fred Beasley got out of the Marine Corps and took a job in Ohio, where they lived for 20 years. There, they raised sons, Barney and Kevin, and daughter, Karen.

Each year, the family would vacation in Topsail Island. Jean and Fred returned to Topsail Island to live full time in the early 1980s after he retired.

Less than 10 years after their move to Surf City, Karen, 29, died in 1991 from leukemia. Jean picked up the torch and carried forward Karen’s plans for the turtle project.

Within five years of Karen’s death, Jean struck up a deal with Topsail Beach to lease a small, waterfront lot nestled along Banks Channel and just behind town hall for $1 a year.

The new sea turtle hospital opened in 1997.

“A lot of groundbreaking, excellent work went on in that 900-square-foot building and that’s where our heart was,” Meyer said. “When I tell people we literally fished off the end of the dock to feed the turtles, that is a true story. Those are our humble beginnings. It was all running on a dream and it was running on Jean’s charisma.”

Beasley “had a big smile, and she had a hug for everybody, but she also had an iron will and she ran the program from a position of strength,” Meyer said.

Patient demand pushed the hospital to capacity, and then some, on a recurring basis, and, in 2013, a new, 13,000-square-foot center was opened on Surf City’s mainland.

“Our success over the years and being in this building today is because of Jean’s stewardship and leadership and our ability to properly manage our funds while saving hundreds of turtles,” Meyer said.

As of Wednesday, the hospital had cared for “at least” 1,701 turtles, she said. Of those, 1,290 had been rehabilitated and released.

In its Facebook post announcing Jean’s death, center officials thanked her “for sharing your dreams with us.”

“You inspired us to create a better world – for the turtles, for Mother Ocean, and for all. We will do our best to carry forward your legacy. Swim in Peace.”

Beasley was awarded Lifetime Achievement Award from the International Sea Turtle Society in 2017.

She stepped down as the center’s executive director in 2021 and later moved to Tennessee to live with one of her sons and daughters-in-law, Meyer said.

Up until this year, Jean would return in the summers to visit the center.

“It was very important to us and to her to have her meet with our interns and just impart some stories and some history,” Meyer said. “We followed her because she demonstrated every day what it took to save sea turtles because she did the work. She was down and dirty doing the work every day, and she didn’t shy away from any task. I watched her – from medical treatments on sea turtles to gluing PVC together, to repairing a pump – she did all things and she led by example. You know, it’s like she was our beating heart.”

Update 11 a.m. Tuesday: Organizers announced late Tuesday morning that the Core Sound Chow Down set for Friday night has been canceled because of the weather forecast. Ticketholders can submit using an online form their preference to refund the ticket to the event held entirely outside. Options are a full refund, transfer to 2026 or donate the cost to the museum. Festivities on Saturday and Sunday will continue as planned.

Original post:

One of the first signs that the holidays are upon us is when the two-story Christmas tree made entirely of crab pots begins to illuminate the grounds of the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island.

The multicolor glow from the symbol of Christmas — plus all the holiday lights decorating the sizable facility — also means that the Waterfowl Weekend is just around the corner.

The museum, which highlights the heritage of the 13 unincorporated communities of Down East Carteret County, has held the annual celebration the first weekend of December for the last few decades, and are gearing up for this year’s scheduled for Dec. 5-7.

The weekend gets underway Friday evening with the Core Sound Chow Down stew competition, a ticketed event. The doors open to the public at 8 a.m. Saturday and again at 10 a.m. Sunday. During both days, visitors can meet the more than 45 carvers, artists, photographers and crafters set up at the festival.

While winding down Harkers Island Road on the way to the museum, travelers will pass homes decorated to the hilt, and residents selling crafts on the roadside.

They’ll also drive by Harkers Island School, where the Core Sound Decoy Carvers Guild’s 37^th annual Core Sound Decoy Festival is taking place. From 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday and 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Sunday, the campus will be filled with carvers, vendors and antique decoy exhibits. Carving competitions are scheduled throughout both days, and food will be available for purchase.

When the Waterfowl Weekend was in its early days, the focus was mainly on decoys, but the festival has evolved over the years and is now a part of the holiday celebration for many.

“We have turned what used to be a weekend for decoys to a season of traditions,” Executive Director Karen Willis Amspacher told Coastal Review, and a large part of that is the joy and nostalgia that holiday decorations invoke.

“The museum’s Christmas lights are about Core Sound. Celebrating communities and traditions. That’s what we do every day,” she said.

The two-plus-story Christmas tree made of crab pots and the “Gallery of Trees: Telling our Story” are “part of that celebration for sure,” she explained. The Gallery of Trees features crab pot trees that families, friends and area businesses sponsor and decorate. The first was first held in 2020 and has become a special part of Waterfowl Weekend.

Amspacher said that adding the giant tree made of crab pots to the holiday decor was inspired by social media, with the first try in 2010 or 2011.

“Blame it on Facebook. We kept seeing pics from Maine where they were stacking lobster traps and Maryland where they were stacking crab baskets and we said ‘why not?’” Amspacher said. “The first attempts were a learning experience — small and sometimes more square than round — but then Abbi (Davis) and Kenny (Brennan) took on the project, and their engineering skills and a lot of rebar and zip ties made it happen.”

The small team of volunteers spent the last few days of this October building the 2025 tree, including Davis, a Harkers Island native.

Davis began working part time at Core Sound on and off the summer of 2015 and again while she was attending trade school. Now a volunteer, she helps when she can, which isn’t very often because her career keeps her on the road a fair bit, she said. She currently resides in South Carolina where she’s a lineman.

“The museum is such an incredible place,” Davis told Coastal Review.

Core Sound has captured the sense of place “that most people have a really hard time understanding if they haven’t lived it and gave them a glimpse into the culture of Down East. That is something that would have otherwise been long forgotten by the world.”

Though the tree of crab pots was part of the picture before she began working there, Davis started helping out with the tree in 2015, when the lights were powered by a generator that had to be regularly be fueled up.

“I remember I would ride down there to look at it because it was so beautiful but I also worked at the museum so I took on the job of being the ‘gas lady’ whenever I could that year,” Davis said.

There was a pause on putting the tree up for a few seasons because it became harder to borrow crab pots, compounded by the damage to the facility from 2018’s Hurricane Florence that closed the main building for a few years to undergo repairs.  

“In 2020 I started working there again and when I did, we talked about making Christmas big,” Davis continued. “That year I wanted the tree to make a comeback. I remember asking everyone I knew who had crab pots or who had been a crabber in the past, if we could get some for this tree. Everyone I talked to was excited but finding someone that had pots available and the time wasn’t easy.”

The first year that Davis took the project on, her father and sister helped load the crab pots into the back of her pickup truck and in a trailer to haul to the museum. “It took three trips,” Davis said.

Davis explained that the team likes to “joke and say the engineering is a little bit organic because it doesn’t have to be exactly the same to work.” And they’ve been working together for so long, that “at this point we just know what to do.”

Their favorite saying is that “we’re making circles out of squares,” she continued. “We always start with the same amount for the bottom. Make a ring out of pots basically and then fill it in. Each row is done the same way just a smaller number of pots until it gets to the top. The pots are secured through heavy duty wire ties and rebar.”

This year, it took 170 crab pots arranged in 12 rows to build the 23-foot-tall tree.

Once the tree is complete, a glowing handmade star is placed on top.

“The coolest part about this tree for me is what it represents. These pots are actually used by commercial fisherman in the sound. Every year they harvest and haul hard crabs. Knowing that they’re real and not something just bought for decoration,” Davis said.

New this year, the tree is being decorated with buoys hand-painted by local kids, “which is really special,” she said, “And knowing that in every way possible this tree is Down East, makes it absolutely great! It captures the spirit like many things at the museum and it’s put on display so the world can have a chance to see a small glimpse of that.”

“Because everyone loves,” the giant Christmas tree, it is being featured on the museum’s holiday apparel line, Amspacher said. “It has become a symbol of Down East Christmas.”

Waterfowl Weekend details

The fourth annual Core Sound Chow Down and Best Sweet Potato Pie Down East competition starts at 5:30 p.m. Friday. Tickets, $35 for members and $45 for nonmembers, include four cups of your choice from the spread of chowders, soups and stews made by cooks from around the county. Molasses Creek will perform live music.

Competitors returning this year are D’s Island Clam Chowder, Per-Atlantic Crab and Corn Chowder, and Gloucester Mardi Gras Chicken and Sausage Gumbo. New this year will be stewed shrimp, crab-shrimp bisque, stewed scallops, chili, and Cedar Island original lima beans and crab meat. The submissions will be judged by seafood market and chefs from across eastern North Carolina.

Doors open at 8 a.m. Saturday and 10 a.m. Sunday, and each day has special programming.

On Saturday there will be live music at 11 a.m. with Asher Brinson and Friends, noon with Mac McRoy and The South Point Band, and 1 p.m. with Molasses Creek. Preview for the live auction is at 2 p.m. and the auction begins at 3 p.m. The online auction is live now through Dec. 6.

On Sunday, a church service is scheduled for 8 a.m. and at 2 p.m. is a World War II Pearl Harbor Day memorial gathering.

Every year, the museum’s “Core Sound Quilt Crew” sew a quilt that is put up for action to raise funds for the nonprofit museum. This year’s theme is “Reflections of Diamond City.” Tickets can be purchased online for the quilt raffle, as well as the Christmas raffle. Winner takes home $5,000.

The Indian Woods historical marker at the intersection of St. Francis Road and U.S. Highway 17 in Bertie County is easily missed while cruising at 55 or 60 miles an hour.

Located at the edge of a farmer’s field after the fall harvest of cotton, the sign leans to the north, and hints of the story and its aftermath of an almost forgotten war between Native Americans and colonists in the early 18th century.

It is the northernmost of at least seven signs that are found throughout coastal North Carolina from Wayne County to Bertie County that trace the story of that conflict.

The Tuscarora War was brutal and horrific. Launching a coordinated attack on the morning of Sept. 22, 1711, Tuscarora warriors slaughtered 140 men, women and children throughout eastern North Carolina.

“The Tuscarora devastated white settlements in the Pamlico Neuse region and raised serious fears for the continuance of English occupation in North Carolina,” Thomas Parramore wrote for the North Carolina Historical Review in 1982.

Unable to defend its own people, the North Carolina colony’s general assembly begged Virginia and South Carolina for help.

Virginia refused to send troops, but put pressure on neutral Tuscarora villages in its colony to remain out of the conflict. South Carolina sent combined white and Native forces.

In the end in March of 1713, when the last pitched battle of the war was fought at Fort Neoheroka, which is present day Snow Hill in Greene County, at least a thousand Tuscarora were dead and another thousand sold into slavery in South Carolina.

In North Carolina, as many as 200 colonists were killed and the combined white and Native combatants provided by South Carolina suffered an additional 200 deaths.

Tuscarora lineage

The Tuscarora were part of the Iroquois, whose original lands stretched from New York state into Canada. The migration to North Carolina most likely occurred sometime around the 1500s, Dr. Arwin Smallwood, dean of the College of Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities at North Carolina Central University, told Coastal Review.

Smallwood, who traces his lineage to the Tuscarora people, grew up in Indian Woods and has studied the history of the Tuscarora extensively.

“In the 1500s they’d already moved down from (New York) and settled North Carolina,” he said, adding that “they never broke their blood ties to the five nations,” which are the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga and Seneca.

By the 1580s, when Sir Walter Raleigh’s doomed expeditions landed on Roanoke Island, the Tuscarora were well established in eastern North Carolina and probably were the dominant Native nation of the region. They may have been the ones who decided the colony’s fate.

“Tuscarora oral traditions say they were the ones who destroyed the Lost Colony,” Smallwood said. “They always had large numbers of people who had European characteristics like red and auburn hair, even sometimes blonde hair, but definitely what (Native Americans) called the Tuscarora eye, which was blue-green, kind of a hazel eye, that was prevalent throughout the Tuscaroras and that distinguished them.”

War: Longtime complaints

At its simplest, the Tuscarora War was about long-established complaints of the Tuscarora: Encroachment on lands they had traditionally controlled and unfair and dishonest trading practices.

But, Smallwood noted, there were other factors at play.

It was “trade routes. The Tuscaroras controlled the Piedmont and the coastal plains of North Carolina. They controlled all the major trade routes between North Carolina and Virginia,” he said. “Anyone who needed knives, axes, guns, gunpowder, whatever they had to trade through them, including rum. They had to trade through the Tuscaroras. For the southeastern Indians, it was a way of eliminating them as the people who monopolized trade.”

It is possible that, after at least 60 years of observing the internal politics of the North Carolina colony, the Tuscarora were aware of the internal rivalries that were threatening to tear the colony apart, and that may have played a role in the timing of the initial attack.

Cary’s Rebellion pitted Thomas Cary, the Quaker-leaning former governor of the colony, against Edward Hyde, who the Lords Proprietors had selected to govern the colony. The rebellion exposed the deep political divisions within the colony that led to open warfare with Hyde finally taking the reins of the governorship in 1711.

At that time, the colony was divided into two counties: Albemarle in the north and Bath in the south. Although in 1711 the nominal capital of the colony was Bath. There was no government office there and it’s doubtful if the population of the town ever reached 300 people.

The northern Albemarle colony was dominated by the supporters of Hyde and the resentment from Cary’s attempt to wrest control of the colony permeated the region.

“The Cary Rebellion had pitted Albemarle against Bath and had left the colonists of the two counties somewhat at odds with each other. It was by no means clear that Albemarle would rush to the defense of Bath County and, in fact, it did not,” Parramore wrote.

If there was a proximate cause of the war, it was the settlement of New Bern by Swiss immigrants and members of the Palatine religious sect escaping religious persecution in Europe.

“New Bern was built on what (the Tuscarora) considered to be part of their capital city,” Smallwood said.

Baron Christopher DeGraffenreid, the founder of New Bern, in his “Account of the Tuscarora War,” touched on many of the issues that have been cited as causing the conflict.

“What caused the Indian war was firstly, the slanders and instigations of certain plotters against Governor Hyde, and secondly, against me, in that they talked the Indians into believing that I had come to take their land,” he wrote. “Talked them out of this and it was proven by the friendliness I had shown them, as also by the payment for the land where I settled at the beginning (namely that upon which the little city of New Bern was begun), regardless of the fact that the seller was to have given it over to me free.”

Captured with surveyor John Lawson, DeGraffenreid was able to talk his way out of imprisonment and possible death.

It is possible Lawson could have avoided his fate, but, Smallwood said, “he quarreled with the chiefs. You’re being held prisoner, and you’ve been put on trial, and then you go argue with the prosecuting attorney and the judge who decides whether you live or die.”

Lawson, whose book “History of North Carolina” gave accurate and clear-eyed accounts of Native life in the colonies, was not so lucky, and may have had a hand in his own undoing. Accused by his captors of surveying the Tuscarora land for the purpose of selling it, he was tried and convicted and sentenced to death.

Like the North Carolina colony, the Tuscarora had internal divisions. Parramore described the Tuscarora as “not a nation and probably not even a confederacy though colonial perceptions of them had not traditionally recognized any significant internal divisions.”

Smallwood, however, paints a different picture.

“The whole structure was family based,” he said. “With that being said, they were all united because the whole nation is united by blood.”

Within that nation family, there were specific ways to make decisions that would affect all members for the Tuscarora nation, Smallwood said, describing the decision-making process as “a democracy.”

Smallwood explained that Lawson was convicted after “all of the chiefs met in the war council. In that council, they all agree to execute Lawson.”

War: First conflict

When the war first broke out in 1711, South Carolina sent military aid. Col. John Barnwell left South Carolina with “30 white men and nearly 500 Indians,” the Carolana website states.

Although Barnwell may have included giving military aid to North Carolina in his reasoning, by his actions and those of the men under his command, the profit that could be realized from the bounty on scalps and selling Native Americans into slavery was an important part of why he made the trip.

Thomas Peotta in his 2018 doctoral dissertation, “Dark Mimesis: A Cultural History of the Scalping Paradigm,” at the University of British Columbia, describes how profitable scalps and prisoners could be.

“Virginia and Carolina offered scalp and prisoner bounties to militiamen and allied Indians. Virginia…offered £20 per scalp to British colonists, while uninvolved Tuscaroras on Virginia’s frontier were offered a bounty of 6 blankets apiece…for the scalps of Hancock’s warriors, and market prices for enslaved women and children,” he wrote.

For Barnwell, the scalps had an additionally benefit, Peotta wrote, noting that “scalps and prisoners also offered a way to tally the dead: Barnwell’s forces recorded 52 scalps and 30 captives after (his) victory at Torhunta in 1712.” Torhunta is present day Pikeville in Wayne County.

After a series of battles with the Tuscarora including a 10-day siege at their main settlement in Craven County, Barnwell reached an agreement with the Tuscarora combatants to pay tribute and lay down their arms. After signing the agreement, he invited some of the local Indians, who had not attacked the colonists, into his camp. They were then seized, DeGraffenreid wrote, and sold into slavery

“He thought of a means of going back to South Carolina with profit, and under the pretense of a good peace he enticed a goodly number of the friendly Indians or savage Carolinians, took them prisoner at Core Town (to this his tributary Indians were entirely inclined because they hoped to get a considerable sum from each prisoner) and made his way home with his living plunder…This so unchristian act very properly embittered the rest of the Tuscarora and Carolina Indians very much, although heathens, so that they no longer trusted the Christians,” he wrote.

War: Conclusion

The action reignited the war, with King Hancock again leading the Tuscarora aligned with him. Renewing the conflict may have been justified, but it was not sanctioned by the war council, allowing the northern Tuscarora to remain neutral.

It would take another military expedition from South Carolina, this one led by Col. James Moore to end the war, but it also led to an open rift between King Hancock and the northern Tuscarora.

King Hancock was captured by northern Tuscarora at the orders of Chief Blunt (or Blount) in November of 1712 and turned over to North Carolina authorities who executed him.

The war did not end with Hancock’s death, however.

The agreement with Blunt was that he was to deliver the scalps of key leaders to North Carolina authorities by the end of the year. When he failed to do so, Moore renewed his campaign.

Finally, following a three-day siege at Fort Neoheroka the war came to an end, although there were sporadic raids and fighting until 1715.

Aftermath

For the tribal nations that had aligned with the South Carolina expeditions, their participation sparked “a continental war in the back country,” Smallwood explained.

“Because of the role,” Smallwood continued. “Those Indians in that area played in the war, it set off a continental Indian War. he Mohawks, the Oneidas, the Onondaga, the Senecas, and (allied tribes) came south, and they completely obliterated the (the southern tribes).”

In North Carolina, the war was a harbinger of extraordinary change. Initially the war’s end brought brought economic hardship to what was then called Bath County, an area that now includes Beaufort, Hyde, Bladen, Onslow, Carteret and New Hanover counties.

“The concentration of Indian attacks on frontier settlements during the war and the continuation of raids after the peace of 1713 stifled economic growth in Bath County and contributed to temporary food shortages throughout the colony,” Christine Styrna explained in a 1990 doctoral dissertation at the College of William and Mary.

But if the initial effect was to wreak havoc on the colony’s economy, the war also “provided certain colonial leaders with the opportunity to reinforce their economic and political power while serving as a catalyst for economic development,” Styrna noted.

Bath and New Bern had taken the brunt of the Tuscarora raids, and there, Styrna wrote, “colonists slowly rebuilt their homes and fortunes.”

The rest of the colony, though, experienced a “boom period” in which coastal and local trade increased dramatically. According to the shipping reports Styrna cites from the Boston Newsletter, “the number of vessels sailing to and from ports in North Carolina ports elsewhere between 1716 and 1720 increased fourfold in comparison to the five-year period before the war.”

If, however, North Carolina was on the road to recovery, the fate of the Tuscarora was one of enslavement and exile, leading to a diaspora of the tribal nation that stretched from North Carolina to Canada.

Most of the southern Tuscarora emigrated north. The largest group returned to the Iroquois in New York, becoming numerous enough that in 1722 the Tuscarora became the sixth nation of the Iroquois Confederacy.

As they moved north, some settled in Pennsylvania. There is today, a Tuscarora Mountain in south central Pennsylvania.

Many of them, though, settled in small communities throughout North Carolina and other states east of the Mississippi.

“It’s like you take a plate or mirror and you drop it on the floor and it shatters and shards go everywhere,” Smallwood said. “There’s some big chunks, and then there are lots of little chunks. And those little chunks, are scattered all over eastern North Carolina. They’re at least today, seven different factions of Tuscaroras that are (in North Carolina). And larger groups of them who are in Virginia, and even over into eastern Ohio.”

Coastal Review will not publish Thursday and Friday in observation of the Thanksgiving holiday.

A group of volunteers spent peak visitor season this year under the blistering sun and swarmed by thick clouds of flying insects, all to make sure the wild horses, including the newborn foals, inhabiting Cape Lookout National Seashore and Rachel Carson Reserve were undisturbed by the thousands who make their way to the barrier islands that are only accessible by boat.

The volunteers are part of the Pony Patrol program, which trains the “Pony Patrollers,” as they’re called, to share with visitors how to safely observe the two herds. One herd is on Shackleford Banks, the national seashore’s southernmost island, and the other is on the reserve site that is across Taylors Creek from downtown Beaufort.

The National Park Service, Foundation for Shackleford Horses and reserve staff organize the outreach effort that just wrapped up its third year. The foundation is the federally designated co-manager with the park service of the herd.  

Rich Rehm, a volunteer who leads the program for Cape Lookout, explained that the goal of Pony Patrol for the park service is twofold. First is to make sure guests on Shackleford Island stay at least 50 feet from the horses and keep their dogs leashed. Second, as representatives of the National Park Service, is to answer questions visitors may have about the horses, the island, or the seashore.

Paula Gillikin, stewardship coordinator for the 10 reserve sites, has been the longtime manager for the herd at Rachel Carson Reserve, one of 10 protected sites along the coast managed by the North Carolina Coastal Reserve and National Estuarine Research Reserve, under North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality.

“The Pony Patrol plays a vital role in supporting the Rachel Carson Reserve and our partners by helping us educate the public about the wild horse population that makes the reserve such a unique part of North Carolina’s coastal heritage,” Gillikin said. “When the public understands what the horses need to survive and be healthy, they are more likely to give the horses the space they need to thrive. This understanding also keeps our visitors safe.”

Foundation President Margaret Poindexter told Coastal Review that the 2025 season had been the largest “and undoubtedly our most successful,” despite its “very difficult start.”

What made 2025 special, she continued, was the determination and resolve of the close to 50 volunteers.

The rocky start began when the first foal of the year from either herd was born at the Rachel Carson Reserve in early May, Poindexter said.

“Her presence was immediately known — lots of eyeballs in Beaufort are constantly on that herd. Just a few days after her birth, and within days of the Pony Patrol season launching, a group of visitors got too close to the foal, the anxious stallion gathered up his mare to get away from them, and the foal was stranded on the oyster rocks unable to keep up with its mama,” she explained.

Though the reserve staff was able to intervene and reunite the two, the Pony Patrollers “were very disappointed that something so potentially tragic could happen so early into the season, before the real rush of visitors even started,” Poindexter said.

Then, on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, a newborn foal was found alone on the east end of Shackleford, on the oceanside. The foundation “made the difficult decision to remove it in order to save its life. Again, the Pony Patrollers were discouraged, afraid that perhaps human intervention had caused the foal to be separated from its mother,” she continued. 

Another foal on Shackleford was separated from its mother 10 days later, found in the mud on the sound side, likely as the result of a stallion fight. It too was removed to save its life, Poindexter said.

Volunteers Margo Hickman and Laura Palazzolo, both Carteret County residents, agreed it was particularly heartbreaking to see the foals removed from the island earlier this summer. Hickman said it was uncertain if they would survive.

“’The Americas’ TV episode about Shackleford was beautiful, but it drew a lot of attention — and with that came more pressure on the horses,” Palazzolo said. The first episode, “The Atlantic Coast,” of the NBC series dated Feb. 23 began with the wild horses at Cape Lookout.

“There were multiple incidents of visitors getting too close, trying to take selfies, or even attempting to pet the ponies,” Palazzolo explained. “We can’t say for sure why two foals were abandoned on the east end, but human interference could certainly have played a part.”

Poindexter continued that “Shortly after those incidents, a filly was born on the west end of Shackleford, in an area that receives significant visitation because of its close proximity to the ferry drop and the crossover to the beach. The Pony Patrollers committed themselves to ensuring the safety and survival of this little girl.”

The volunteers scheduled regular tours in the area around the pair and reported to each other after their shift about the whereabouts and well-being of the foal and her mother. “They intercepted numerous visitors who were curious about her, moving them away from her so as not to interfere with her nursing and nap times, but sharing insider information about her and her harem to create a unique and enhanced visitor experience,” Poindexter said.

Some of the volunteers that have been with the program since the first season, including retirees Hickman and Deb Walker, have been captivated by the filly.

Walker, who grew up in Newport and returned after retiring in 2015 from several decades as an educator in Mississippi, said a major highlight for her this summer was the newborn filly.

Hickman called the filly’s birth “the icing on the cake” for her. “We all became part of her family as her honorary aunts. We weathered heat and humidity and some god-awful mosquitoes daily to check on her.”

Fellow Pony Patroller Cindy K. Smith, who began volunteering in 2024, was the first of the group to spot the filly.

Smith, a Straits resident, said she was fortunate to be leading a tour that day in June when she spotted the foal shortly after birth. “Her little legs wobbled to steady herself against her Mama.”

Smith is photographer, naturalist and guide who has been visiting Shackleford and Rachael Carson for 30-plus years and joined Pony Patrol because, like so many others, she has a “fascination with the ‘ponies.’”

Smith said once realized the foal was a newborn, she began calling seashore staff and other patrollers.

“We were all elated,” Smith continued, adding that knowing that the Fourth of July week, and the associated influx of visitors, was near, the volunteers knew extra precautions would be needed to keep her safe and at a distance from human interaction.

The volunteers were given guidance from seashore and foundation staff to developed a plan to quietly watch from afar, Palazzolo said, adding they always kept a respectful distance. “At least one Patroller was stationed on the dunes, watching and ready to gently intervene if visitors wandered too close.”

Smith reiterated that the volunteers “went over and above for this little girl, perching on dunes, hiding behind bushes or whatever it took to make sure she would not be approached. Individuals went out on their own and watched over her even when it was not a shift. I think this camaraderie bonded us in a way that made each of us better and as a whole, a more cohesive unit.”

The foal is thriving now, Palazzolo explained, and along the way, “visitors got to experience something really special. We’d share what we’d learned from our reports — her habits, her routine — and people would sit quietly to watch. We’d tell them, ‘If you stay back and give her space, you’ll see her nurse, nap, or maybe even get the zoomies.’ It became this magical moment of connection — respectful and joyful all at once.”

How Pony Patrol began

Poindexter explained that the first year in 2023 was truly a pilot, and began with around 30 participants.

“We only sent volunteers to Shackleford that first season. Rich Rehm, one of the seasoned volunteers at Cape Lookout National Seashore, stepped up and offered to be the program coordinator. Truly, without his willingness to fill that role, the program likely would never have gotten off the ground,” Poindexter said.

Rehm retired as an environmental consultant in the Research Triangle Park area and moved to in 2016 to Merrimon with his wife. He began volunteering with the seashore in 2017.

When Rehm was asked in 2019 to coordinate the program for the National Park Service, he said he passed on the opportunity. Then, the program was put on hold because of the COVID-19 pandemic. In 2022, he decided he would take up the role.

After that first year in 2023, the seashore “was pleased with the success of the program and we expanded the program to include Rachel Carson Reserve,” Rehm said. “In 2025, we expanded the program again to include the east end of Shackleford Island.”

Though the 2025 season wrapped up in late September, a call for volunteers will likely go out in the coming months from both the National Park Service and Rachel Carson Reserve ahead of the 2026 season. Gillikin, with the reserve, said Pony Patrol applications for both herds will likely be launched in January or February.

Poindexter said that those interested in joining the Pony Patrol should know that conditions are rough. “Walking over dunes, in sand, through mud and marsh, often in extreme heat and humidity, while being besieged by mosquitoes,” she said.

Despite the challenges like the heat, the bugs, the mud, and the occasional rude visitor, Palazzolo said the horses make it all worth it.

“There’s nothing like standing on those dunes, watching them go about their day. It reminds you that wildness still exists — and that it’s fragile,” she said. “I’m looking forward to checking on her this winter — and jumping right back in next summer.”

Rehm added, “If you can put up with the heat, the humidity, the bugs, and the storms by all means you should volunteer.”

Coastal Review will not publish Tuesday in observation of Veterans Day.

Anne Edwards’ grandmother rarely spoke about the young man wearing a Navy “Crackerjack” uniform in the photograph displayed on a table in the living room of her New Bern home.

As a child, Edwards would hear her mother occasionally refer to him as “uncle.” From what other relatives said, he was a sociable, kind man.

“There’s not a whole lot,” Edwards said. “My mother and grandmother really didn’t talk about it a lot. All I knew was that he died in Pearl Harbor.”

His photo from the table has since gone missing. The Navy does not have an official photo.

His death was untimely, violent — his remains could not be identified and returned to his family for burial. The pain of it all was likely too much for them to convey in conversation, Edwards assumes.

Last week, Edwards attended her great-uncle’s burial with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. The Oct. 8 ceremony was held more than 80 years after he was killed in the attack that thrust the United States into World War II.

Navy Fireman 1^st Class Edward Bowden was aboard the USS California on the morning of Dec. 7, 1941, when the Imperial Japanese Navy launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor near Honolulu, Hawaii.

Early in the raid, two Japanese aerial torpedoes slammed the ship’s forward and aft, ripping a 40-foot hole in her hull. She would later be hit by a bomb that further opened her insides to flooding.

The attacks claimed the lives of 103 of her crew, including Bowden, a 29-year-old New Bern native. Bowden bore a striking resemblance to his sister who had raised him from the time he was roughly 10 or 11 after their parents died.

That would be about as much as Edwards would know about her late great-uncle, who died about three years before she came into the world, until a letter from the U.S. Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency arrived at her Onslow County home more than six years ago.

Edwards called the agency, which works to identify the remains of unknown prisoners of war and those missing in action. She wanted to make sure the letter, one that requested a sample of her DNA, wasn’t some kind of a hoax.

It wasn’t.

This past April, Edwards got the call that Bowden’s remains, long since buried as an unknown at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Hawaii, were officially identified as those of her great-uncle.

She now has a document some two inches thick that contains details about the young man in the black-and-white photograph that was a staple in her grandmother’s house.

Bowden was 28 when he enlisted in the Navy on Aug. 28, 1940, in Raleigh. He reported to the USS California by November of that year.

His sister, who was 18 and married when he moved in with the young couple, signed an affidavit as his guardian, according to the paperwork provided by the casualty office.

Records do not reveal where in the ship Bowden was when it was hit and eventually sank to the bottom of the harbor three days after the attack.

Navy personnel recovered the remains of the ship’s crew between December 1941 to April 1942.

“The problem with identification came because their remains were comingled and so they didn’t really know who they were,” Edwards said.

In all, there would be 20 unresolved casualties from the USS California and 25 associated unknowns buried at the National Cemetery of the Pacific.

Remains of servicemembers yet to be identified in the cemetery were all exhumed by March 2018. As of August, 10 had been identified as being from the USS California.

Edwards was given the discretion to decide where her great-uncle’s remains should be buried.

“Now he can always be found,” she said. “That’s the reason I chose Arlington. I want any family that might be out there related to him to be able to trace him and find out about him.”

Bowden’s military awards include the Purple Heart Medal, Combat Action Ribbon, and World War II Victor Medal.

Edwards was joined by more than a dozen relatives for the Oct. 8 burial. Nieces, nephews, their children, cousins and their spouses traveled from New Bern, Greenville and Maryland to the exceptionally manicured grounds of the cemetery marked by rows and rows of glistening white crosses.

“It was unbelievable,” she said. “Everything was perfect. I was very, very pleased that the young people from the family came. I was very pleased that they felt like they should honor him. I felt a sense of closure for him. He’s not just a name anymore.”

Editor’s note: The following is from historian David Cecelski’s “Working Lives: Photographs from Eastern North Carolina, 1937 to 1947.” The Carteret County native introduced the nearly 20-part photo-essay series earlier this year on his website, explaining at the time that the images he selected from the N.C. Department of Conservation and Development Collection were taken in the late 1930s into the early 1950s of the state’s farms, industries, and working people.

This is a photograph of Ms. Neva Adams at work in the stitching room at the Morehead City Garment Co. in Morehead City, 1942.

Chartered in the fall of 1938, the “Shirt Factory” was first located on the second floor of a brick building a block from Bogue Sound. At the time, the Great Depression still lingered. Hoping to attract a textile company, the town’s leaders had invested in the space, the machinery, and a training program for workers.

By the time of this photograph, the company, which was started by a couple from Pennsylvania, had moved to a new building across the railroad tracks. The original building was later home to the Webb Memorial Library in downtown Morehead City.

In a way, the company’s arrival in town was an historic event. The work was hard, the hours long and, in its early years, workers were rather scandalously not even paid the legal minimum wage.

Nonetheless, a job at the Shirt Factory offered a singular opportunity for hundreds of women just before, during, and after World War II. For many, it was their first chance to do what used to be called “public work,” a catch-all phrase for any job not in the home or on the farm.

They came from near and far to the Shirt Factory. Scores of women commuted in the back of farm trucks.

Others walked from the Promise Land, the neighborhood of largely fishing families that bordered the Shirt Factory.

Some women even caught rides on the school bus from Salter Path, a fishing village all the way out on Bogue Banks.

Neva Adams, in this photo, resided in Morehead City, probably in the Promise Land. She was already a grandmother when she started working at the Shirt Factory, but she had lost her husband just before the war and was on her own.

For women like her, the Shirt Factory often seemed a godsend. To a large part, that was because of the income, of course.

But over the years, when I have been talking to women who worked at the Shirt Factory back in those days, they have often told me how much it meant to them to be part of a community of women who laughed a lot, shared stories, and supported one another.

Being with those women, they would say, was a balm for grief and loneliness and all the hurts that happen in life.

–2–

This is Ella Pittman, another of the Morehead City Garment Co.’s machine operators, at work in the stitching room in 1942.

Ms. Pittman was just the kind of woman that went to work at the Shirt Factory during the Second World War.

Born on Cedar Island in 1894, she had grown up in that remotest corner of the North Carolina coast long before bridges connected the local villages to the mainland.

Her father, Francis Marion Goodwin, was a fisherman all his life. A passel of Ms. Ella’s brothers, nephews, and cousins worked on the water as well– many of them on menhaden fishing boats.

Old timers still remember her brother, Capt. Leroy Goodwin, who was killed when a tugboat collided with his menhaden boat, the Barnegat, in 1960.

By the time that Ms. Pittman went to work at the Shirt Factory, she had come a long way in her life.

As a girl and young woman on Cedar Island, she had cooked on a wood stove or over a hearth. She had done laundry in a tin wash pot, salted barrels of fish every autumn, and had been unacquainted with electricity and indoor plumbing.

In all likelihood, she grew up helping her mother in a garden resplendent in collard greens, shallots, and sweet potatoes.

She was quite likely already well acquainted with needle and twine before coming to the Shirt Factory. Many a Cedar Island home had two hooks in the family’s kitchen walls, like the ones you might hang a hammock from, but they were put there for stitching fishing nets.

That way the women in the family could work on the family’s fishing nets In between their kitchen chores.

As a young woman, Ms. Ella married Luther Pittman, a Cedar Island fisherman. Like so many other Down East families in that day, they soon left their island home and moved into Beaufort.

When young Ella and Luther moved into town, they settled in Lennoxville, a community largely of fishing families that was actually a few miles east of Beaufort’s town limits.

Many years later, when Ella Pittman went to work at the Shirt Factory, she was probably in her 50s.

She was a mother of four, and she was likely the first woman in her extended family to do “public work” unless one of her daughters or nieces had gotten a wartime job at the Naval Section Base in Morehead City or at the big Marine Corps installation that was being built near Havelock.

The hours and working conditions at the Shirt Factory would seem grueling to many of us today.

However — and while I hate to make broad generalizations, I’m going to do it here anyway — a woman that grew up on Cedar Island in the early 1900s was used to hard work and long hours.

Even so, combining a daily shift at the Shirt Factory with a housewife’s duties could not have been easy.

Working at the Shirt Factory also posed challenges for many of those women that we might not consider today.

When I was younger, for instance, I often spoke with local women, including some of the women in my own family, who had gone from a fishing or farm life to a job at a factory or other public work during World War II.

For some, and especially older women workers, it took some getting used to, and some never did get used to it and did not last long.

Though accustomed to hard work, many said that it was a whole other thing to work by the clock, to be indoors all day, to do repetitive tasks day after day, and to have a boss with the power to tell them what to do, when to do it, when they could take breaks, and all the rest.

By all accounts, the Shirt Factory had a somewhat tumultuous first year.

Convicted on 25 counts of violating the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938, including a failure to pay the minimum wage of 25 cents an hour, the company closed temporarily in May 1939. I am not sure how long the factory was idle, but the closure left more than 300 workers without a paycheck for a time.

Later in the 1940s, the company was also the scene of a bitter union drive.

During the union drive, the National Labor Relations Board ruled that the company’s owners had violated the National Labor Relations Act by firing pro-union activists and intimidating workers prior to the union election. A copy of the ruling is online.

-3-

During the Second World War, a considerable part of the company’s production was for the United States Government, including in 1941, a $25,000 contract for military-issue khaki shirts, according to a March 15, 1914, report in the Asheville Times.

-4-

Here we get a more expansive view of the women in the company’s stitching room.

In my younger days, I had several elderly cousins and a great-uncle who had retired from long careers at the Shirt Factory.

I remember that when my cousins, all women, reminisced about their days at the Shirt Factory, they talked mainly about their friends there. They spoke of the feeling of sisterhood at the plant.

Long after they retired, they remained close to those women.

I did not get as much chance to be around my great-uncle Leo Simpson, and I don’t remember him speaking of the Shirt Factory, though he must have. He was married to my grandmother’s sister, Hilda.

However, I know that Great-Uncle Leo began working at the Shirt Factory in the late 1930s, soon after it first opened. For most of his career, he was the head of the factory’s cutting room.

My wonderful cousin Doug, one of Leo and Hilda’s sons, believes that his father likely met the company’s owners while he was helping to build the company’s new factory building in 1939 or ’40.

Doug was around the Shirt Factory from the time he was a small child. And when he got a little older, he had summer jobs there, before he went off and became a distinguished college professor and a leading authority on the great American educational philosopher John Dewey.

When I talked with Doug the other day, he recalled the company’s owners, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, as being “kind, gracious people.”

He told me that Mrs. Jackson worked alongside her husband at the factory. She was, he said, a tall, imposing woman who always dressed very nicely.

Cousin Doug was not around her husband as much, but he did remember Mr. Jackson’s fierce anti-unionism.

On the other hand, he also recalled Mr. Jackson’s support for racial integration and his commitment to employing African Americans throughout the Shirt Factory. Such a policy was very out of keeping with the region’s other textile plants, and it was apparently controversial in Morehead City when first implemented at the Shirt Factory.

Judging from these photographs, the Shirt Factory had not yet opened its stitching room’s doors to Black women in 1942.

-5-

In this last photograph from the Shirt Factory’s stitching room, we meet an 18-year-old machine operator named Annie Grace Benton, about whom I also did a bit of research on her background.

I discovered that, in a way, young Ms. Benton represented another kind of woman that was drawn to wartime jobs such as those at the Shirt Factory.

According to my research, she had grown up on a farm in Seven Springs, a rural hamlet 90 miles west of Morehead City.

She had evidently just left home for the first time.

For many young women such as her, a job at the Shirt Factory meant a chance to help their families. Many a time, their wages might even have helped keep their family’s farm afloat or enabled a younger brother or sister to go to college.

For many of the young women, the Shirt Factory and other public jobs were also an opportunity to put the Great Depression behind them and to free themselves from the provincialism of farm life, and most especially from the limited roles for women that had historically existed in the farming communities of eastern North Carolina.

Military boom towns such as Morehead City were particularly exciting during World War II. The town was bustling with a Naval section base that operated there, and Army patrols were in and out constantly.

A busy USO and other local businesses catered to servicemen and women on leave from the many military installations, army outposts, and airfields that were being built on that part of the North Carolina coast in the early part of the war.

The largest were the Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station, originally Cunningham Field, in Havelock and Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville.

Boardinghouses had sprung up all over Morehead City to cater to military wives and girlfriends, as well as to young farm women like Annie Grace Benton who were away from home for the first time.

Wherever Ms. Benton lived in Morehead City, probably in a boardinghouse, she was also around legions of other young women who had moved from other parts of the country to fill jobs at Cherry Point.

Those women were no ordinary lot either. At Cherry Point, they ranged from aircraft painters to flight instructors, jobs for which women, because so many men were overseas, were welcome for the first time.

Not only did many farm women, including, presumably Ms. Benton, welcome the financial independence offered by that kind of “public work,” but many also relished the liberty of being someplace where everyone did not know them, and the excitement of being liberated, however briefly, from the old mores — economic, social, and sexual — that governed women’s lives back home.

-End-

Saturday evening was one of celebrating coastal stewards, supporters and volunteers during North Carolina Coastal Federation’s annual Pelican Awards and Taste of the Coast fundraising event.

The nonprofit organization that publishes Coastal Review was established in 1982 with the mission to protect and preserve the state’s coast and has offices on the Outer Banks, the central coast and Cape Fear region.

Held in Carteret Community College’s Joslyn Hall, the staff presented 15 Pelican Awards to those who have shared “their time and talents, through leadership, education, hands-on projects, and volunteer efforts, to inspire others and create lasting change,” according to the organization.

The Taste of the Coast fundraising celebration followed the ceremony next door in the Crystal Coast Civic Center, where there was food, live music and a silent auction.

This is the 22nd year that the organization has recognized “exceptional contributions” with Pelican Awards.

Federation Board of Directors Vice President Kenneth Chestnut told the roughly 200 in the audience that the Pelican Awards annually “recognize and celebrate the organizations, agencies, partners and the extraordinary people who work together for a healthy coast.”

He continued that the awards are “about partnerships and coming together for a common cause, and that’s the protection and restoration of our beautiful coast.”

Federation Executive Director Braxton Davis presented one of the two Lifetime Achievement Awards this year to Dr. Hans Paerl, “For a Distinguished Career Dedicated to Coastal Research, Protection, and Restoration.”

Paerl, who recently retired after 47 years, is a Kenan Professor of Marine Environmental Sciences at University of North Carolina Institute of Marine Sciences in Morehead City.

“Paerl has spent decades uncovering the secret of healthy waterways and applying that knowledge to protect the coast,” Davis said.

Paerl’s accomplishments include establishing the FerryMon program, where he turned state ferries into long-term water quality monitoring stations for the Albemarle and Pamlico sounds.

“His groundbreaking research has shown how nutrients and climate affect water quality, how harmful algal blooms form, and most importantly, what we can do to safeguard our estuaries and coastal waters for future generations,” Davis said of Paerl, whose work has appeared in 600 scientific publications. His many honors include the 2003 G. Evelyn Hutchinson Award for work in oceanography, the 2011 Odom Award in estuarine science, and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Harmful Algal Bloom committee.

Paerl took the podium with ease and explained to the crowd that he was thrilled to be able to talk about the scientific achievements made in the state to help protect its waters, particularly going way back to the phosphate detergent ban enacted in the 1980s, and the establishment of a total maximum daily nitrogen load for the Neuse River, “which has been effective, and I’m glad to say that we’re seeing some really good results from that now.”

But, Paerl continued, “more importantly, I think I’d like to share this award with all the students, technicians, faculty and collaborators that have worked with me.” He called himself “more of a facilitator” who knocks on doors in the legislature to point “out that good science brings good management and good decisions.”

Though he’s retired, Paerl said he is indebted to those he has worked with and hasn’t stopped knocking on doors and talking to folks and collaborating.

“I’m still showing up at work, and we’re all dedicated — I’m really speaking for all the folks that I’ve worked with — we’re all dedicated, from the science perspective,” Paerl said, to make North Carolina an example for other states, the country and the world, “in terms of using science to really make a difference, in terms of protecting our environment, saving it and making sure it’s sustainable for the long run.”

Federation Coastal Management Program Director Kerri Allen of the Wrightsville Beach office presented to David Cignotti a Lifetime Achievement Award “For Outstanding Community Leadership, Collaboration, and Dedication to Coastal Stewardship.”

Cignotti is someone “who embodies the heart and soul of this community,” Allen said, and “is one of those rare people who leads a quiet strength, deep humility and a genuine love for nature that you can feel in everything he does.”

A lifelong educator, former mayor of Wrightsville Beach and dedicated steward of the Coastal Federation, he helped launch a membership drive that brought in more than 60 new families, has been a site coordinator with an international coastal cleanup effort for at least a decade, and is a cofounder of Save Our Seas NC. Cignotti also served on the Coastal Federation’s southeast advisory committee, its board of directors, and he chaired the audit committee.

“When the coast needs a voice, he speaks up,” Allen said, whether that’s bringing attention to the use of bird poison on Wrightsville Beach, protecting trees from unnecessary clearcutting, or making sure local businesses have a say in offshore drilling proposals.

Cignotti expressed his gratitude, adding that he couldn’t think of another organization with more than 40 years of advocacy for the coastal environment, and “cannot imagine getting an award that I would cherish more than what I’m getting tonight.”

He continued that one of his favorite quotes is from Jacques Cousteau, “that people protect what they love. And I think that pretty much sums up what we’re doing here tonight. Everybody that came tonight loves North Carolina’s coast and is here to support the coastal Federation’s mission.”

Northeast region awards

Alyson Flynn, coastal advocate at the Coastal Federation’s Wanchese office, presented three awards for the Outer Banks area.

“All three of our recipients in the Northeast embody the spirit of the Pelican Award in their own unique way, from on the ground restoration work to grassroots volunteerism, to forward thinking leadership that shapes the future of our coast,” Flynn said.

Volunteer Donnie Sellers was recognized “For Exceptional Contributions and Stewardship of Our Coast.”

Sellers said he appreciates what the Coastal Federation does and all the hard work of the staff, which he says he sees firsthand at the northeast office, “but mostly I’m grateful for how generous and kind they are, because that’s — It’s probably not what I should say — but that’s really what keeps me coming back.”

Volunteer Leonard “Len” Schmitz was awarded “For Outstanding Volunteer Efforts to Advance Oyster Shell Recycling.”

Schmitz told the audience he wanted to share the award with his fellow recyclers on the Outer Banks, adding “we couldn’t do this without the help of the restaurants.”

National Park Service’s Outer Banks Group Superintendent David Hallac was honored “For Leadership and Dedication to Coastal Protection, Recreation and Cultural Resources.”

The group includes Cape Hatteras National Seashore, Wright Brothers National Memorial and Fort Raleigh National Historic Site.

Flynn explained that Hallac had since 2015 managed one of the most iconic and dynamic barrier island systems in our nation and faces regular challenges, such as rising seas, chronic erosion, collapsing homes, petroleum contamination and increasing fragility of N.C. 12, the state highway, all while welcoming over 3 million visitors each year.

“From 1985 until 1999 I came from a small town right outside of New York City to the Outer Banks,” Hallac said as he accepted his award.

“I spent the entire year dreaming about coming to the beach there. I had no idea I would end up managing the three lighthouses there and 80 miles of beaches and 200 miles of incredible coastal marshes, it’s been just absolutely amazing,” Hallac continued. “It’s a little bit ironic at the same time that all of the things that shape these beautiful places, sometimes it appears we’re fighting against it. And so it’s my goal. It’s our goal, to find ways to change, to adapt to the things that are shaping our coastline, to be able to coexist in these places and also to preserve them for future generations.”

Central Coast awards

The nonprofit Friends of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail received a Pelican Award “For Dedicated Partnership to Protect and Restore Coastal Water Quality and Habitats.”

Water Quality Program Director Bree Charron, based in Carteret County, explained that the Friends group has, over the past five years, worked to secure and help purchase 787 acres to create an 11-mile-long trail through the North River Wetlands Preserve in Carteret County. The Friends supports the trail that connects Jockey’s Ridge and the Great Smoky Mountains.

Ben Jones, a project manager with the Friends group, said its members were excited to help restore and showcase the preserve.

“There’s lots of land we still need for the trail anyway,” he said, “and I hope this is just the beginning, too, because it’s really important for us to provide access for people to these special places that we’re protecting.”

Jessica Guilianelli with Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point was recognized “For Supporting, Promoting, and Advancing the Use of Living Shorelines.”

April Hall is with the salt marsh program and said when she joined the Coastal Federation staff a few years ago she took over a living shoreline project along the Neuse River at Cherry Point.

“At the time, the Federation had secured funding to support construction of roughly 2,000 feet of a much larger 12,000-foot living shoreline project led by Jessica Guilianelli,” Hall said. “And in case anyone is trying to do the math, 12,000 feet is about 2.3 miles. So to say this was an ambitious project would be an understatement.”

The site had experienced severe shoreline erosion, losing more than 100 feet in some areas since 1994, and worsened by Hurricane Florence in 2018.

Under Guilianelli’s management, air station brass committed to a hybrid solution to repair critical bulkheads while incorporating living shorelines and native marsh plants to reduce wave energy and restore natural shoreline functions.

“I’m in a really, really interesting position as natural resources manager for the Marine Corps,” Guilianelli said, adding it’s a balance that challenges her daily. “It’s such a cool thing to be able to balance our military mission with conservation, and I’m grateful to be in that role.”

Lauren Johnson and Tamarr Moore, who recently earned their master’s degrees from N.C. Central University, were recognized “For Partnership and Inspiration to Advance the Next Generation of Coastal Professionals.”

Coastal Educator Rachel Bisesi of the Coastal Federation’s Newport office noted that the two women are the first graduates of a new National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration program under their adviser, Dr. Caressa Gerald. The NOAA program supports students of color in environmental sciences.

“Lauren and Tamar have shown remarkable courage and resilience entering scientific spaces where representation is still far too limited. They broke barriers and paved the way for students of color to pursue coastal research. Their work has inspired others and opened the door for the next generation of environmental professionals and I can’t wait to see where their journey leads them, Bisesi said.

The graduates both thanked their parents and adviser, Gerald, who Moore said “opened a lot of doors for me and put me in many rooms that I would not have otherwise been in.” Johnson added that she was “very grateful to be in this room right now, along with other professionals” with the same drive and motivation.

Southeast region awards

Photographer Alan Cradick was honored “For Outstanding Volunteer Service to Our Coast.”

Coastal Education Coordinator Bonnie Mitchell explained that Cradick has been behind the camera “quietly and generously donating his time, energy and professional photography skills to help us tell the story of our work.”

Cradick, in accepting his award, said that it’s a privilege to be recognized, but that’s not why he volunteers. “I do it because I just love photography. I love the coast. I love working with professionals and professional volunteers who do so much wonderful things for the coast and for advancing the health of the of the ecosystems.”

Feletia Lee and Anna Reh-Gingerich were honored “For Dedicated Partnership and Commitment to Advance Watershed Restoration.”

Reh-Gingerich, watershed coordinator of Wilmington’s Heal Our Waterways Program, and Lee, chief sustainability officer at University of North Carolina Wilmington, have been working with the Coastal Federation on stormwater pollution in the Bradley and Hewlett creeks watershed.

Over the years, the project has resulted in rain gardens being installed and the use of permeable materials that absorb rain to retrofit parking lot drainage systems. The sites also serve as living classrooms, Coastal Federation Special Projects Manager Lauren Kolodij explained.

Reh-Gingerich said that she and Lee were honored to be recognized and thanked the Coastal Federation for supporting the effort. “This work is really easy to do when you have great partners to do them with.”

Paddling organization We the Water was honored for “For Excellence in Community Education and Inspiration for Coastal Protection and Restoration.”

The Wrightsville Beach Outrigger Canoe Club’s members paddled the state’s entire coast to advocate for clean water. The team paddled more than 340 miles along the coast over the course of three summers to raise awareness about the importance of clean water and raised more than $50,000 for the Coastal Federation, Kolodij said.

The Coastal Federation’s Kerri Allen, who is part of the outrigger club, accepted the award on behalf of the entire team.

“Every stroke counts, and when you get it right, you move as one, as a single force gliding through the waves,” Allen said, adding that “it’s a perfect metaphor for protecting our coast, we’re all on the same boat. Literally and figuratively, the threats and challenges we face are considerable, but we go farther and stronger when we move as one.”

Statewide awards

The N.C. Division of Marine Fisheries Habitat Enhancement Section was recognized “For Dedicated Service and Collaboration for Oyster Habitat Creation.”

Marine Debris Program Director Ted Wilgis of the Coastal Federation’s Wrightsville Beach office, said that the division’s habitat enhancement section had since 1996 built almost 800 acres of oyster sanctuary and a cultch-planting program, where oysters can be harvested.

Jason Peters, program supervisor for restoration work, said he and Enhancement Section Chief Zach Harrison were accepting the award on behalf of all of the dedicated and hardworking state employees who are involved.

“We’ve got a crew of vessel operators, equipment operators, divers, field biologists, supervisors all play an integral role in this work. And we’re just, we’re very fortunate to have such great staff,” Peters said.

Harrison added that he and his team were “honored and humbled to be just a small cog in such a big machine driving the North Carolina coast forward and environmentalism in the U.S. forward.”

Worth Creech of the firm Native Shorelines was honored for “For Advancing Community Oyster Shell Recycling and Coastal Restoration”

Coastal Resiliency Manager Sarah Bodin said Creech “has been an absolute transformative force in the world of oyster shell recycling and coastal restoration through tireless dedication, community engagement and innovative thinking.”

He did this by building public awareness, and relationships with restaurants, volunteers and restoration professionals. “His efforts have directly contributed to restoring oyster habitats, enhancing biodiversity and protecting shorelines from erosion,” Bodin said.

Creech told the crowd that you never know what you’ll get a passion for in life, and “you certainly don’t know whether it’s going to be something as stinky as oyster shells, but it happened to me with Native Shorelines,” adding he’s always “inspired by those who did this hard work before me.”

The Kenan Fellows Program for Teacher Leadership was recognized “For Cultivating Coastal Collaboration and Empowering Educators”

Bisesi said the program empowers “educators to lead in both the classroom and the community, and provide immersive experiences and professional development by equipping teachers to with the tools they need to inspire the next generation.”

Associate Director Mark Townley told the audience that since connecting eight years ago with the organization, “I can honestly say that the Coastal Federation is an exemplar of what a partnership should and can look like to really make a huge impact with K-through-12 public school education in the state of North Carolina.”

Attorney John Harris was recognized “For Outstanding Business and Community Collaboration to Advance Coastal Stewardship”

Coastal Federation founder and Senior Adviser to the Executive Director Todd Miller, said that Harris began working with the organization in 1997 on the Hoop Pole Creek project in Atlantic Beach. Harris is a partner in the Wyatt, Early, Harris, Wheeler firm’s Morehead City office.

“John’s legal work made it possible for the Coastal Federation to buy out a condominium and marina development and permanently protect 30 acres of rare maritime forests,” Miller said, adding that it was the first property ever purchased in the state using the North Carolina Clean Water Management Trust Fund.

“Since then, John has finally helped us conserve nearly 15,000 acres of coastal lands, forests, marshes, creeks, all protected because he made sure every deal was done right,” Miller added.

Harris told the crowd that he was “honored to be able to preserve clean water in our wetlands and to help them purchase land for our grandchildren and generations to come to enjoy what we have Here at the coast.”

The historic Whalehead Club in Corolla, a Currituck Banks landmark, will turn 100 years old next month and ticketed events commemorating the centennial are on sale.

Completed in 1925, the Whalehead Club, the majestic 21,000-square-foot art nouveau mansion and centerpiece of Historic Corolla Park, was completed after three years of construction. Its $383,000 price tag at the time is about $7.1 million in 2025 dollars.

The 33 years that Currituck County has owned the property is the longest period it has gone without changing hands.

After more than three years of negotiations, the county purchased Whalehead in November 1992 from Howco Residential Development Inc., which had foreclosed on the property in 1989. That was after the failure of two savings and loan institutions, which had previously owned the property, according to a 1992 report in the Coastland Times.

Although Whalehead is now again a symbol of wealth and opulence on Currituck Banks, at the time of the county’s purchase, it was dilapidated and a shell of what it had been when construction finished 67 years earlier. Its 1992 price tag of $2.8 million included the building and 28.5 acres, and the purchase was extraordinarily unpopular with county voters. Every commissioner on the 1992 board that bought the property lost their reelection bid after the purchase.

“Most people didn’t understand what we were doing,” Jarvisburg resident Jerry Wright, who was a county commissioner at the time, recently told Coastal Review.

Whalehead was like nothing the Outer Banks had ever seen.

Multimillionaire industrialist Edward Collings Knight built the mansion as a vacation getaway and hunting refuge for himself and his wife Marie-Louise LeBel.

It had an elevator and a basement. Elevators were unheard of here, and the basement was an engineering feat for a building so close to sea level. Two Delco-brand generators provided electricity at all times.

The Knights named their Currituck Banks getaway cottage Corolla Island, a reference to the artificial island that was created by dredge and fill so the ground could support the massive building.

“The main house was erected on a hill formed by the earth dredged to create the moat. The hill made it possible for Whalehead to have a full basement that rests on sunken wood pilings, a feature that is considered extraordinary for a coastline structure,” notes the 1978 Register of Historic Places documentation.

Until 1922, the 2000-acre property had been owned by the Lighthouse Club, one of Currituck Sound’s most exclusive hunting clubs of the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Although there are legends that Knight bought the Lighthouse Club after his wife, who was an avid hunter, was not permitted to hunt because of her gender, there is no evidence to support the claim.

According to a 1986 letter provided by the Whalehead Club and written by John B. Litchfield, Corolla Island was built by a local contractor and the plans for the building were somewhat vague.

“Mr. Knight, who had had training in art, drew the plans for the house,” Litchfield wrote. “He did not, however, include any specifications. I do not know who recommended my father as a builder, or how they got together. At any rate, Mr. Knight contracted with my father, J. A. Litchfield of Poplar Branch, N.C. to build the house.”

Litchfield’s observation that Knight’s plans did not “include any specifications” is consistent with the belief that Knight did not use an architect to design the house, in spite of the project’s complexity.

The Knights stayed at Corolla Island for extended periods over the next nine years, entertaining a number of guests. The last entry Edward Knight recorded was Nov. 24, 1934. Edward Knight died on July 23, 1936, and his wife Marie Louise died three months later.

This was during the Great Depression and Knights’ heirs had no interest in maintaining a vacation getaway and hunting lodge on the Outer Banks. They auctioned off many of the one-of-a-kind Tiffany designs in the houses and other art nouveau objects and started looking for a buyer.

Rep. Lindsey Warren, who represented northeastern North Carolina at the time, told his congressional colleagues about the property, and New York Rep. William Sirovich agreed to purchase it for $175,000. The closing date was to be Dec. 17, 1939, the same day Sirovich died suddenly.

Ray Adams, a Washington, D.C., meat packer with considerable political connections, instead bought the property for $25,000 in early 1940.

It was Adams who gave the property its name.

“According to tradition, in the process of clearing land for the air strip that would facilitate transportation of guests, a whale bone was found which prompted Adams to rename his estate Whalehead Club,” the National Register of Historic Places notes in their documentation.

Although a whale bone may have been found when an airstrip was being built, there is reason to believe the area was already sometimes referred to as “Whalehead.”

An August 1926 article in the Elizabeth City Daily Advance headlined “Currituck Girls Enjoyed Camping Trip” reported that the young women had “just returned from their summer camping trip at Corolla, that part of the beach known as Whalehead.”

Adams had big plans for his newly purchased property. Although interested in hunting, “his major motivation for acquiring the 2000-acre estate was to use it for entertaining the government officials who controlled the contracts that provided the bulk of his business,” according to Historic Register documents.

Adams on Nov. 1, 1940, formed Whalehead Club Inc. with 10 shares mostly held by Adams and his wife.

Knight’s plans for an entertainment center, though, were put on hold when the United States entered World War II and the Coast Guard needed a training and patrol site.

In 1942, Knight agreed to rent the Whalehead Club to the Coast Guard. Barracks were built, which no longer exist. At one time, up to 300 Coast Guardsmen were stationed at Corolla.

Adams, concerned about protecting his property, included a provision that his club superintendent, Dexter Snow, be made a chief bosun’s mate and be stationed at Corolla to look after his interests.

After the war, Adams threw himself into his plans to create a luxury resort on Currituck Banks.

“He was kind of promised a toll road that would go … like a Route 12, but all the way up to Virginia along the beach,” said Whalehead Club Curator Jill Landon. “He wanted it to be like a Myrtle Beach or kind of like an Ocean City, Maryland. We’ve got the plans drawn up with like a Ferris wheel and all sorts of infrastructure up here.”

Using his government contacts, Adams began lobbying for a beach toll road.

Adams’ plans relied on the toll road to make the project feasible, but the concept he had in mind was extensive.

The plans are on file with the Olmsted Archives at Frederick Law Olmsted National Historic Site. Listed as Job No. 10031, Whalehead, the documents drawn for Adams by Olmstead Brothers Landscape Architects clearly show a planned toll road with a 100-foot right-of-way, a yacht basin, shopping center and fishing pier, among other amenities.

The Carolina Virginia Turnpike Authority, or CVTA, was formed, but problems soon emerged.

Dare County Rep. Bruce Etheridge introduced a bill in the House for the “five-year-old beach toll-road project,” reported the April 17, 1953, edition of the Coastland Times.

The bill was doomed. The authority had been given powers of eminent domain, but the state Supreme Court, the article noted, had “opined that the Legislature could not give a company municipal powers nor the right to condemn private land.”

The authority also found there was little appetite in the bond market for a toll road that would cross state lines and require approvals from two states. In December 1954, the Coastland Times reported that “The sponsors of the Nags Head-Virginia Beach toll road still have not sold their bonds.”

The problem, CVTA authorities explained, was “the fact that two separate authorities and two states are involved has created legal problems which must be clarified before the bonds are sold.”

Two years later, in August 1956, it had become clear that the toll road was not going to happen. Adams’ dream of creating a sprawling resort community along the Currituck Banks was never realized.

The last entry in the Whalehead Club log recorded “that Adams died there suddenly at 6:10 p.m.,” according to the Historic Places documentation. That was Dec. 31, 1957.

The heirs to the Adams estate were able to quickly find a buyer. Portsmouth, Virginia, contractors MacLean and Wipp paid $375,000 for the estate and in turn leased the building and immediate grounds to the Corolla Academy.

The Corolla Academy had a clear vision of how the education of young men should proceed.

The Historic Places document quotes from a brochure to parents: “Corolla Academy is the result of the firm conviction that summer study for boys of secondary level is a rewarding and enjoyable experience. The time has passed when American boys can afford to waste the three months’ interval between the end of school in June and the resumption of classes in September.”

It’s not clear if it was location, philosophy or some other reason, but the Corolla Academy closed after three years.

What followed may be one of the more intriguing uses of the Whalehead Club.

The United States was in a frantic race in 1961 with the Soviet Union to be the first nation to land on the moon, and Atlantic Research Corp. was in the thick of it, designing rocket engines for NASA. The Soviet Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, or USSR, existed from 1922 until 1991 in eastern Europe and northern Asia.

The corporation, or ARC, leased the estate from Wipp and MacLean with a $1.25 million option to buy that was exercised in 1964. For ARC, the Whalehead Club was ideal for its purposes.

ARC was experimenting with beryllium as a fuel for the Poseidon rocket engines. As a fuel, beryllium has some real advantages. It’s very powerful and it’s relatively stable, although it is extremely toxic.

It became apparent that beryllium was not going to be a practical fuel, and in 1972, ARC sold the property to local Norfolk real estate developers Kabler & Riggs for more than $3 million. That firm subdivided the property but left the 35 acres around the Whalehead Club building intact.

The building was left vacant for 20 years, but as noted in the Historic Places 1978 report, the building, with its I-beam construction and 18-inch-thick walls, had been “successfully constructed to withstand the most severe coastal storms.”

Obligated to pay off the loan for the 1992 purchase of the property, Currituck County was not able to begin a full restoration of the building until 1999, when 25% of occupancy tax collections could be used.

In 2002, 10 years after the property had been purchased, the Whalehead Club opened to the public.

The original custom Steinway piano was inside and some of the original Tiffany sconces were still intact. Careful research of auction records had enabled the team working on restoration to track down a surprising number of original furniture pieces. By the time it opened to the public, the county had spent more than $1 million in restoring the building.

The Whalehead Club is available for tours. Reservations are recommended and can be made by calling 252-453-9040 ext. 226, at the site or online.

He was a lawyer, Vietnam veteran, military judge, retired Marine Corps colonel, commercial fisherman, photographer, volunteer, mentor, advocate and, to some, an adversary.

Above his extensive resume, above all else, Rick Dove was a family man, one whose devotion to his wife, children and grandchildren ran as deep as the waters he fought decades to protect.

Dove, one of the first Riverkeepers in the Southeast and the original Neuse Riverkeeper, died Aug. 22. He was 86.

A memorial service will be held at 2 p.m. Saturday at Cotten Funeral Home in New Bern, the riverfront city Dove called home. Visitation will be held an hour prior to the service.

In professional circles, Dove was regarded as a no-nonsense, straight shooter who unabashedly took on any industry, whether it was concentrated animal feeding operations, or CAFOs, or wastewater treatment plants, responsible for polluting the Neuse River.

Advocating for water quality protections is a hard job, he would say. Polluters are powerful, well-connected and well-funded, he advised. Fighting for clean waterways requires thick skin and unyielding tenacity, he stressed.

“One of the things I remember most about Rick is that he did not sugarcoat things,” said Coastal Carolina Riverwatch Executive Director Lisa Rider. “He said exactly how things are and that was incredibly beneficial for the folks who worked alongside him. We have a lot of tough Riverkeepers out there today because of how he taught.”

His connection to the water spanned back to boyhood, when he dreamed of being a fisherman.

Dove’s shot at doing just that came in the mid-1980s when he retired after 25 years in the Marine Corps.

He wasted no time tucking away his spit-shined shoes for what he described in a Sound Rivers publication as “the dirtiest clothes I could find and became a commercial fisherman.”

“Things were great until about 1990,” Dove said.

That was the year he and his son, Todd, who fished with him, started to notice their catch sick with sores.

Dove got out of the commercial fishing business. He couldn’t justify selling sick fish, he’d later tell people.

He returned to practicing law, opening R.J. Dove and Associates offices in Havelock and Jacksonville in 1991. Two years later, a job listing advertised in a local newspaper caught his eye.

It was a newly created position called Neuse Riverkeeper. In 1993, Dove became the first to bear that title, one he carried until 2000 when he became the Southeastern representative for Waterkeeper Alliance.

Larry Baldwin distinctly recalls his first impression of Dove after taking the job of Lower Neuse Riverkeeper in 2002.

“I first got to know Rick and it’s like, dang, this guy’s going to be tough to deal with,” Baldwin said. “At that point he still had a lot of the Marine in him. Not that that was bad, but it was just different and, with Rick, it was either you’re going to get into this full-speed ahead or you might as well not get in it at all. Rick would take you at face value, but you also had to prove yourself. You couldn’t just tell him, ‘This is what I am.’ He wanted to see it and he had a way of seeing it, even when you didn’t know he was looking. He could really kind of sense who you were. If you came at Rick trying to overly impress him, you were fighting a losing battle.”

But the sometimes gruff-speaking mentor quickly became a friend, and Baldwin got to see a side of that Dove perhaps revealed only to those whom he was closest.

Dove was a prankster at heart. He was, not surprisingly, also a good arguer.

He was a private man, reserving conversation about his family unless and until he was asked about them. He rarely spoke of his time as a Marine, but faithfully met with a group of fellow Marine Corps veterans well into his golden years.

If he loved you, you knew it. He and his wife, Joanne, shared 60 years together.

“His top priority was the love of his life, Joanne Dove,” Rider said. “His commitment to his family was incredibly important to him.”

They raised two children, Todd, who preceded them in death, and a daughter, Hollyanne.

“Everything for Rick came back to family,” Baldwin said. “That was his reason for being. He loved his family and seeing him and Joanne together, you could tell they just had fun.”

Dove was a “very warm” person, one who was as tenacious on the racquetball court as he was a waterkeeper, Baldwin said.

“I am a blessed individual for having spent almost 23 years with him,” he said. “I’m not sure it has hit me yet. Never has there been somebody in my life that impacted me the way Rick impacted me, and still does. There’s never been one like him and I don’t think there ever will be. In my point of view, we have the obligation to continue what Rick started and what he continued to do. That’s my promise to not just him, but to myself, that we’re not going to let his legacy end just because he’s not here.”

Note from the author: This is the second photo-essay in a series I’m calling “Working Lives: Photographs from Eastern North Carolina, 1937 to 1947.” You can find my introduction to the series here or here.

In this second group of photos, the North Carolina Department of Conservation and Development Collection photographers introduce us to workers in a sawmill, a handle mill, and a veneer plant that were located on the banks of the Roanoke River in 1938 and 1939.

During the late 19th and early 20th century, wood mills seemed to be up every river and creek on the North Carolina coast turning out lumber, shingles, veneer paneling, and, as we’ll see, even ax handles.

At the industry’s zenith around 1900, tens of thousands of men worked in those mills.

Millions of acres of forest were cut. Thousands of miles of railroad track were built to carry logs to mills and lumber to distant markets. Towns rose, and often fell, with the opening and closing of mills.

I was drawn to this photograph, and to the others below, because they give us a rare glimpse at the people inside those mills.

In this first photograph, we see two young men and an older gentleman cutting and stacking veneer panels at the Weitz Veneer Co.’s plant in Plymouth in 1938.

Based in Chicago, Weitz had made veneer paneling in Plymouth since the turn of the century.

The work was hard, exacting, and much of it required great skill. It was also notoriously dangerous. The rate of accidents was especially high in the furnace and boiler rooms and for those, like the men in this photograph, who operated lathes, planers, and other cutting machines.

At Weitz, the making of veneer began by sorting, debarking, and cutting raw logs into boards.

The company’s workers then used rotary lathes and slicing machines to cut the boards into thin sheets of veneer. Once that was done, they dried the veneer in kilns, then cut and fashioned the panels into whatever size and shape that was appropriate for the final product.

From there, the workers handed the veneer panels over to the finishing department, where other workers sanded and often stained or coated them in some way before other workers assembled them.

According to newspaper reports, the Weitz plant’s workers were largely using the veneer to manufacture wooden boxes when this photograph was taken in the late 1930s.

-2-

In this photograph, also from 1938, we see the Weitz Veneer Co.’s plant from the outside, a lone man strolling by.

The Roanoke River and the company’s wharf is on the other side of the plant. Down the road, but not visible in this photograph, was a section of company housing called White City.

Plymouth was booming in those years just before World War II. Large numbers of people were migrating to the little river town to work in the lumber and wood products industry.

Some came to Plymouth to work at Weitz or one of the town’s smaller wood products companies. Most, however, were looking for work at a massive new pulp mill that had opened in Plymouth in 1937.

A division of a large corporation based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the North Carolina Pulp Co. had built the pulp mill on the banks of the Roanoke, 3 or 4 miles upriver of the Weitz plant.

Some of the town’s new residents came to Plymouth from towns where other mills had closed. A sizable contingent of workers from a shuttered mill in West Virginia, for instance, moved to Plymouth to take jobs at the pulp mill.

But hundreds of others were African American families that had forsaken sharecropping or tenant farming elsewhere in eastern North Carolina to make a new start at Weitz, the pulp mill, or one of the town’s other companies that were connected to the lumber industry.

At Weitz, the work was sweltering hot in summer, freezing cold in winter, ill paid, and as I mentioned earlier, often dangerous.

Nonetheless, from all I have heard, the company’s workers still considered a job at Weitz a big step up from sharecropping or tenant farming, which no doubt says a lot about what farming was like in that day, at least if you were African American and landless.

-3-

This is a photograph of a pair of the Weitz Veneer Co.’s workers in one of the company’s cutting rooms in 1938.

-4-

This is photograph from another company on the Roanoke, a sawmill in Williamston 20 miles upriver of Plymouth, in 1938. I am not sure, but I believe it is the sawmill at Saunders & Cox, a lumber company that had docks on the river a quarter mile east of the town’s U.S. 17 bridge.

If you look close, you will see at least four of the mill’s workers, and possibly a fifth back in the shadows.

The workers at Saunders & Cox received raw logs on the river and by truck. The logs could have been felled almost anywhere in the Roanoke River bottomland swamps or in the hinterlands– along the Cashie River or in the headwaters of the Pungo River, for instance.

Once the logs were sorted — “decking” in the trade — the sawyers went to work debarking and running the logs through the big saws. In most mills, they then ran the rough lumber through resaws or gang saws, capable of cutting multiple boards, that cut them into thinner boards.

The sawyers then used edging and trimming machines to shape the boards into four-sided lumber, after which the boards were ready for drying, which was sometimes done in kilns, sometimes in the open air.

-5-

This is another view of workers hoisting and debarking a log at the sawmill in Williamston, possibly Saunders & Cox, in 1938.

Judging from the company’s newspaper ads, this was not the kind of mill that shipped lumber far and wide. During the Great Depression, national demand for lumber plummeted and Saunders & Cox’s ads focused on local markets, mainly offering firewood and lumber for local building.

-6-

This is a our Williamston sawmill again, possibly Saunders & Cox, in August of 1938. A man leading a mule and cart through a lumber yard, or a field, was still a common sight in those last years before the Second World War, but that would not be true much longer.

Even in the 1920s and ’30s, mules, work horses, and oxen were everywhere. They pulled plows, hauled in fishing nets, dragged logs out of forests, and hauled wagons and carts laden with all manner of things.

But by the time that I was growing up in eastern North Carolina in the 1960s that had all changed.

I do not remember ever seeing a mule or any other work animal at a mill or factory.

At my grandmother’s little farm, we only knew one neighbor who still farmed with a mule in those days. He was a very endearing man, and very set in his ways, and so was his mule.

-7-

This photograph takes us back downriver to another wood products company that was located on the Roanoke River in 1938: the American Handle Co.’s factory in Plymouth.

The company was a division of the National Hoe Co., which was based in Cleveland, Ohio.

The National Hoe Co., in turn, was a subsidiary of the American Fork and Hoe Co., a sprawling near monopoly that had its roots in Vermont in the early 19th century.

At plants across the eastern U.S., the company’s workers made wooden handles for an astonishing array of farm, factory, and garden tools and equipment; purportedly more than a hundred types of shovel handles alone.

At the Plymouth plant, the company’s workers fashioned wooden handles for axes, hoes and other farm implements. I have often heard local people refer to the plant as the “ax factory.”

By most accounts, the workers made all of the handles out of white ash, which the company obtained from extensive forest holdings in Bertie, Washington, Martin and Halifax counties.

During and just after the Second World War,  the company’s workers were part of a wave of union organizing that sought to improve pay and working conditions for mill workers along that part of the Roanoke and throughout much of eastern North Carolina.

-8-

Finally, we see a train load of logs rolling down the branch of the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad between Plymouth and Williamston, 1938.

-End-

Editor’s note: Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the state’s coast. More of his work can be found on his official website.

Editor’s note: Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the state’s coast. More of his work can be found on his personal website.

Today I would like to introduce a series of photo-essays that I will be publishing here over the next few weeks. Each of the photo-essays — some very brief, some longer — will focus on the working lives of people in eastern North Carolina just before, during, and after the Second World War.

The longest of the photo-essays features 22 historical photographs. In the shortest ones, though, I will try to build a story around a much smaller group of photographs, and sometimes only a single picture.

In all cases, I have based my stories on photographs that are part of the North Carolina Department of Conservation and Development Collection at the State Archives in Raleigh.

Between 1937 and 1951, the department photographers created a collective portrait of the state’s farms, industries, and working people. Some of the photographs were used in state publications or shared with magazines and newspapers. The vast majority, though, have not appeared in print.

Few of the photographs have the kind of artistic qualities that we see in the classic tradition of American documentary photography. For example, in the Works Progress Administration, or WPA, photographs of life in America during the Great Depression.

Nonetheless, I find something extremely compelling about them. Perhaps above all, I am drawn to the way that the photographs take us into fields and factories that are rarely if ever included in the stories that we historians tell about the history of North Carolina.

They are not romanticized images of working people. They are more matter of fact, more hard nosed and grittier.

These are images from down by the railroad tracks. From the warehouse district. From the engine room.

From the fields. From the lumberyards. From the textile mills. In one case, even from an actor’s makeup room.

In many of them, you can feel how hot it was, or how cold, the strain of the long days, the dangers that the people in them stood up to, all for the sake of making a living and looking after their families.

In some, you can see the pride that the people in these photographs took in their toil and craftsmanship. In others, you look at the people’s faces and wonder how they kept going.

The photographs that I am featuring are only a very small portion of the historical photographs in the Department of Conservation and Development Collection.

I have chosen to sort them into nearly 20 photo-essays featuring a total of 100 photographs in all.

The photographs that I have chosen were all taken in eastern North Carolina, basically east of I-95 today. Some were taken quite close to where I grew up on the North Carolina coast, a few even look at a sweet potato harvest on my great-uncle’s farm in Carteret County.

Others take us into different fields and factories, mills and migrant camps, remote fishing camps and distant seas.

My choice of photographs may seem eclectic at times. But I picked each photograph, or group of photographs, because I thought that they offered a special window into some important aspect of the history of eastern North Carolina, and because I thought that they led us to interesting stories.

I hope you enjoy all of the photo-essays. I will begin the series sometime in the next few days with the longest, which focuses on photographs of threshers in peanut fields near Edenton, at the end of the Great Depression and in the days just before the Second World War.

Even in that very provincial sounding subject — threshers on a peanut farm — I think you may be surprised where the story leads.

As I worked my way through the photographs from that long ago peanut farm, I was introduced to a host of unexpected stories and working people. Just in those few handfuls of photographs, you will meet Bahamian migrant laborers, POWs from North Africa, a pioneering black inventor from Southampton County, Virginia, and Mr. Peanut, among others.

You may also learn, at least I hope you will, a surprising amount about peanuts, the history of peanut farming, the evolution of farm labor and farm machinery, and the national security crisis that led to the dramatic expansion of peanut farming during the Second World War.

To say nothing of plenty of fun facts about the invention of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Baby Ruths.

Above all, and all kidding aside, I hope that these stories will help you to look at these men and women, and sometimes mere children, with a sense of kinship, a feeling of brotherhood and sisterhood.

Next in the series: “In the Peanut Fields of Edenton, 1937-41”

HARKERS ISLAND — It takes countless hours of work for the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center to fulfill its mission of preserving Down East Carteret County’s heritage.

Located next to Cape Lookout National Seashore’s visitor center on Shell Point, offering on most days a view of the diamond-patterned lighthouse across the sound, the museum spotlights the history and traditions of the 13 unincorporated communities in the eastern part of the county through exhibits, programs and events.

While Executive Director Karen Willis Amspacher and about a dozen volunteers were busy setting up the morning of July 3 for the annual All-American Shrimp Fry taking place that Saturday, July 5, she told Coastal Review that “It’s the work that makes this place what it is” and the museum “was built on volunteers.”

From converting an old doctor’s office to the gift shop housed in the facility, clearing land and pulling stumps from Willow Pond behind the museum, to creating beautiful quilts and feeding thousands fresh local seafood and sweet puppies, “Core Sound has always been and still is — and hopefully will always be — grounded in the hard work, talents and dedication of the people of our community,” she explained.

So, when Gov. Josh Stein inducted Amspacher and nine others June 25 into the Order of the Long Leaf Pine, the highest civilian honor in the state, she didn’t tell a soul.

Amspacher, who has been leading Core Sound since it was established in 1992, had been in Raleigh that last week of June with others fighting against a proposed law that would ban commercial shrimp trawling in the state’s inland waters and within a half-mile of the shore. The House chose not to push the contentious bill through.

She was reluctant to accept the award at the time because, she said, it wasn’t only her who had made the museum a success, and didn’t feel like a time to celebrate. Amspacher decided to meet with the governor anyway because it was a chance to speak to him about the proposed trawling ban.

She wrote in a social media post a week later a “confession of guilt for accepting something good that belongs to everybody that I have mommicked all along the way.”

Amspacher thanked everyone for their congratulations, “but know … WE have accomplished NOTHING alone. Since I moved back home in 1982 it’s been quite a journey, thank you to everyone who is still holding on for our fishing communities no matter what it takes,” she wrote, adding that she hopes her daughter, Katie, remembers when she “puts me in the ground on #redhill under those oaks to post a sign somewhere .. ‘Work is love made visible.’ I believe that … I do love ‘my crowd’ … and love means work.”

Amspacher paused between tasks the morning of July 3 to reiterate that she’s truly grateful for all of the volunteers, especially the young ones “who keep showing up to do the work it takes to keep the museum’s work moving forward.”

Her “shrimp boys” Liam Calabria, Nick Davies and Jackson Saunders, were among those setting up tables and chairs. The three best friends grew up together in Raleigh.

Calabria explained during a break that the nickname came from when he and his older brother, who is in college now, began helping at Core Sound about five years ago.

The first few years, “We had to clean all the shrimp, so that was the main focus, and then we would just help out where need be,” Calabria said. “Now we set up all the tables, chairs, water stations, and we’ve helped serve the food recently, and that’s the fun part because we make​ it a friendly competition.”

His family began in 2020 splitting their time between Carteret County and the state capital, in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic.

When Core Sound decided to hold the shrimp fry again after pausing during the pandemic, Calabria said that his brother, who was in ninth grade at the time, needed volunteer hours and wanted to help the community.

“I decided to tag along with him,” and his family decided to continue to help. “Now, we started dragging our friends along,” Calabria explained, gesturing to Davies and Saunders.

Davies started helping about three years ago. Currently attending Wake Tech Community College, Davies said it’s “a lot of fun” at Core Sound and he gets to spend time with his best friends.

This is the first year for Saunders, who said he decided to join because he needed some community service hours for scholarships, and “thought it’d be fun to hang out with my friends. So I was just like, why not tag along?”

Calabria added, “We just love the community, and we’ve made a lot of friends and connections through Harkers Island over the five years we’ve lived here, so we just like to see them enjoying the time here and meeting up with some friends.”

Nearby, high school senior Thomas Lathan was helping his grandfather Bill Lathan, a board member for more than 20 years, hang banners that thanked the shrimp fry’s sponsors.

Thomas Lathan has helped at past events, but this is his first summer as an intern. He’s been working with a doctoral student to interview residents about their experiences with tropical storms and how the natural disasters affect and change the culture. He plans to present the findings when he’s done.

Bill Lathan, who still works full time as an attorney in New Bern, said he heads to Harkers Island whenever he’s available and decided to join Thomas that Thursday to help.

Amspacher explained in a later interview that many of the youth that help have been volunteering as shrimp cleaners and trash collectors since they came with their parents and grandparents when they were 9 and 10 years old.

“Now they are high school and college students and they are returning as interns and as the ‘power’ behind our events and projects. They care and each of them know they are part of us and always will be,” she said. “Troop 252 of Davis has been part of our events from the first year we were in this building in 1999. Many of them have children who are now Scouts, doing what they did.”

After the event, Amspacher told Coastal Review that the shrimp fry was a success. This year highlighted the Crystal Coast Water Rescue Team who traveled to Black Mountain during Helene response in fall 2024 and welcomed the Black Mountain Fire Department who called on Carteret County for help.

Core Sound has been reaching out to leaders in the mountains since Hurricane Helene caused untold destruction last fall to the western part of the state to help cope with the destruction and heartache.

Recognizing “our water rescue team traveling to help Black Mountain Fire Department was the same story. The shared experience, the bond that tragedy builds, the ever-knowing that we are all one storm away from needing them to come help us was heavy on everyone there. It was a moment that we will all hold dear,” said Amspacher. “The All-American Shrimp Fry is just that: communities coming together to celebrate our homes, our families and the traditions we hold sacred from across North Carolina.”

Editor’s note: Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the state’s coast. More of his work can be found on his personal website.

One day I hope that I will know more about Betty Town, a free African American community that white raiders destroyed just before the Civil War to make way for the founding of Aurora.

Now and then, when I have had time, I have done a fair bit of historical research on the people of Betty Town, how their land was taken, and how the community’s people were driven out of their homes.

But there is still much that I do not know. Many of the historical sources are opaque, some of them are difficult to understand, and none tell us what happened from the point of view of the people who lived in Betty Town.

I wish that I had to time to work through those difficulties. But the truth is, my life has somehow gotten far busier than I ever thought it would be at this age: I fear that I will never find the time to do justice to Betty Town’s history.

For that reason, I want to share here what I know now about Betty Town. That way, if other people are interested, maybe they will pick up where I have left off and go further.

Perhaps, after reading this, a younger scholar or a precocious student will take it on, or maybe even a descendant of those who lost their land and homes.

For me the voices of the people of Betty Town are like the fading sounds of whispers in the night. I catch a few words here, and a few words there, but it is always better if more people are listening.

Together we can share what we hear and maybe, just maybe, the story of Betty Town will not be lost.

‘Where the bear, free negro and wild cat roamed’

So I will go first. Here is what I know about Betty Town, the free African American community that used to be on the North Carolina coast, only 30 miles from where I grew up:

First, Betty Town was a rural settlement of free African Americans located on South Creek, 22 miles southeast of the town of Washington, in Beaufort County.

The community was a remote refuge from the evils of the day. Writing in the Feb. 4, 1886, Goldsboro Messenger, one former visitor remembered Betty Town as a land “where the bear, free negro and wild cat roamed at their own free will.”

Another white commentator, also writing after the Civil War, gives us a hint that at least some whites saw Betty Town’s independence and self-reliance as somewhat menacing.

Published in Raleigh’s Weekly Observer on Aug. 10, 1877, that writer declared that Betty Town and its vicinity had been a shady place up until 1857 or 1858.

That part of Beaufort County, the writer declared, was “regarded as an almost worthless swamp except for shingles and staves; the ridges being inhabited for the most part by a thriftless set of free negroes and half-breed Indians.”

That is the way that the state’s white leaders, at least many of them, used to talk about the communities of free, mixed-race people that were located in many different parts of North Carolina’s coastal plain.

In general, they were people set apart and who guarded their freedom, since they knew all too well that it could be taken away if they were not watchful. Nearly all lived off the land — farming, fishing, working in the woods.

The site of Betty Town is now the location of Aurora, a small town that, as the saying goes, has seen better days.

Betty Town’s 18th-century origins

The origin of Betty Town dates at least to the late 18th century and to a free African American couple named Isaiah and Betty Hodge. (Betty Hodge was the community’s namesake.)

The first U.S. census was taken in 1790. At that time, the Hodge family was already residing on South Creek.

In that first federal census of 1790, a “Zear” Hodge, Isaiah or possibly Isaiah’s father, is listed as the head of a household that included four people of color and a white woman.

At that time, Isaiah Hodge would have been 15 years old. He was born in or about 1775.

The Hodges’ neighbors included a sizeable cluster of other free people of color. They included families with the last names of Blango, Johnston, Holmes and Keys, among others.

Exactly how long that group of free African Americans had been in that part of Beaufort County is not clear to me.

However, I did consult the work of master genealogist Paul Heinigg, one of the leading authorities on the history of free African Americans in Virginia and North Carolina.

Heinigg’s research indicates that several free Black families left southeastern Virginia and settled in what became Betty Town and neighboring parts of southeastern Beaufort County earlier in the 1700s.

They included Blangos, Driggers, Perkinses, Moores, and Johnsons (or Johnstons), at the very least.

 A free African American named Thomas Blango, for example, had settled in Beaufort County by 1701, and Blango family genealogists still trace the family’s roots in the county specifically to Betty Town.

Family Blango

According to Stanton Allen’s “Family Blango: A Study of Black American Genealogy,” three free African Americans families with the surname Blango resided at Betty Town in the early 1800s: those of John Blango, John Blango, Jr., and Mrs. Peggy Blango.

Stanton Allen’s article appeared in Bayboro-based The Pamlico News on Aug. 24, 1983.

By the 1810 census, Isaiah Hodge is listed as head of the Hodge household. Eleven others resided with him: 10 free Blacks and one individual who was enslaved, though apparently not by the Hodges.

Thirty years later, Isaiah Hodges is listed in the federal census as head of a household with 15 members, all free, and presumably including children and perhaps grandchildren, and maybe others, too.

(Census takers did not begin to enumerate individual names, other than heads of households, until 1850.)

By 1850, the last census before his death, Isaiah Hodge, then age 75, was listed as the head of a household that included his wife Elizabeth (Betty), three younger adults with the surname Hodge, and an enslaved mother and her five children.

Judging from the census, nine other households of free African Americans lived around them, presumably in what was considered “Betty Town.” They included families with the surnames of Tyson, Hagins, Perkins, Driggers, and maybe Simpsons.

(Judging by their listing in the census, the Simpsons may have resided in a nearby, but slightly different neighborhood).

When I reviewed the Beaufort County deeds at the State Archives, I failed to get a clear picture of Betty Town’s boundaries.

However, the deeds did indicate that Isaiah Hodge alone owned at least 300 acres on both sides of South Creek in the early part of the 19^th century.

Betty Town’s boundaries may have been confined to the Hodge family’s holdings. Or the Hodge lands may have been only the heart of a larger territory that local people called Betty Town.

If Betty Town was confined to the Hodge family holdings, I would suspect that other families also resided on their land and that most of them would have been at least distantly related to Isaiah and Betty Hodge.

Figuring out those relationships will require more genealogical research, but one thing is clear: On the eve of the Civil War, Betty Town was a small but significant enclave of free African Americans that had survived in that part of Beaufort County since the 18^th century.

The Free African Americans of South Creek

The free African Americans who lived in Betty Town were not alone. They were among a sizable minority of free African Americans who resided in that part of Beaufort County.

In the South Creek census district as a whole, free African Americans made up more than a quarter of the total free population in 1850.

According to the census, the South Creek district had a total population of 1,092 persons in 1850. That included 209 free Blacks, 294 enslaved people of color, and 589 free whites.

However, even if Betty Town and similar communities were refuges in some ways, that did not mean that they were safe.

The decade of the 1850s, as the people of Betty Town discovered, was an especially dangerous time to be a free African American in Beaufort County or anywhere on the North Carolina coast.

‘A Free Negro Named Isaiah Hodge’

According to census records, local deeds, and newspaper accounts, Betty Town had vanished by the beginning of the Civil War.

All historical sources that I have seen agree on the basic facts of what happened to Betty Town. First, they agree that one of Beaufort County’s wealthiest and most influential white political leaders claimed to have forcibly taken legal possession of the community’s land sometime in 1857 or 1858.

Even in white circles, it seems to have been acknowledged that the taking of Betty Town’s land was accomplished by legal chicanery.

Second, at least a significant part of Betty Town’s residents, including the Hodge family, refused to abandon their homes.

Third, the holdouts were eventually driven out of Betty Town not by lawful authorities, but by vigilantes.

That much seems clear. Many details do not seem clear to me at all, however. The historical accounts are relatively few, they clash in some cases, and large gaps in the story remain.

While I did not necessarily expect to find it, I was also disappointed not to find an account of Betty Town’s last days that was written by any of those who were dispossessed or their descendants.

To me that is an almost crippling omission. In my long years as a historian, I have repeatedly seen how contemporary white and Black views of historical events are often completely different. Again and again, I have found them to be as different as night and day.

All that said, even the surviving white accounts paint a sordid portrait of the destruction of Betty Town.

The most widely known account was written in 1916 by Robert Tripp Bonner, who was one of the most active local historians and genealogists in Beaufort County in the early 20^th century.

A surveyor by trade, R.T. Bonner (1854-1919), who was white, came from Bonnerton, only a few miles from Betty Town, and spent much of his life in Aurora.

At the time of Betty Town’s troubles, he was just a young boy, five or six years old. However, he inevitably grew up hearing stories about Betty Town.

Years later, in 1880, when the town of Aurora was officially incorporated at the former site of Betty Town, he was the surveyor who laid out the town’s streets.

In the early 20^th century, Bonner occasionally wrote articles on Beaufort County’s history in the local newspapers. One of those articles focused on the town of Aurora’s history.

Published in the Washington Progress in 1916, Bonner’s article was not hesitant about looking at Aurora’s origins:

“The land previous to the Civil War was owned by a free negro named Isaiah Hodge who died from the effects of a cancer and during his sickness was furnished with the necessities of life by Isaiah Respess who took a mortgage on the lands.”

Isaiah Respess was a prosperous merchant, farmer, and lumberman who had extensive land holdings across a broad swath of eastern North Carolina. He was also the mayor of Washington during the early part of the Civil War.

Bonner recalled that, after Isaiah Hodge’s death, which was apparently in 1857 or 1858, Respess called in the family’s debts and, when his widow Betty could not meet them, had their land confiscated.

He then “sold the land under execution by Sheriff Henry Alderson Ellison and bid it in about 1859.”

Sometime soon after, according to Bonner, “Rev. W. H. Cunningham, of Lenoir County, came to South Creek, bought the site of Aurora from Isaiah Respess and began the town.”  

The Rev. W. H. Cunningham (ca. 1824-1895) was a Methodist minister originally from Greene County. Before coming to Beaufort County, he had been serving as the principal of Lenoir Academy, a private school in Kinston, the seat of Lenoir County.

He had a highly entrepreneurial spirit and was involved in a number of real estate and business ventures before, during, and after the Civil War.

The Dispossessed

The Hodges and their neighbors obviously believed that the taking of their land was an injustice.

By all accounts, they did not accept the legality of the sheriff’s proceedings, the right of Respess to have their land confiscated, or Rev. Cunningham’s right to evict them. According to Bonner’s story, they defied Rev. Cunningham and the county sheriff and refused to leave their homes in Betty Town.

Bonner continued:

“Mr. Cunningham had much trouble dispossessing the free negroes, but one Sunday night, [when] these negroes left their homes to go to a big preaching, Cunningham tore down their houses and took possession of their lands.”

The county sheriff evidently allowed the assault, but that would not have surprised anyone, Black or white, at the time. In antebellum North Carolina, free African Americans were left to defend their own.

Betty Town is unlikely to have survived so long if the community had not previously shown that it was able to defend itself.

In his history of Aurora, Bonner then says:

“These negroes emigrated to Ohio and as the law at that time forbid free negroes after leaving the state to return, they and their descendants did not come back.”

The Legal Status of Free African Americans

In 1830, North Carolina legislators prohibited free African Americans from returning to the state if they left for 90 days.

That law was part of a raft of laws and state constitutional amendments in the 1830s that deprived free blacks of many of the most basic rights of American citizenship.

Other rights taken away from North Carolina’s free African Americans in the 1830s included the right of free assembly, the right of free speech, the right to vote, the right to bear arms, and the right to testify against white citizens in court.

Without those rights, Betty Town’s citizens realistically had no path to defending themselves against the takeover of their land, at least not in court, even in the unlikely event that they could have found a local attorney willing to represent them.

According to Bonner’s 1916 story, after taking Betty Town’s homes and farms, the Rev. Cunningham renamed the place “Aurora.”

Even before the Civil War, he began recruiting new settlers to the former site of Betty Town by running advertisements in newspapers in other parts of North Carolina that made “Aurora” sound like Eden.

From North Carolina to Ohio

Betty Town’s refugees were not the only free African Americans who looked to the state of Ohio for shelter in those last years before the Civil War.

Confronted with severe restrictions on their legal rights and by growing white violence, an important number of North Carolina’s free African Americans found new homes in the northern states.

In the 1850s, Cleveland, Oberlin, and other parts of Ohio were especially common destinations for free African Americans from Eastern North Carolina.

Probably the best known of the region’s free Black exiles in Ohio was Lewis Sheridan Leary.

Leary left his family’s home in Fayetteville, and moved to Oberlin, Ohio, in 1856. He was active in the Ohio Anti-Slavery Society, probably active in the Underground Railroad, and was one of three Blacks who rode with John Brown at Harpers Ferry.

‘A Gang of Lawless Ruffians’

Another account of Betty Town’s last days was published just a short time after the community’s destruction.

Appearing in the North Carolina Times, a Raleigh newspaper, on Jan. 25, 1860, an anonymous letter writer calling himself “John Veritas” declared that he had visited “Aurora” that winter, while visiting friends in that part of Beaufort County.

In his letter, John Veritas indicated that he had read a newspaper advertisement placed by Rev. Cunningham that sought to recruit settlers to his new town. While in the area, he had decided that he wanted to see “Aurora” for himself.

To say the least, he had not been impressed. Rev. Cunningham’s advertisement apparently promised a bustling little town that already had churches, shops, a physician’s office, elegant homes, and other “fine edifices.”

Instead, John Veritas wrote, he found that his white friends there still called the area “Betty Town” and barely remembered hearing anything about a town called “Aurora.”

All that he found there, he said, was “one dwelling house, a schoolhouse, the ruins of an old house, [and] pine and gum saplings.”

Along one side of the schoolhouse, he reported, someone had scribbled a bit of graffiti.

BETTY TOWN, if you are so soon done for—

I wonder what you was ever begun for?

I could be wrong, but I assume that was the schoolhouse that had served Betty Town’s children.

By that time, Isaiah Hodge had already died. The house in ruins, as we will see, was evidently that of his widow, Betty Hodge, and the surviving house was that of her son and his family.

If any of Betty Town’s other families remained on the land, John Veritas had not been shown their homes.

After seeing “Aurora,” the visitor compared Rev. Cunningham’s real estate ad to “a patent medicine advertisement recommending pills efficacious in the cures of all diseases …”

John Veritas’s letter in the Raleigh Times elaborated further on his visit to Beaufort County.

According to the local people with whom he spoke:

… a speculating land gambler came down there, fixing his eye upon this spot as an eligible site, turned up a claim to it, and supposing it an easy matter to get clear of these old negroes, he ordered them to leave the premises.”

The “speculating land gambler” was of course Rev. Cunningham.

Evidently, Betty Hodge and her son did not succumb to the minister’s threats. According to the anonymous letter, they even sought out legal counsel from a prominent white attorney in the county seat.

John Veritas continued:

“They were then threatened with violence … A few weeks later, in the bitter cold of December, [Cunningham] procured a lawless vagabond … to undermine the chimneys to the old woman’s house …”

According to John Veritas, Betty Hodge still did not relent.

 “Finding this cruel heartless act not sufficient to accomplish his purposes, with a gang of lawless ruffians, at a late hour, on a dark, cold, freezing night, attacked the old house, pulling down portions of it and tearing the roof off, drove the old woman forth exposed to the inclement, freezing frost of a winter’s night ….”

In his letter, John Veritas claimed that Cunningham’s thugs then went next door and “inhumanely beat” Betty Hodge’s son and daughter-in-law. Their crime, he was told, was daring to consult the attorney in Washington about their right to hold onto their land.

At the end of his letter, John Veritas indicated that, according to his friends in Beaufort County, justice was somehow served in the end and “the old woman restored to her land.”

That was not true or, if it was, Betty Hodge did not remain in Betty Town for very long.

By the time the U.S. census taker reached that part of Beaufort County later in 1860, Betty Hodge and her family were not there. I do not know exactly when or how they left, but Betty Town was gone.

I do not feel clear about where they went. According to Bonner’s 1916 history of Aurora that I quoted earlier, they left North Carolina and emigrated to Ohio.

However, I have not succeeded in locating Betty Hodge or any of her family in the federal censuses of Ohio in the late 19^th or early 20^th centuries. The only mention of them that I have found anywhere was in a brief part of Bonner’s article that I have not yet discussed.

In that section of his article, Bonner writes:

“About 1885 …, some of Isaiah Hodge[‘s] heirs returned, employed E. S. Simmons and entered suit against the citizens of the [Aurora].”

Attorney E. S. Simmons (1855-1907)

Enoch Spencer Simmons was an attorney in Washington, N.C. in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. A graduate of the University of North Carolina, he was originally from Hyde County, just across the Pamlico River from South Creek.

In 1898, Simmons published a book-length essay called A Solution to the Negro Problem of the South.

In that essay, he proposed that southern whites forcibly remove all of the South’s Black citizens from their land and relocate them to an all-black colony that he proposed the U.S. Government create in the states of Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi.

I do not think you would be mistaken if you took Simmons’ background as evidence of the quality of legal representation that was available to the state’s black citizens in the late 19^th century.

In that 1916 article, R. T. Bonner continued:

“This suit fell through owing to the fact that an unrecorded deed from Sheriff Ellison to Isaiah Respess was found in the safe of Capt. Wilson Farrow who married the only child of Isaiah Respess.”

Isaiah and Betty Hodge’s descendants had not made a claim against Rev. Cunningham, but instead sought damages for what they believed to be the illegal confiscation of their land by Isaiah Respass.

On one of my trips to the State Archives, I looked for the case in the superior court indexes but did not find it. However, I might have missed it; I think it might be worth re-checking.

Few historical records could tell us more about Betty Town, and court filings would also give us a least something from the perspective of the people who lost their homes and land.

The Rev. Cunningham returned to the former site of Betty Town after the Civil War. His claim to the land was recognized by law by that time. Over the next few years, he would welcome new settlers, establish a church, and operate a hotel in the new town of Aurora.

His interests however were rather far ranging. In a New Bern newspaper from 1865, I found an advertisement in which he was selling 1,500 acres of “tar and turpentine land” in Beaufort County.

According to the Charlotte Observer Dec. 5, 1877, edition, he was expelled from the Methodist church district conference for “immorality” in 1877.

The town of Aurora was officially incorporated on the former site of Betty Town in 1880. It grew into a bustling little market town later in the 19^th century, and then into an important regional center for truck farming after the railroad’s arrival in or about 1911.

Today Aurora is best known for being home to one of the largest open pit phosphate mines in North America and for a very nice museum that highlights the marine fossils found at the mine.

I do not know if anyone knows more than this about Betty Town. But I hope that I will find out when I publish this story. I cannot help hoping that somebody, somewhere, maybe even a descendent of the people who lost their homes and land, will see this story and reach out to me.

Before composing over two dozen volumes of poetry, before becoming a professor at the prestigious Cornell University in upstate New York, and long before winning any of his numerous national literary awards, Archibald Randolph Ammons was a poor boy working on his father’s Columbus County farm during the Great Depression.

Ammons would eventually achieve fame under the byline “A.R. Ammons,” a heralded poet noted for his beautiful but also scientifically precise descriptions of nature. However, with those who knew him personally, including those who knew him during his formative years in coastal Carolina, he went by the less precise but more identifiable name “Archie.”

‘Alluvial country’

Archie Ammons was born in his family’s farmhouse just outside of Whiteville on Feb. 18, 1926. The fields he helped his father plow during his youth were 6 short miles from Lake Waccamaw and only 35 miles from the Brunswick County beach communities his family would travel to for the occasional fish fry or oyster roast. Ammons spent these hardscrabble years mostly behind hitched mules, furrowing the soil in which he and his father grew corn, tobacco, peanuts and other cash crops so typical of eastern North Carolina agricultural districts.

Though he would not begin writing poetry until some years later, his experiences on the farm and in what he called the “alluvial country” of the coastal plains impressed him deeply and would eventually find voice in his writing.  

For instance, in the poem “Silver,” about a mule his family owned during his childhood, Ammons remembers how he and Silver would “fall soon again into the slow requirements of our dreams / how we turned at the ends of rows without sense to new furrows and went back / flicked by / cornblades and hearing the circling in / the cornblades of horseflies in pursuit.”

In the poem “I’m the Type,” Ammons would look back at his early life on the farm in light of his later career as a famous writer and note how he “misses the mules and cows / hogs and chickens, misses / the rain making little / rivers, well-figured with / tributaries through the / sand yard.” Ammons learned in his childhood to be attentive to the living world around him, including not only the plants and animals but also the physical forces that shape living things. They entered his imagination as a boy and stayed with him the rest of his life.

From the South Pacific to the Outer Banks   

According to Roger Gilbert, a professor of English literature at Cornell University who is writing a biography of his former colleague, the Ammons family farm was not particularly successful, so a young Ammons sought employment in the largest nearby city.

“He had been working in the shipyards in Wilmington after high school and one day he came home and the farm had been sold,” Gilbert said in a recent interview. “That farm had been his world growing up. So when that was gone, when it was no longer a place that belonged to him, I think he felt he’d lost that sense of having a home.”

This bitter loss began a whirlwind period in Ammons’s life. American involvement in the Pacific theater of World War II was ramping up just as he graduated high school. With no more family farm to tend, Ammons enlisted in the Navy. He was deployed as a sonar operator aboard the destroyer U.S.S. Gunason, on which he sailed through the South Pacific, listening for the pings of reverberating soundwaves that could signal the underwater presence of enemy vessels or weapons.

It was also during this time, on the long voyages at sea, that Archie began writing his first poems. He was training the precision of his ear in more ways than one.  

When the war ended, the poor country boy from Whiteville took advantage of the GI Bill to attend Wake Forest College. Ammons graduated in 1949 and left town with a Bachelor of Science and, more importantly, a courtship with his future wife, Phyllis.

He moved almost immediately to the Outer Banks village of Hatteras, where he would spend the 1949-50 academic year as principal of tiny Hatteras Elementary School — and where Phyllis would join him after their wedding during Thanksgiving break.

Though he was only on the Dare County island for a year, the dramatic seascapes of the Outer Banks entered his poetic imagination just as the sandy farmland of Whiteville had. In an unpublished poem written during his first summer on Hatteras, and kindly provided by Professor Gilbert out of the Ammons archive at Cornell University, Archie tried to capture in words the strange magic of the Banks at night: “Night has come to this small island, / Drowsing on the golden dunes cool-mist opiates. / Far out at sea, a ship’s sea-lantern sways / And a lost gull screams.”

Gilbert noted that Ammons, by this point, had not yet found his unique poetic voice. But “the Hatteras landscape stayed with him and influenced some of those early poems,” he said.

A Second Vision of Land and Sea

By “those early poems,” Gilbert was referring to Ammons’s first collection of poetry, “Ommateum,” which he self-published in 1955. By this point, Ammons was living in New Jersey and working at his father-in-law’s manufacturing firm, which made glassware for laboratories.

In “Ommateum,” Ammons began to dabble in the scientific specificity and abstraction that would later become a hallmark of his style. More central to his first book, however, is one of Ammons’s mainstay themes: the transience of nature and human life.

In fact, the very first poem in “Ommateum” draws on the windswept ecology of Cape Hatteras to show us a narrator, Ezra, seeking his voice amid a powerful vortex of natural forces. Reworking many of the specific images and themes of his unpublished poem from his year in Hatteras, Ammons describes how Ezra speaks his name to the sea, “but there were no echoes from the waves / The words were swallowed up / in the voice of the surf.” The protagonist has to turn away “from the wind / that ripped sheets of sand / from the beach and threw them / like seamists across the dunes.”

Finally realizing the futility of fighting the wind, Ezra decides instead to adapt to and even become part of the landscape. “So I Ezra went out into the night,” the poem ends, “like a drift of sand / and splashed among the windy oats / that clutch the dunes / of unremembered seas.”

The poem sets the tone for the rest of the volume and, in a way, for the rest of Ammons’s career. It is somehow fitting that a poet from coastal North Carolina would begin his first book looking for meaning in a sea squall.  

According to Alex Albright, a retired professor of creative writing at East Carolina University and the editor of the indispensable Ammons volume “The North Carolina Poems,” “There’s a journal entry from when (Ammons was) in the Navy that provides a controlling metaphor for his life.”

“He sees off in the distance the fine line of the horizon,” Albright said in a telephone interview, “and as he gets closer and closer to it, it’s not really a straight line. It’s that second vision that he brings to a lot of his landscapes.”

Becoming a classic

“Ommateum” sold barely any copies when it first appeared. But little by little, Ammons began making inroads into the professional poetry establishment. Individual poems started getting picked up by journals and magazines here and there throughout the 1950s, and in 1964 he was hired to teach poetry writing at Cornell University, where he would later become a full professor and befriend Roger Gilbert.

The same year also saw the publication of his second collection, “Expressions of Sea Level,” this time by a major university press. From that point on until his death in 2001, Ammons would never go more than four years without releasing a new volume.

From the 1970s through the end of the 1990s, Ammons’s star rose without cease. He won the National Book Award for one collection of poetry in 1973, then the prestigious Bollingen Prize for Poetry for a different collection in 1975. It was around this time that the influential literary critic Harold Bloom said that “No contemporary poet, in America, is likelier to become a classic than A.R. Ammons.”

As if to prove Bloom’s point, Ammons released a volume in 1981 that received the National Book Critics Circle Award, and another volume 12 years later that won him his second National Book Award.  In October 2000, just five months before his death at age 75, he was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame.

Albright, who knew Ammons personally through their work together at the North Carolina Literary Review, pointed out that the shy, affable farm boy from Whiteville was aware he had a gift.

“He knew that he was in a rare class,” Albright said. “He had a Southern way of deflecting praise, but there were very few poets that he imagined were as good as he was.”

Not Deep down but across

Ammons is by no means omnipresent in Whiteville today, but neither is he or the world of his childhood totally forgotten. His family home was torn down years ago, but Whiteville High School has a couple of old buildings he would have sat in as a student in the 1930s, and the Pentecostal church he attended with his parents still stands out by Spring Branch. There is no plaque for him in town, but the Reuben Brown House, a historic preservation group in Columbus County, runs an annual poetry contest in his honor.

The fields and swamps he roamed as a boy are in a similar state of in-between. “Until very recently he would have recognized the Columbus County landscape,” Albright said. “The bridges are a little better, but it’s still swampy. There’s still bugs, it’s still quiet, and you’re still really close to the coast out there.”

According to Albright, even the Brunswick County beaches of Ammons’s youth have not yet been totally transformed.

“There’s a little place when you go to the right on Ocean Isle, that’s where they went for their oyster roasts,” he said, “and on the back end, you can sort of forget that the high-rise bridge is going over to Ocean Isle, and it can feel very isolated.”

Still, Ammons was powerfully attentive to and protective of the natural world. The poet would likely have some strong opinions about the lack of care taken for the soil, water, trees and animals of southeastern North Carolina if he saw it today.

“He could be looked at as an early environmentalist,” Albright said of his old friend. “His feel for the land was just something. And part of what he would see would be heartbreaking. The factory tree farming, especially.”

In “Making Fields,” one of his most moving poems about his North Carolina roots, Ammons describes the give and take between the land and his ancestors who worked that land going back to his father’s father.

The life he presents to readers in this poem is a hard one, and it unfolds overtop a thin coastal soil stratum that doesn’t always offer bounty and wealth. But at the end of the poem, Ammons can still clearly see and hear his connection to the place of his birth.

“… the land is not deep down but across, as into time” he writes. “the runs, the / ditch banks, the underbrush, the open fields with a persimmon tree / or wild cherry call, they call me.” 

A Hometown Heritage marker telling the story of the Atlantic District Fairgrounds in Ahoskie was dedicated last month as part of a Juneteenth celebration.

The fairgrounds were, at one time, the cultural centerpiece of the region’s African American community.

But those times are gone. The track established in 1920 where trotters pulled sulkies for almost 90 years is overgrown and covered with grass. The brick grandstand, built in the late 1950s, is still there and from a distance looks intact, but the roof of the building next to it that once housed the stables is sagging and the paint is peeling.

The fairgrounds haven’t been used since 2010, but, for most of the nine decades it was in operation, it was a place where people of color in Hertford, Bertie, Gates and Northampton counties had the opportunity “to submit items of work and pride: preserves, needlecraft, woodcraft, cooking, livestock and art for possible prizes. It was rare for people of color to have such opportunities and rewards: to win a ribbon along with a dollar or two,” wrote Marvin Tupper Jones, executive director of the Chowan Discovery Group in a grant application for the nonprofit William G. Pomeroy Foundation.

The marker was unveiled June 14 at the R.L. Vann School Community Resource Center at 415 Holloman Ave. in Ahoskie, located beside the historic fairgrounds, during a Juneteenth program.

The Chowan Discovery Group works to preserve the history of the Winton Triangle, a 280-year-old landowning community of people of color. The Pomeroy Foundation was established in 2005 and offers several grant programs to help communities honor their history.

For a brief time during segregation, there were two fairs in Hertford County. The Hertford County Fair in Winton was first held 1918.

Prominent African American business owners and educators from Ahoskie and surrounding areas formed the Atlantic District Fair Association in 1920 after being denied access to the Hertford County Fair in the county seat.

“The Atlantic District Fair Association, incorporated, Ahoskie in Hertford county, to conduct a district agricultural fair and to promote agriculture, authorized capital $20,000, with $1,000 paid in by Augustus Sessoms of Ahoskie, C.D. Nichens, Winton and many others,” the Greensboro Daily News reported in February 2020.

The fair proved an immediate success, with the Hertford County Herald reporting on Oct. 28, 1921, “Since Tuesday, the opening day of the Atlantic’District Fair (colored), immense crowds have paid daily visits to the grounds…The opening day witnessed the smallest crowd of the 3-day fair. Wednesday’s and today’s crowds have met the expectations of the officials of the fair, who have been making extensive preparations for their initial fair.”

For three years, 1921-1923, the two fairs took place within a few weeks of one another.

But, according to the Ahoskie News Herald, by 1923 the Hertford County Fair was in financial trouble.

“The Hertford County Fair Association has called a meeting of the stockholders of the association … next Thursday, December 6. At that time a report of finances will be given and records of this year’s fair given. On account of the quick change in weather and postponing of the first day of the fair this year, the final report shows the association to have lost money, to the extent of about $350 this year (approximately $6,600 in 2025). This leaves the association worse off financially than before, and the meeting at Winton will probably decide the fate of the organization for another year,” the paper reported.

No further references to a Hertford County Fair was found in area newspapers.

Yet the Atlantic District Fair thrived throughout the 20th century. As the 32nd annual fair got underway in 1954, the Gates County Index reported in its Oct. 7 edition that, “President Clarence Chavis (had) received from Commissioner of Agriculture L. Y. Ballentine a letter in which the Atlantic District Fair was described us the third ranking fair in the state in the amount of agricultural exhibits and premiums, thus only one other fair besides the NC Stale Fair ranked higher than the Roanoke-Chowan’s Atlantic District Fair which in all its history has been promoted and managed entirely by Negroes.”

The paper did not identify the fair that ranked second.

Almost 40 years later, the fair continued to thrive. In a 1993 addendum to “History of the Atlantic District Fairground Association Incorporated … A.D. 1919 – A.D. 1991” wrote author Clarence Newsome, vice president of the association. “The 1993 episode of the Atlantic District Fair … was one of the most auspicious events in the recent history of the association.”

Paid attendance totaled nearly 8,000 people.

If 1993 was an auspicious year, there were storm clouds gathering.

“The population of the area started declining. A lot of the people active in the fair were business people. In the 70s,” Jones explained to Coastal Review. “We weren’t creating new retailers. We weren’t creating any more stores and business people and business people know how to run things.”

The population of Hertford County and Ahoskie have been in decline for more than 50 years, but the past 10 years have seen some of the more significant declines. From a population of almost 25,000 in the county in the 2010 census, the population is now estimated at less than 20,000. Ahoskie’s downtown district, which was at one time a thriving railroad transportation hub, reflects the broader changes seen countywide.

The entire downtown is a historic district, architecturally seemingly frozen in time between 1900 and 1940.

“The range of architectural styles found in Ahoskie is limited due to the relatively short period of the most of the town’s development,” wrote the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources in documents creating an Ahoskie Historic District.

Today, however the downtown is almost entirely deserted, many of the buildings empty and in disrepair. Not all of them though. Toward the west side of town, The Sweets on Main opened in May after renovating a 1948 building that had once housed a doctor’s office. The watermelon sorbet was perfect on a hot summer day, according to this reporter.

Yet even if there are a few businesses trying to bring the downtown back, Jones isn’t sure if there is enough of the same spirit that had once created a bustling, viable downtown Ahoskie.

“I don’t know if I see a new generation of leaders,” Jones said. “In the late 60s, 70s and up, we were trying to hang on to what our parents and grandparents…had passed down to us, but we don’t see a generation behind us that’s going to bolster what we’re doing.”

This story has been updated. A previous version misidentified the date of the harness racing photo.

Dewey Hemilright has spent more than 30 years on the water as a commercial fisherman. Along the way he has become an outspoken, sometimes harsh critic of how commercial fishing is regulated in the United States.

He is forceful in expressing his opinions, his language sometimes colorful, but the knowledge is deep, insightful and earned through a lifetime in the commercial fishing industry.

“I started in the fish house, unloading the boat. That’s the lowest tier on the totem pole,” he recalled.

He moved up the totem pole to working in a fish house, “packing, laboring long hours, nights, winter, cold, all that other stuff.” And when he turned 21, he headed to Ocean City, Maryland, to go fishing.

“My first two weeks, I lost 15 pounds from being seasick and throwing up. But the first trip we went fishing, we caught a big bluefin tuna, and I thought it was the most unreal thing. And from then on, I’ve been going my own route,” he said, adding, “but I never thought when I got started into it, that (the industry) would end up where it is today.”

He’s a longliner, fishing from his 42-foot-long boat, the F/V Tarbaby. The name, he explained, came about because it’s a smaller version of the 48-foot Tarheel, a charter vessel owned by John Bayliss and built by Ricky Scarborough.

He doesn’t get out to sea much at all any more. The combination of his advocacy, bad knees and years spent on the water have taken their toll, although the Tarbaby still heads out from Wanchese with a father-and-son crew he’s worked with for years.

Hemilright resides in Kitty Hawk with his wife Sara Hallas, education and outreach director for the North Carolina Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review.

Dwindling numbers

Longlining has become the least environmentally harmful method of commercial fishing, although “25 years ago, it wasn’t, but for the U.S. now, we’re the Mother Teresa,” Hemilright said describing the improvements regulators demanded and the changes the fishing industry made — or at least the changes have been made in the U.S. fishing fleet, which is one of Hemilright’s biggest complaints.

As to what remains of the domestic longline fishing fleet — Hemilright estimates the numbers from Maine to Texas total fewer than 50 active vessels — is forced to harvest fish in an environmentally safe way, but other nations aren’t, yet they have the same access to American markets as he does.

“You would want the U.S. standard of the harvest in these quota (for) these other (nations) in the Atlantic to be doing the same method. Or if they’re not, they don’t get our marketplace,” Hemilright told Coastal Review.

Hemilright’s concerns are wide-ranging. Asked about regulations and whether they are necessary, his one-word answer is “absolutely.” His answer, though, comes with a caveat: Stock assessments are based on models that use data selected by the scientists working on the assessment.

“That model performs by the data you interject into it,” he said.

A lot of studying

Hemilright was an indifferent student — at best — in high school, he said, telling Coastal Review, “If I would have studied this much in school, I wouldn’t be fishing today.”

The studying he does now has taken him to Majorca, Spain, for the International Commission for the Conservation of Atlantic Tunas (ICCAT) in an advisory role in 2019. From 2012 until 2023 he represented North Carolina on the Mid-Atlantic Fishery Management Council, and served as the liaison to the South Atlantic Fishery Management Council.

And it requires a lot of studying.

“You got to know the politics, you got to know the council, you got to know the stock assessment. You got to know this whole different picture,” Hemilright said describing what is needed to be an effective advocate.

Hemilright has stepped back. “Twenty-five years of bitching, complaining at fishery meetings, to where I’m coming down the backside of the hill and aging out,” he explained.

Yet, he is still passionate and highly critical of fisheries management describing the science behind the regulatory structure as trying “to put a roof on the house, and we don’t even got pilings for the foundation.”

“You would not run your life, your business, or anything, by the way that accounting is taking place,” he said. “The folks at the table would not want their livelihood, their household income, or anything based on this MSC.”

The MSC, or Marine Stewardship Council, is an international organization that rewards “efforts to protect oceans and safeguard seafood supplies for the future.” Its fisheries certification program is a widely used standard to establish whether a fishery is sustainable. The MSC awards its blue label only to fisheries that the organization determines meets its standards.

Hemilright said the organization is inconsistent in how it uses data to award blue label certifications, particularly sample sizes and margins of error.

“Some of them have a lower decision of standard of error. Some of them have a higher standard error,” he said.

The MSC has been criticized in recent years. The U.K. charity Shark Guardian published a 2023 study by the advocacy group On the Hook that concluded, “the MSC’s drive for growth and income has come at the expense of the Standard’s effectiveness and scientific credibility.”

Hemilright is particularly critical of recreational fishing. The criticism is not directed at the men, women and kids throwing a line in the water, rather it’s how what is caught gets counted – or doesn’t. He described recreational catch limits as pieces of a pie, “and you whack this pie up here, and you whack this pie up here — there ain’t so much of a pot of a resource out there.”

Commercial fishing is highly monitored with cameras on boats and inspectors taking trips with fishing craft to ensure compliance with catch limits. Recreational landings are self-reported and fisheries biologists use a small sample size to estimate how many fish are being caught.

Although recreational landings are estimates, they are often given a larger share of the pie than commercial fishing interests. Hemilright is critical of a recent North Carolina Marine Fisheries Commission decision to consider increasing the amount of southern flounder allocated to recreational fishing to 50% and reducing the commercial portion by 10% of what had been previously allocated. The reallocation plan came despite acknowledgement that the recreational catch was 14,000 pounds over the 2024 limit. Commercial landings were within 1.6% of allocation.

“You’re taking it from one that’s accountable for its catch, and you’re giving it to the other side that’s not that’s not accountable to the methodology that’s been placed upon them,” Hemilright said.

Recognitions

Hemilright  has received numerous awards for his advocacy. In 2015, the Coastal Federation awarded him its Pelican Award for “outstanding contributions to education and outreach on behalf of the federation.”

The Mid-Atlantic Fishery Management Council presented him in 2024 with the Ricks E Savage Award “given annually to an individual who has made exceptional contributions to the management and conservation of fishery resources in the mid-Atlantic region.”

Looking back on his career, Hemilright laughed at how it unfolded.

“I did it for North Carolina, that’s where I’ve been advocating, and my community and my town. I never thought when I got started into it, that it would end up today, not just what I’m doing, but the industry, because the world evolved where the technology changed, things have changed,” he said.

NAGS HEAD — Jockey’s Ridge used to be known as the tallest natural sand dune on the East Coast, but now it’s described as its largest natural active sand dune system.

While it may not be as high as it was in 1973, the unique phenomenon of nature is still there — famously thanks to Carolista Baum, a young mother who that year physically blocked a developer’s bulldozer.

A celebration of the 50th anniversary of Jockey’s Ridge State Park held June 5-8 drew thousands of people, from folks who had rolled down the dune as children to tourists who climb it every summer to watch the sun set, to share in appreciation of the beloved Outer Banks landmark.

Festivities included a duneside performance last Friday by the popular indie band, the Connells — with a surprise appearance by North Carolina Gov. Josh Stein — followed by the Outer Banks’ first drone light show.

In his introduction to a documentary about “magical, awesome” Jockey’s Ridge screened at the park’s visitor center late that Saturday afternoon, park ranger Austin Paul said the 22-minute “collection of heartfelt stories” from the community and state officials about the site will continue to grow as more content is gathered.

“Jockey’s Ridge is kind of like the center point of the Outer Banks, Ann-Cabell Baum, Carolista Baum’s oldest daughter, says in the film. “Jockey’s Ridge is so many different things to so many different people … It’s part of our souls, it’s part of our hearts, it’s part of our families.”

Baum and her siblings used to play every day on Jockey’s Ridge, she recalled in a later interview with Coastal Review.

One day the children saw a bulldozer arrive to start digging on the backside of the dune, and Baum, then age 6 1/2, along with her sister Inglis, 5, and her brother Gibbs, 3 1/2, dashed back to their nearby home to tell their mother. Carolista immediately ran over to the spot and stood in front of the bulldozer, not moving until the operator gave up and left, Baum said. 

Her petite 33-year-old mother, a dark-haired Edenton farm girl who grew up with six brothers, then promptly removed the distributor cap, and went about rallying the community in what became the “Save our Sand Dune” campaign to get the state to preserve Jockey’s Ridge.

It wasn’t the first time that developers had raised the ire of the locals — by then the Villa Dunes subdivision was already built on the northern edges of the dunes, and plans for the new development had already been submitted to the town. But this time, the whole community got behind her mother, Baum remembered.

“She was sincere and loving and kind,” her daughter said about Carolista, remembering how people always would come by her jewelry shop to visit with her and chat.

A year after the bulldozer was banished, the dune was declared a National Natural Landmark, and the following year the state park was created.

As former Nags Head Mayor and Commissioner Renee Cahoon says in the documentary, the park is an asset to the town in multiple ways.

“No one else has a Jockey’s Ridge,” she says. “It’s not just cultural icon; it’s also a business icon.”

The park is routinely in the top five of the most-visited state parks in North Carolina.

Last year, 1.2 million people visited. But during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 and 2021, visitation went through the roof, at 1.9 million and 1.8 million, respectively. Both years had the Nags Head park as the No. 1 most-visited state park. It is currently back to prepandemic visitation.

“It’s more than a fabulous sand pile,” Peggy Birkemeier, a member of the Friends of Jockey’s Ridge Board of Directors, says in the film.

As Birkemeier notes, Jockey’s Ridge has a bounty of natural resources that offer numerous “exciting experiences” for visitors.

The backside of the park abuts the Roanoke Sound, with its long shoreline meandering northward along brackish marshes and toward the ancient maritime forest of Nags Head Woods. It includes a sound beach access that is popular with families. There are also unpaved trails through shrub forest areas beyond the shoreline that lead to the lower expanse of the dunes.

And the night sky above the dunes presents some of the most dramatic scenes on the Outer Banks. In fact, any time of day or night, cloudy or starry, at sunrise or sunset, the sky from Jockey’s Ridge is a wonderment.

“It is certainly a place where many memories are made,” Birkemeier says about the park. 

Legacy projects for Jockey’s Ridge that are in the works include the creation of a trail that loops around the park with informational markers about 10 different significant areas — such as hang gliding and the sometimes-buried sand castle — and a time capsule with various artifacts that is tentatively planned to be kept on display at the visitor center museum.

When the park first opened on May 31, 1975, the big dune was 140 feet tall, Jockey’s Ridge State Park Superintendent Joy Cook explained to Coastal Review in an interview after the event. But shifting maritime winds continually rearranged its estimated 30 million tons of sand, mostly quartz blown in ages ago from the mountains, into different shapes, while surrounding development influenced sand travel. Now the dunes are a system of three smaller hills that are 60 to 80 feet tall. 

“It’s moving 1- to 6-feet to the south each year,” she said. “The prominent wind is out of the north. The dunes are north-south orientation, and the southeast corner is moving faster than the rest of it.”

About six years ago, she said, the park had to relocate the sides of the corner that were moving into the road, and it will probably have to be moved again in a few years.

But even at its decreased height, being on top of Jockey’s Ridge is close to a surreal experience, and it’s not only because of the panoramic view of sea, sound and landscape. The vast expanse of undulating sand at times feels nearly mystical. Depending on the time of day, as well as the weather conditions, the shadows cast by the light and the wind-carved designs in the sand can transform the dunes into art.

But as every local knows, Jockey’s Ridge is the last place a person would want to be in extremes of any weather: a blazing hot summer day, a very windy or rainy day, or any degree of thunderstorm. And sometimes being on top in the middle of all that sand can be disorienting — it’s not unusual for visitors to lose their bearings.

On the flipside, kids delight in rolling and leaping down the dune, and young adults love to slide down them on boogie boards — especially if there’s a rare snowfall. Not to mention that the hang-gliding and kite flying, if the wind cooperates, is extraordinary.

Carolista Baum, an artist and a jeweler, died at 50 from a brain tumor. She remains as one of the most admired personalities in Outer Banks history, not only for her vibrancy and strength of character, but for her courage to stand her ground and protest what she believed was wrong.

As many recognized during the anniversary celebration, without Carolista taking action at that moment, and creating the momentum and inspiration in the community for the preservation fight, it’s likely that Jockey’s Ridge would not have been here to celebrate its 50-year anniversary.

“In 1973, she stood in front of a bulldozer and probably wouldn’t have been arrested,” Baum said. “It was a different time then. But I think she still would have stood in front of a bulldozer if that happened today.”

HATTERAS — Long famous for its bountiful fishing, Hatteras Island now has a new state-of-the-art processing and packing facility that keeps Outer Banks fish local from sea to plate, while also enabling local fresh catch to be shipped directly to customers.

And it’s owned by a local fishing family, to boot.

“The thing was, all this fish used to go to Virginia to get processed,” owner Jeff Aiken said during a recent tour of Jeffrey’s Seafood, situated along Back Creek in Hatteras Village.

The business officially opened May 21 during a ribbon-cutting celebration.

At a time when commercial and charter fishing enterprises face multiple challenges, the new facility is especially good news, Lynne Foster wrote in a message to Coastal Review.

“Jeffrey’s brings vitality to our Working Waterfront,” said Foster who along with her husband Ernie Foster run the Hatteras-based Albatross Fleet. “It also offers hope to the fishing community as well as the island community, which include many supporting businesses that rely on a vibrant fishing fleet and the sale of their catches.”

Working nearby in the chilly, 55-degree fish-cutting room, with heavy metal music seeming to set the pace, Aiken’s son Kelsey, 35, skillfully sliced through fish, one after another, cleaning and filleting. Along with another four or so people, they work their knives swiftly on large tables from early morning hours until about noon.

“As soon as we cut it, it gets bagged, we vacuum seal it and then it’s placed in a box to be shipped,” Kelsey Aiken said. Delivery drivers transport fish to local restaurants and markets from Hatteras to Avon, and sometimes to Rodanthe and Ocracoke. Fish awaiting processing are packed in ice, or stored in large freezers.

In addition to a temperature-controlled fish cleaning and cutting area, and rooms for packing, freezers and storage, the 11,000-square-foot facility also includes Hatteras Seafoods, the new retail market on the ground floor. Additional space remains for a small restaurant that is being planned, with the idea of serving local seafood favorites as well as beer and wine.

Proper cooling is provided by on-site freezers as large as walk-in closets, and the flash freezer — 30 degrees below zero — includes three gigantic fans to keep the air moving. There is also a chute from an ice machine on the upper floor to an “ice room” below.

“This is the brand-new vacuum sealer,” Jeff Aiken said, pointing to a long, steel machine with a pressing device on top. “That’s a $35,000 piece of equipment,” he added, as Kelsey Aiken demonstrated on a rockfish, using a 4-milliliter bag.

Nearby, there is the shrimp grader, another huge machine that not only pinches off the shrimps’ little heads, but also sorts them by four different sizes.

Jeff Aiken said that the business buys most of its shrimp from Native Seafood in Ocracoke, which has a deepwater inlet.

Although the warmer water from climate change has created boom years for shrimpers from Florida to Virginia, Jeff Aiken said, most of the local catch has to be processed in Engelhard and Swan Quarter because of depth limitations for the 60-foot shrimp trawlers. But he said that he hopes they’ll be able to get smaller shrimp boats into Hatteras for processing in the near future.

The retail store displays whole fish on ice in the glass cabinet, as well as filleted fish. A large window offers the customers in the retail store a view into the remarkably shiny and clean cutting room, showing the men, all wearing gloves and waterproof overalls, as they worked.

“I wanted them to see what’s going on,” Jeff Aiken said.

Fish scraps are returned to the water, to be happily “recycled” by other sea creatures, he added.

The facility also has an upstairs area for offices, meetings and storage, with an outside deck that boasts a wide view of the creek, the Pamlico Sound and lovely sunsets. Once the new website is up and running this winter, fresh-frozen filleted fish and shellfish will be able to be ordered online and shipped next-day air directly to consumers.

Jeff Aiken, along with his then-partners, founded the original fish house at the Hatteras docks in the 1980s, soon expanding to a wholesale business that involved driving a refrigerated truck packed with fresh Outer Banks catch to Hampton, Virginia.

Over the years, Jeff Aiken’s business adapted and evolved along with the fishing industry, as numerous local fish retailers and processors downsized or closed entirely.

But it was the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, when supply chain disruptions left local chefs without fish to serve, that led to the dramatic expansion of Aiken’s business.

“They said, ‘Hey, you got the fish. Can you cut the fish?’” Jeff Aiken recalled. “So from that point, it spread by word of mouth and they kept coming.”

By then, Kelsey Aiken and his wife, Kelly, had joined Jeff Aiken in the business.

Jeff Aiken said he had purchased the fish house from Lee Peele, who had owned it when it was called Quality Seafood. It is also where he worked for $5 an hour when he first came to the Outer Banks in 1981.

“We were finally out of that little space out of Hatteras Harbor and we were cleaning all the fish for the charter vessels,” he recalled.

Jeff Aiken, who is from Hampton, Virginia, where he still has a home, credits his daughter-in-law Kelly, the company’s retail manager, with securing grants from the U.S. Department of Agriculture in 2021 to renovate and enlarge the facility with the goal of improving efficiency and capacity. The business had to pony up about a third of the matching funds.

“We’re in it for a million and they’re in it for two,” Jeff Aiken said. “And they got what they paid for.”

Now local chefs at local restaurants can ask for the fish they want to be filleted to order, Kelly Aiken said. Whenever possible, she said, the fin fish as well as seasonal oysters, shrimp and crab are local catch, and Jeffrey’s continues to partner with Ocracoke and Wanchese fish operations. The business also works with a distributer to bring its fresh fish — frozen and labeled — to North Carolina farmers markets to sell.

But Jeff Aiken said while their business sells almost all North Carolina product, and would never buy foreign shrimp, it’s impossible to guarantee that all their fish is strictly from the Outer Banks since fishers work within the realities of fisheries ecosystems and seasons.

“Fish have fins and tails and they swim,” he said. “They go where ever they want.”

And some fish they sell aren’t local at all, such as salmon from Norway or Scotland.

Jeff Aiken said that they buy most of their shrimp from Native Seafood in Ocracoke, which has a deepwater inlet. Although the warmer water from climate change has created boom years for shrimpers from Florida to Virginia, he continued, most of the local catch has to be processed in Engelhard and Swan Quarter because of water depth limitations for the 60-foot trawlers. But he added that he hopes they’ll be able to get smaller shrimp boats into Hatteras for processing in the near future.

Any customers looking for a brief history of Hatteras fishing can walk to the hallway behind the retail store to view a collection of historic to contemporary photographs of fishermen, including Jeff Aiken, with their boats, their family, their friends and the fish they caught.

“We call it the Hall of Fame,” he said, adding with a laugh: “Or, the Hall of Shame.”

One prominent picture is of the Ada Mae, a skipjack built in 1915 by Ralph Hodges and named after his then 13-year-old sister, who was Jeff Aiken’s grandmother.

The vessel, a former oyster dredge boat that is believed to be the last surviving skipjack in the state, has been restored. Today the boat is moored in New Bern and has participated in the reenactment of Blackbeard’s battle on Ocracoke Island, with Jeff Aiken onboard.

“All of those guys are local fishermen,” Jeff Aiken said, in between telling numerous fish tales about the various scenes lining the walls. “These pictures kind of bring the life to commercial fishing.”

Every summer, the women of Ocean City Beach organized crabbing trips to Topsail Island’s north end. On a waxing moon, when the tide was exactly right, moms and their kids skimmed the saltwater shallows hunting blue crabs, as many as they could carry. The fat jimmies and sooks were the promise of delectable family recipes: rich gumbo, savory crab casseroles and delicate crab-stuffed eggs.

“My mom would always say that on a growing moon, you get more crab meat than on a wasting moon,” Kenneth Chestnut says. “I didn’t believe it, but I became a believer.”

Chestnut’s faith arrived one unforgettable day. The tide had just begun to turn, creating tranquil waters that are a guaranteed feast for hungry blue crabs. Suddenly, the marsh teemed with them, and harvest baskets quickly overflowed.

“It was almost biblical,” Chestnut marvels. Faced with this unexpected bounty, the women had to think fast. How would they get such a haul home?

“They told us boys take off our jeans — we had on swimming trunks underneath — tie up the bottoms of them and fill them with crabs,” Chestnut says, chuckling at the memory.

Back at Ocean City Beach, everyone went to work steaming the mountains of crabs. Pickers meticulously avoided damaging the fragile back shells. Those were always set aside to dry in the sun for use in one of the most beloved dishes: deviled crabs.

Chestnut’s mother, Caronell, took her version to Michelin-star level. She began by sautéing minced onions and celery in rich butter before adding flour and milk to create a luxurious bechamel sauce. After gently folding in sweet crab meat and chopped, hard-boiled eggs, Caronell Chestnut mounded the exquisite mixture into the sun-bleached shells. She finished each serving with a dusting of cracker meal and “small tip of butter” before baking them golden brown for a neighborhood feast.

And it wasn’t just crabs at those delicious gatherings.

“They would prepare dishes and then share dishes. All kinds,” Chestnut reminisces. Food was the heartbeat of the hamlet, a profound expression of connection, so central, so vital, that someone eventually realized Ocean City Beach needed its own cookbook.

More than recipes

The crabbing and cooking memory Kenneth Chestnut relates resonates deeply with my own childhood in Jacksonville, just 25 miles away. Yet, our neighborhoods were worlds apart.

The Chestnuts were Black; my family was white. Although the Civil Rights Act had been law for a decade when we first drove through Ocean City Beach on our way to and from favorite crabbing spots in the early 1970s, Topsail Island’s lines of segregation were clear.

We understood Ocean City Beach as separate, “the Black beach.” Its enduring community cookbook, originally published in 1980 and titled “Ms. Winnie’s Seafood Cook Book,” is a powerful testament to Maya Angelou’s profound truth: “Human beings are more alike than we are unalike. And the minute we began to understand, just the slightest part of that, we recognize ourselves as family.”

Winnie Robinson, a long-time Ocean City Beach resident, painstakingly assembled that first recipe collection as a fundraiser. Chestnut imagines she walked house to house, asking cooks to share their most delicious creations.

The sumptuous dishes, often elaborate in their seasonings — fish chowder with a splash of white burgundy wine, dill- and nutmeg-scented clam fritters, grilled sesame trout, sweet-and-sour sauteed croakers, to name a few — tell a complex story.

In 1949, Edgar Yow, a white man and former Wilmington mayor, witnessed the harsh realities of racism. He envisioned a haven where people of color could enjoy the shore and own oceanside homes in peace.

Yow held seaside property and collaborated with Kenneth Chestnut’s father, Wade Chestnut, and Wade’s siblings to turn part of the acreage into the milelong Ocean City Beach. By 1954, this determined community had 15 homes, a welcoming motel, a bustling restaurant and, soon after, an Episcopal chapel, a church summer camp and the iconic Ocean City Fishing Pier.

“When growing up, I would go on the beach and I would see it was really crowded to the left, really crowded to the right, recalls Carla Torrey, editor of the cookbook’s latest incarnation, “Tried and True Recipes.” “And there would maybe be me and two other people on our beach. And I always was like, ‘Why is that? Is there something special about me?’”

“And then I later realized why. That it was this invisible line where nobody crossed over and came on our beach.”

Unwelcome at many restaurants and living somewhere set apart for no other reason than its residents’ skin color, Ocean City Beach’s talented chefs cultivated a culinary utopia.

Torrey shows a fuzzy black-and-white photo of a community garden thriving even in dry, sandy soil. She yearns for the creamed corn one neighbor prepared fresh from the cob. Chestnut recalls his dad salt-curing mullet in a barrel and neighbors carefully tending molting crabs that would become fried, soft-shell delicacies.

Kitchen creativity, Torrey and Chestnut explain, blossomed during the summers. Moms and their kids, home from school, lived at Ocean City all week. Working dads joined their families on weekends. The women supported each other by sharing meals and recipes. Those carefree days offered them the luxury of time to lovingly prepare food and experiment with fresh ideas.

“It was a joy to her if she didn’t feel pressured to cook,” Chestnut remembers about his mother. “I think that was why she especially loved it down here.”

Each cook infused delights with flavors and methods passed down through the generations along with the latest trends, like Carol King’s Prawn and Egg Curry and Bessie W. Hill’s shrimp-stuffed eggplant.

As Winnie Robinson herself wrote in the original cookbook’s acknowledgments, “Our source has been the ‘world of food.'”

Cooking up the future

Today, 30 Ocean City Beach homes survive from a peak of 100 that existed before hurricanes Fran and Berta took their tolls in 1996. Storms also claimed the Ocean City Beach pier, leaving behind only a solitary tower standing sentinel on a scrubby oceanfront lot. The village nearly blends into the relentless sprawl all around. In 1990, North Topsail Beach absorbed Ocean City Beach into its town limits.

The triumph of civil rights has slowly, gently, loosened ties to this community born of necessity. “Descendants (of original homeowners) can go anywhere and buy anywhere, as opposed to just here,” Chestnut notes. “That’s the way it should be.”

Yet, the important story of Ocean City Beach is far from forgotten. It lives on in an exhibit at Surf City’s Missiles and More Museum, tracing Topsail Island’s history. The community holds a place on both the N.C. Civil Rights Trail and the Jacksonville Onslow African-American Heritage Trail. A roadside marker near the old pier entrance humbly sums up Ocean City Beach’s founding. Blue street signs delineate its roads.

And there’s the cookbook.

While the societal injustices that compelled Ocean City Beach’s creation are a painful memory, they don’t diminish the deep nostalgia families feel for the idyllic summer days they spent in the village. Ensuing generations cling to heirloom recipes and the cherished tradition of sharing meals, a legacy of resilience and joy expressed in the community cookbook.

Chestnut carries on his mother’s clam fritter recipe, the one with dill and nutmeg. His daughter still prepares her grandmother’s Shrimp and Rice Surprise, an easy, irresistible mélange of ham, sausage, shrimp, mushrooms and melty cheese.

Torrey, driven by a passion for preservation, spent hours immersed in Robinson’s pages. She brought forth treasured recipes and solicited new ones for “Tried and True Recipes,” published in 2014, including her own elaborate citrus crabcakes with coriander and blood orange aioli.

Sales of “Tried and True Recipes” help fund maintenance of the chapel and community building, which continue to host gatherings. Potlucks and an annual Labor Day block party happen annually.  

Proceeds also support Ocean City Beach’s annual Jazz Festival. Every Fourth of July, people of all colors come together for two days of music. Torrey’s husband, Craig, organizes a historic walking tour during the event, guiding visitors through streets that hold so many stories.

“Tried and True Recipes” is always available at the festival and year-round online. Both the cookbook and the Jazz Festival are powerful vehicles to tell the story of Ocean City Beach, Carla Torrey says.

“And hopefully keep the history going so it’s not forgotten.”

Caronell Chestnut’s Deviled Crabs

½ cup chopped onion

½ cup chopped celery

½ stick butter or margarine

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

½ cup milk

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

Seasonings as desired

1 pound crab meat

2 hard-boiled eggs, chopped

Cracker meal or cracker crumbs

Butter or margarine

Sauté onions and celery in butter or margarine until vegetables are tender. Remove from heat and add flour, milk, Worcestershire and seasonings. Return to heat and cook until thick. Add more milk if necessary for the right consistency. Mix this with crab meat and hard-boiled eggs. Fill crab shells or a baking dish with mixture. Sprinkle top with cracker meal or cracker crumbs. Place a tip of butter or margarine on top of each shell. Bake at 350 degrees until brown (about 25-30 minutes).

THE EDGE of the sea is a strange and beautiful place. All through the long history of Earth it has been an area of unrest where waves have broken heavily against the land, where the tides have pressed forward over the continents, receded, and then returned. For no two successive days is the shore line precisely the same.

From “The Edge of the Sea” by Rachel Carson.

Countless reviewers and critics have noted through the decades how Rachel Carson’s words above, first published in 1955, were written from the point of view of a scientifically sophisticated observer.

Carson had the knack for describing the various aspects, patterns and lifeforms — many invisible or unknown to all but the most familiar – found on the world’s three types of ocean shore, all three of which, she noted, are found along the East Coast.

Reared in Springdale, Pennsylvania, just northeast of Pittsburgh, the scientist and writer is best known for her 1962 book, “Silent Spring,” which stirred controversy and raised awareness about pesticides’ harmful effects when used indiscriminately. Her book is often credited as the spark that ignited the environmental movement.

In the years just prior, Carson, a marine biologist with a long career in federal service, had written a trio of bestselling, highly praised books about seashores and sea life, culminating in 1955 with “The Edge of the Sea.”

“Miss Carson, thanks to her remarkable knack for taking dull scientific facts and translating them into poetical and lyrical prose that enchanted the lay public, had a substantial public image before she rocked the American public and much of the world with ‘Silent Spring,’” according to Jonathan Norton Leonard’s report of her death as published April 15, 1964, in the New York Times.

Carson was 56 when she died.

Among the many still enchanted with Carson are Bland Simpson, a distinguished professor of English and creative writing at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, songwriter and pianist for The Red Clay Ramblers; Jim Wann, a theatrical writer, musician and leading man; and Don Dixon, a highly regarded record producer, songwriter and musician.

Together, these three form the Coastal Cohorts, whose collaborative comedic musical, “King Mackerel and the Blues Are Running; Songs and Stories of the Carolina Coast,” is now in its 40^th year.

Tickets are on sale for this year’s performances Oct. 24-25 in Morehead City. The scheduled shows were announced earlier this spring.

The musical presents aspects of coastal life through song and onstage hilarity, but also conveys, more subtly, environmental themes, without lecturing or moralizing. The loose plot involves our fishing-buddy “Cohorts” who set out to help save their favorite destination and its proprietor from the wrecking ball as wielded by prospective condo developers.

The production debuted Dec. 8, 1985, at Rhythm Alley in Chapel Hill. While much of that original performance remains part of the show, the Cohorts have continued over the years to write and perform new songs, weaving them into the show. This most recent song, a reverent homage to Carson, “Edge of the Sea,” that took two decades to develop, may work best as an epilogue, according to the Cohorts.

The song was inspired in particular by Carson’s research in North Carolina in the late 1930s and 1940s, Simpson recently told Coastal Review. That research informed her book “The Edge of the Sea” and its chapter about Bird Shoal in what is now the Rachel Carson Reserve just south of Beaufort.

“We just happened to have pulled it together when one of the very things that Rachel Carson caused to come into being, the Environmental Protection Agency and the laws that it worked under, when those things are being just taken part,” Simpson said.

The song’s development began with a staging of “King Mack” at East Carolina University, Simpson explained during a recent video call with Dixon, Wann and Coastal Review.

“Well, Don and I were playing ‘King Mackerel’ in East Carolina on one of those literary homecomings that (distinguished ECU English professor) Margaret Bauer was sponsoring every year for about 10 or 12 years,” said Simpson. “And there was a little workshop, and they asked us to maybe bring in something new we were working on. And I don’t know how we determined Rachel Carson, but we each brought in a verse. It wasn’t a complete song.”

Wann was unable to be at that particular event, but when he was told about the project, he let his fellow Cohorts know that he had already begun working on his own song about Rachel Carson.

“Jim kind of took the lead, and it grew over some time,” Simpson said.

And grow it did. The song clocks in at 8 minutes, 29 seconds, commencing with ocean sounds and a lush choir of female voices. Those are the voices of Dixon’s wife Marti Jones, as well as Rebecca Newton of North Carolina’s own Rebecca & the Hi-Tones, Durham educator Pattie Le Sueur, and Simpson’s fall 2024 songwriting students at Carolina, Madeline Lai and Maggie Thornton. The Cohorts provide the rest, including lead vocals, with Dixon on bass and guitar, Simpson on piano, and Wann on guitar.

“We went up to Chapel Hill where we were in a studio with those women singers Bland had recruited from his class, and then Rebecca and Pattie, who I knew, and Don was mentoring us from Ohio, through the magic of modern technology,” said Wann. “It was very much a stage-by-stage process to arrive at what we’ve got now.”

In its early development, Wann’s working title was “Kayaking with Rachel,” because, he said, “I read that she used to kayak, you know, when she was in her time around the North Carolina shores. And I thought that was interesting, because that was before — the song says, ‘She was kayaking before kayaking was cool,’ and that kind of was my jumpstart into the song.”

Dixon, at some point, had noted the need for an intro to set up the rest of the song, specifically referencing Carson’s own words: “The edge of the sea is a strange and beautiful place,” said Wann.

“And you just kind of tossed that out,” Wann said to Dixon, “So I just adapted some of her phrases, those words, and that’s how that came into being.”

The song elevates her words “in this kind of Greek chorus sort of thing,” which is the way Dixon, the track’s arranger and producer, said he was hearing it.

And the story contained in the song is one of triumph over challenges, also reflective of Carson’s life. She was a hero, “not just of environmentalism, but the history of humanity,” Simpson said.

“She was a saint and really gave her life,” Simpson continued. “She was dying of cancer when she went to Congress and was put upon, pushed upon. She did not give — she didn’t give an inch.”

Wann said those aspects of her personality, her history and her quiet, solitary life are woven into the song’s first chorus. “That was kind of the first stage,” he said.

“This is creation, don’t let indifference take it away from you
This is your water, don’t let complacency take it away from you.”

— “Edge of the Sea” by the Coastal Cohorts, © 2025 Wann/Dixon/Simpson

Simpson said the above chorus is a call to action. There will always be forces working against the clean and the pure, he said.

Beloved, smeared

In 1962, when Carson’s “Silent Spring” was published, chemical and pesticide manufacturers attacked her, funded disinformation campaigns and labeled her a likely communist. But Carson’s books had already endeared her to the public.

“That book ‘Silent Spring,’ and even her first ocean books sold in the millions,” Dixon said. “She was beloved by certain people; she was just vilified by industry. It was definitely a smear campaign.”

Those trying to smear Carson may, to many, resemble the evil Greed Heads threatening the coastal environment and culture in the “King Mack” storyline.

Wann noted that some in Congress tried to dismissed her, as well.

“They just said that her science was wrong and that she wasn’t telling the truth,” Wann said. “The truth did prevail.”

In 1963, when Carson went before Congress to advocate for federal controls on pesticide use during hearings on pollution, she explained how chemical poisons had contaminated the environment humans depend on — water, soil, air and vegetation.

“It has even penetrated that internal environment within the bodies of animals and of men,” Carson said in her remarks on June 4 that year. She cited numerous sources: radioactive waste and waste from laboratories and hospitals, fallout from nuclear explosions, municipal wastewater and chemical waste from homes and industry.

“When we review the history of mankind in relation to the Earth we cannot help feeling somewhat discouraged, for that history is for the most part that of the blind or short-sighted despoiling of the soil, forests, waters and all the rest of the Earth’s resources. We have acquired technical skills on a scale undreamed of even a generation ago. We can do dramatic things and we can do them quickly; by the time damaging side effects are apparent it is often too late, or impossible, to reverse our actions,” Carson told Congress. “I have pointed out before, and I shall repeat now, that the problem of pesticides can be properly understood only in context, as part of the general introduction of harmful substances into the environment.”

Simpson noted that there are echoes of those times in the current political environment, in which “radical capitalism” is threatening to undo regulations that were based in science.

“It’s an irony, a terrific irony, that the Environmental Protection Agency having been created in no small part because of the wisdom and intelligence that ‘Silent Spring’ brought forth, that the EPA is now, under the new administration, is now being run by undoers, deregulators and representatives of the chemical industry and so forth, and so we’ve sort of come full circle and back to status quo, antebellum and before Rachel’s work helped cause the EPA,” Simpson said.

But, Simpson added, the new song is as uplifting as Carson’s writings.

“Rachel Carson’s spirit is anything but depressing,” Simpson said. “She found miracles in every speck of anything she ever picked up on the beach. And that’s why we love her so, because her heart informed her science about the value and the interconnectedness of all these things. ‘One creature tied to another,’ I think, is Jim’s lyric.”

Wann said he didn’t recall “making anything up” in writing the song, aside from minor paraphrasing of Carson’s words.

“Pretty much all those words are in the preface of ‘Edge of the Sea,’ the very first few pages of the book,” Dixon said.

Dixon acknowledged the song is a celebration of Carson, but is also it’s “sort of a cautionary tale,” especially for those unfamiliar with her work, the fragility of fish and wildlife, and how her advocacy led to a ban on the pesticide DDT.

“They don’t realize she spawned the environmental movement as we know it today,” Dixon said. “And it really was kind of just her doing. I mean, she was very solitary. She was not part of a big group of people working on this problem that she recognized.”

Carolina connections

Carson’s connections to coastal North Carolina were made when the region looked quite different. In 1947, during her tenure with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, she was tasked with writing a visitor brochure for Mattamuskeet National Wildlife Refuge in Hyde County. Simpson said it was “very unlike the standard flat, elemental tour guide.”

It reflected the way she saw the world. “She clearly devoted herself to science writing and everything she did,” he said.

“When we first wrote the show, I don’t think we fully appreciated the light touch as far as environmental matters,” Simpson explained. “In terms of culture, we were looking at our memories of, you know, the old-style hotels and everybody eats at a long table. It wasn’t a world of high-rises and condos and all that.”

“King Mackerel” follows the Cohorts’ efforts to preserve that era and help their fictional friend, Miss Mattie, save her beachfront hotel and pier. The conflict is outlined in “Corncake Inlet Inn” from the original soundtrack.

“We put the contrast in the lyrics: ‘Greed Head sees a barrel of bucks … Cohort sees the geese and the ducks that won’t come back in the fall,’ the change of environment. That’s all true,” Simpson said.

It’s a contrast that’s meaningful to two area nonprofit organizations that have for decades hosted the Cohorts’ performances in Carteret County.

Todd Miller, who in 1982 founded the North Carolina Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review, understood that meaning early on – perhaps, according to Simpson, before the Cohorts had fully grasped it themselves. The Coastal Federation works to protect, restore and preserve coastal water quality and habitats, which are critical to the way of life here.

“Their music and stories are beautifully aligned with our mission — capturing why people love and cherish our coast, even as that love can sometimes lead to its overuse and degradation,” Miller said. “They first performed for the Coastal Federation in the mid-1980s, and since then, we’ve all together become part of a larger coastal cohort. Their appeal runs deep, touching the hearts and minds of people from all walks of life — those of us whose lives are enriched by a coast that is a wonderful place to live, visit, work, and play.”

It’s all those things and a deep culture going back centuries, said Karen Willis Amspacher, director of the Core Sound Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island.

“It’s everything we stand for,” Amspacher said. “Corncake Inn is all about place and tradition and memories and holding on to youth and the beach and the wildness of it all.”

She said the connections ring even truer now than years ago.

“The Greed Heads have multiplied,” she said.

Wann said he was recently thinking back on the Cohorts’ 40-year journey, the connections made and the introduction of new songs along the way.

“It’s been just really especially rewarding that there’s still this growth element to it,” Wann said. “Even doing the show, it doesn’t feel tired or old, because partly, I think we’ve heard so many times that someone will come up and say to us, some young person will say, ‘We used to listen to your music on the way to the beach. It was the only music that my parents and us kids could agree to listen to.’ Now we’ve met the third generation, parents and grandparents who know about ‘King Mackerel’ and at some point, someone said to us, ‘You know, you started out singing about the culture here, and now you’re part of the culture.’”

Updated to correct the name of Miss Mattie’s Fish Camp.

What do you think would happen if you took a young guy who grew up as a fishing nut in western New York State and transplanted him to eastern North Carolina?

If you said that he would turn into a crazy fishing adult, just in a different place, you would be correct.

Justin Manners grew up in a small town, west of Rochester, New York, and just south of Lake Ontario. This meant he had access to some of the finest trout and salmon in the East.

“I grew up fishing creek mouths at the lake for king salmon, steelhead, and brown trout. This was seasonal, but definitely what we looked forward to every fall,” Manners said recently.

It was a family experience with everybody pitching in to help each other learn the best way to go about things.

“I grew up fishing with my dad, brothers, uncles and cousins,” he said. “It would be difficult for me to single out one person that was my biggest influence.”

In case you didn’t know, there is a huge variety of fish to catch there.

“Growing up we would fish for anything that would bite. Depending on the season, we would fish for largemouth and smallmouth bass, catfish, northern pike, carp, walleye, perch, trout, and salmon.”

Of all his family members, Manners said that the fishing bug bit him hardest.

“I am the middle child of five boys,” he explained. “All of my brothers fish occasionally, but I wouldn’t call it a passion for any of them like it is for me.”

Manners moved to Kitty Hawk in 2017 and immediately became enamored of the fishing surrounding his new home on the Outer Banks.

“My favorite fish to target are red drum and speckled trout. I am learning a lot and there are still plenty of other fish.”

Manners relocated to Richlands in 2022 to set up shop for an HVAC business.

“I worked my way up in the trade, from helper, installer and technician, and recently became the regional manager for Pro-Serv Food Equipment,” he said of the New Bern-based commercial kitchen service firm. This new relationship was formed through a mutual love of fishing with Jared Shepherd, the owner of the company, but it’s deeper than just fishing. Manners sees a future for himself in the industry.

“I truly enjoy my career in the HVAC field and greatly appreciate the opportunities that I have been given,” Manners said, adding that, since everybody around here needs air conditioning a big part of the year, “I think that’s probably good advice for a lot of young guys looking to get started.”

When he’s not helping people stay cool, you’ll find Manners out on the water somewhere.

“My favorite way to fish is to come up with a game plan for red drum or speckled trout and try to execute that,” he said.

That means he’ll go with a friend or by himself, and doesn’t mind either.

“One of the benefits of being solo is that I can really focus on specific spots and pick them apart,” said Manners.

Whether the fishing is hot or cold, there’s always something to take home from the day.

“I have found that I learn more on the slow days than when they bite anything. The key to consistently catching fish is to learn every time you’re on the water,” he said, noting that fish don’t come and go just for the fun of it — they’re always looking for water that provides them safety, food and comfort.

“More times than not when you find the fish there is a reason why they are where they are: bait, structure, depth changes, grass beds, moving water, etcetera” he explained.

As a proponent of making a plan before heading out, Manners often quotes the old adage often attributed to Benjamin Franklin: “Failing to plan is planning to fail.”

He never wants to be out fishing without an idea of what he’s going to be doing beforehand.

“The most important thing to having a successful day is taking all outside factors into consideration and coming up with a plan,” he said.

For now, Manners said he is planning on staying in the HVAC business because he likes what he’s doing, but he also wants to continue learning and pass his love of fishing as well as his experience and knowledge, on to others. He recently got his Operator of Uninspected Passenger Vessels, or OUPV, license from the Coast Guard, permitting him to operate as a fishing charter captain with no more than six paying passengers.

“I took OUPV/Six Pack course last fall through Carteret Community College and got my Captains License,” he said. “Since fishing is a passion of mine, I would love to make a career out of it in some fashion in the future. I have not put a timetable on it yet, simply because I have a responsibility to give my best effort in my current position.”

In the meantime, look for Justin Manners on social media. He likes to live stream his fishing trips online as Salty Toad Fishing. It’s pretty entertaining.

“Salty Toad Fishing is to share my experiences on the water and help others learn from them, good or bad,” Manners said.

That includes this tip: “It is vitally important to understand why certain spots hold fish. That is the difference between catching fish on a slow day or going home with a cooler full of clean ice.”

RALEIGH — Historian David Cecelski didn’t mask the grief he felt while telling the “gruesome stories” littering eastern North Carolina’s past, or the mounting dread that those days will return and put the coast’s natural resources at risk of “plunder, pillaging and poisoning.”

“This may not be the kind of keynote address that you’re used to,” the mild-mannered Carteret County native told a crowd of about 150 people during the first morning of the 2025 Coastal Summit. “I’m an historian after all, a storyteller at heart, and you have to expect that I’m going to tell some stories. I’m also going to talk about our coastal history, and how we got here, and what we might learn from the past that might help guide us today.”

The April 8-9 summit, titled “Ripple Effect: Enhancing Oysters, Salt Marsh and Water Quality Together,” was organized by the North Carolina Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review. The biennial event brought together elected officials, representatives from local, state and federal governments, conservation organizations, researchers and others invested in maintaining a healthy coast.

Board member for the nonprofit organization Allison Besch introduced Cecelski, who “divides his time between two places that he loves deeply”: Durham, and his ancestral home in Carteret County. A longtime contributor to Coastal Review, the historian has written several award-winning books and hundreds of articles about the history, culture and politics of the North Carolina coast.

“David’s writing focuses passionately on telling stories from his little corner of the world that emanates American history more broadly,” Besch said as she described his work.

Cecelski began his address, “Our Coastal Heritage: Past, Present and Future” with an illustration of the mullet fishing camp on Shackleford Banks where his cousins worked five generations ago. He also displayed photos of himself as a young boy on the family farm that bumps up to the Harlowe Canal west of Beaufort.

“When I stay at the house, like I did the other night, I sleep in the bedroom where my mother was born, and her father and his father and his father,” Cecelski said. “And in our neighborhood, people call our house ‘the new house’ because what they call the family homeplace is about a half-mile down the road on my cousin Henry’s land.”

Cecelski said that when his mother was born in the late 1920s, a New Bedford, Massachusetts, company was still trapping bottlenose dolphins in giant haul seines and slaughtering hundreds and sometimes thousands of them every year on the beach at Hatteras Island.

“The islanders would shut their windows so they would not have to hear the cry of the dolphins on the beach at night. The last haul of the day, they often didn’t have a chance to process so they would leave them alive,” he continued. “When they were old men, and I would go and talk with them, local fishermen who were hired to catch and butcher the dolphins would say they still had nightmares about what they had had to do on those beaches.”

When his grandfather was a young man, New York millinery companies, or ladies’ hatmakers, “were still paying the hunters at Cape Lookout to surround nesting colonies of seabirds and marsh birds — royal turns, oystercatchers, piping clovers, sanderlings, herons, egrets, among others,” he said. The hunters would wait until the eggs started hatching, because that was when the birds were least likely to flee, and then they would start shooting, sometimes killing 10,000,15,000, 20,000, 25,000 birds in a single day.

A century ago, the swans and snow geese did not come for Lake Mattamuskeet, and less than a century ago, sea turtles were being shipped in tin cans to four-star restaurants in New York City. A pulp mill in 1937, “without breaking any laws, began dumping untreated sulfur dioxide into the Roanoke River at a site 4 miles upriver of Plymouth. By the start of the Second World War, that mill’s waste had destroyed America’s largest and oldest herring fisheries, dating back at that site two centuries,” Cecelski continued.

And a century ago, one of North America’s great wetlands that covered hundreds of thousands of acres north and west of the Pongo River disappeared. “It was clear-cut, drained and its waters channeled into the Pamlico River. If there is an acre of it left, I have not found it. It’s ancient white cedar forest. It’s cypress glades and the entire body of the oyster grounds of the upper Pamlico River. All gone,” Cecelski said.

“When it comes to that devastating era in the history of the North Carolina coast, I’m afraid I could go on and on and on,” but everything that is loved about the state’s coast today has come about because of recognizing that path couldn’t continue, he said.

“We learned the hard way that the strength of our coastal communities, strength of our coastal families, the strength of our coastal economy, and the strength of the kind of coastal heritage that I grew up in — our traditions of fishing, of boatbuilding, of living off the land and the water, of oyster roasts and shrimp boils, of pilgrimages to the shore to restore our souls — we learned that they are all as entwined as anything can be with the health of our coastal waters, our coastal wetlands, our fields and forests,” Cecelski continued. “And we learned that we have to work together if we want to keep the North Carolina coast the kind of place that our children and grandchildren will hold as tightly in their hearts as we hold it in our hearts.”

Even though progress has been made over the last century with environmental laws and conservation efforts, “we also know that in a lot of ways, we have just got started, and I know when we see what’s going on in the country now, that things look bleak for much of what draws us and people from around the world to our shores,” he said, and the work taking place to care for the coast may be at risk.

“I know — I’m not naming names — that there are people in high office now who act as if, well, as if they never walked down the Kure Beach fishing pier on a Friday night in the autumn when the spots and bluefish are running and seeing the joy in the children’s faces and how nobody is a stranger and everybody’s helping everybody, and how much it means to all our state’s citizens to be there by the sea,” he said. “And they act as if they’ve never walked the shores of Cape Lookout when the sea is phosphorescent, the dolphins are playing in the waves and the fish are biting, and they act as if they’ve never traipsed along the edges of Currituck Sound and felt the beauty of the marshes stir their soul.”

The shackling of the Environmental Protection Agency “alone foreshadows the breathtaking descent back into the worst days of our coastal past, when our estuaries, our beaches, our fisheries and the sources of our drinking water were a free-for-all, open to plunder, pillaging and poisoning,” he said.

“I wish I had more words of comfort for you, but we all know the road ahead is not going to be easy,” Cecelski said, reminding the audience that the work of organizations like the Coastal Federation and its partners “will never, ever be greater than it is at this moment in our history.”

He closed by telling a story about how, in the Coastal Federation’s infancy, its founder, Todd Miller, recruited Cecelski as the first volunteer.

“I think that I was invited here today, hopefully not just to tell gruesome stories, but I think I was invited here because of my historical work on the North Carolina coast,” he said.

It was the early 1980s and Miller convinced Cecelski to spend a year in Swan Quarter spreading the word about a proposed massive strip-mining project.

“They wanted to mine the peat. A large, multibillion-dollar, extremely well-connected group of investors was planning to strip mine hundreds of thousands of acres of coastal wetlands stretching across Dare, Hyde, Tyrrell, Beaufort and Washington counties,” he said.

Cecelski continued that when he first arrived, he rarely met anyone who knew about the proposed plan and on the few occasions he did, they realized the project would leave their home a wasteland and devastate the region’s oyster beds and fishing grounds.

“Past experience had led them to conclude that nobody cared what they had to say, that nobody would listen to them, and there was nothing they could do about it, because it had always been that way,” he said.

His job was “a very small part of the puzzle” to let people know what was happening, and help their voices be heard.

“At that moment, I would not have bet five bucks on the chance of our success. Everything — money, power, time — was against us, but little by little, people of every background, every race, every political party and every little village, began to speak up. Hope flickered,” he said. People began to come together and believed they could make a difference, and in the end, the people of the North Carolina coast prevailed.

Though Cecelski was young at the time, he said the experience taught him that even when it looks bleak and “if we don’t give up hope, if we hold on to one another, if we look past our differences to what we hold in common, good things will happen, and sometimes even a miracle or two, even in the darkest of times.”

Cecelski said he knows he’s a terribly old-fashioned person and out of step with much of modern times.

“I still believe in the golden rule that we should treat other people the way that we would want them to treat us. I still believe what I was taught in Sunday school, that we are called to be good stewards of God’s creation and good caretakers of our lands and waters and the creatures thereof,” he said. “I still believe, and I will always believe, what I learned growing up on the North Carolina coast, that a neighbor is a neighbor is a neighbor, and we are all in this together. And I believe with all my heart that there are some things worth fighting for, and I believe that the North Carolina coast is one of them.”

When he was young, newspaperman and avid fly fisher Rip Woodin didn’t fish at all.

Instead, he used his talents on the tennis courts of the North Carolina junior circuit, eventually finding himself on the B squad at the University of North Carolina. There he found out that the talent level seemed to stretch on without him.

“I was on the freshman team at Carolina but never got to play a match because I was on the bench picking up leftover balls,” Woodin said.

How does a young man, who is a decent tennis player but doesn’t fish at all, become a lifelong fly fisherman and ardent conservationist in his later years?

Woodin’s life has seen him move three-quarters of the way across the continental U.S. and eventually return to North Carolina. Now he’s fishing waters and doing the kind of work that he never dreamed of back when he was smacking tennis balls across the net.

After graduating from UNC in January 1969 with a double major in journalism and English, Woodin joined the Marine Corps where he enjoyed a pleasant six-week vacation at Parris Island, South Carolina. Later, he spent six years working in Greensboro while also serving in the Marine Corps Reserve.

That’s when, in a twist, Woodin received an offer to join the Air Force and go to flight school.

“(I) probably would have been sent to Vietnam and met John McCain,” Woodin theorized, but instead he stayed in Greensboro until 1976.

“I worked various reporting jobs for the Greensboro Daily News,” he said of the Guilford County paper.

Then in 1976, he moved to Jackson, Wyoming. He became editor of the Jackson Hole Guide and met his wife Jane.

“I was living in the basement apartment of a condo while three women lived upstairs. The other two moved out and Jane moved downstairs,” Woodin said.

Jackson was where they stayed until 1986 and where many of the events that would shape much of Woodin’s later life took place.

“We were married in 1979 and two of our three children were born there,” Woodin said of Jackson, which is also where he first learned to fly fish.

“Paul Bruun was my boss when I first moved out there, and he gave me a fly rod,” Woodin said.

Bruun would go on to be inducted into the Fly Fishing Hall of Fame in Roscoe, New York, in October 2021.

Bruun’s was an opportune gift because, “Jackson is all about fly fishing for cutthroat trout,” Woodin said.

Woodin, with an eye for newspaper design, quickly found that the thrill of fly fishing was the visual aspect.

“The thing that really appealed to me was seeing the fish come up and take the fly,” Woodin said. “When a nice cutthroat trout comes up to hit a hopper, he just rolls up on it slowly, opens his mouth and takes it back down. Then you lift the rod and you’ve got an 18-inch fish.”

There was also an opportune real estate purchase that would come to shape Woodin’s later years.

“We purchased a piece of property that we never developed and when the kids got older and we had moved away, we decided to sell it. Real estate values in Jackson had risen dramatically over 30 years, and after using the money to help pay for the kids’ colleges, we were able to buy a duplex in Atlantic Beach,” he said.

By that time, after having jobs at different newspapers in various states, the move back to North Carolina came with a new title, publisher at the Rocky Mount Telegram.

The Woodins quickly took to the coastal life and they decided if they were going to be spending a lot of time at the beach, they needed to have a boat.

“I went to Jerry at Fort Macon Marina and bought the boat I still have today,” he said.

He found that the variety of marine life and saltwater fishing was something he really liked, and he got into it quickly.

“I bought a saltwater fly rod and starting fishing around here pretty quickly,” he said.

As Woodin progressed with his fly fishing, he started traveling to some pretty far-flung places where he tangled with a lot of different fish.

“The most challenging is the permit because it’s the hardest to catch and the hardest to hook,” he said. “They fight hard and they’re rare. You don’t go out and get 10 shots on permit in a day, you’re usually lucky to get two or three.”

One of the most thrilling species, however, is the tarpon, Woodin said.

“Obviously, because they jump so much,” he explained.

Closer to home, Woodin loves to fish for false albacore.

“The hardest fighter is false albacore. They fight better than bonefish (and I’ve got some big bonefish). But fight wise, nothing compares to a false albacore,” he said.

In recent years, Woodin has blended his experience as a newspaperman and his love for the saltwater environment and fish and applied it to becoming actively involved in conservation with the Coastal Conservation Association, an organization of recreational anglers focused on protecting the marine environment.

“For a while we put out a newspaper, which I edited, and because of my background in writing I wrote press releases and stories,” Woodin said. “I still advise them on good PR strategy.”

He’s also on the board of CCA-NC and an active participant in the state chapter’s activities.

Woodin’s fishing advice?

“The key is practicing your casting and being able to hit your target, but more important is keeping your emotions under control so you are able to concentrate and don’t basically screw it up when staring at a big fish.”

In the end, Woodin said, “If you take care of the fish, the fishing will take care of itself.”

There’s a historic marker by the road as U.S. Highway 64 turns toward Manteo when approaching from the Outer Banks.

“ANDREW CARTWRIGHT Agent of the American Colonization Society in Liberia, founded the A.M.E. Zion churches in Albemarle area. His first church, 1865, near here. NC 345 at US 64/264 southeast of Manteo,” the sign reads.

The sign, though, only hints at the full story, saying very little about Cartwright the man, his efforts to bring the African Methodist Episcopal Church Zion Church to Africa, the American Colonization Society or the times in which he lived.

The consensus is Cartwright was born enslaved in Elizabeth City, probably in 1834, and at some point before the Civil War he escaped and fled north.

“By the beginning of the Civil War, Cartwright and his wife Anna, were living in New England and Andrew had become a minister in the African Methodist Episcopalian Zion Church,” according to the North Carolina Department of Natural and Cultural Resources account of Cartwright’s life included on the highway marker description website.

Cartwright followed Union forces to North Carolina, and his presence on Roanoke Island is confirmed in an autobiography, “A brief history of the slave life of Rev. L.R. Ferebee.” Ferebee describes coming in contact with Cartwright at the Roanoke Island Freedman’s Colony, writing, “Some time in May, the same year (1864), Rev. Andrew Cartwright lectured the Sabbath School on the subject of Repentance.”

The Roanoke Island church was the first of the AME Zion houses of worship Cartwright founded in northeastern North Carolina. He would go on to organize and build 12 churches in 10 years throughout the region.

He was, however, becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the relationship between races.

“By the end of Reconstruction Cartwright had become disillusioned about his future in America. He served as an agent for the American Colonization Society, and in 1876 accepted their aid to emigrate,” Walter Williams wrote in “Black Americans and the Evangelization of Africa.”

In March 1871, Cartwright was named president of the Freedmen’s Emigrant Society. Later that year, the organization’s constitution and its preamble were published in the May edition of the African Repository, the publication of the American Colonization Society.

“Whereas, We, persons of African descent, see no prospect of our race ever enjoying the right that naturally indue to freemen—while we remain in this country,” the preamble begins.

The bylaws lay out the purpose of the organization in stark language, stating, “The design of the members of this Society being to aid each other to obtain a home in Liberia, where, by the help of God, we shall be able to enjoy peace and happiness and all our social rights and privileges, which we despair of ever doing in this country.”

That Cartwright was working with the African Colonization Society was significant. Formed in 1816, the mission of the society was initially to return free people of color to what is now Liberia.

When created, its membership included some of the most prominent white men of the nation. Sens. Henry Clay of Kentucky and Daniel Webster of Massachusetts and Francis Scott Key, who wrote the words to the “Star-Spangled Banner,” were among its founding members.

The society enjoyed widespread support initially. Presidents Monroe and Madison supported colonization, although they were not members.

In the South, slaveholders saw the organization as a way to rid themselves of free people of color who were an ever-present reminder to their enslaved people that freedom was possible. In the north, abolitionists saw the African colony as a viable way to give free people of color a new start in life and avoid the issue of equality between the races.

Although initially popular and well-funded, the society did not have the resources to support a colonization effort in Africa. Nor were the American immigrants welcomed in Liberia. Compounding the problems, by the 1840s the coalition of abolitionists and slaveholders was falling apart. Abolitionists increasingly saw the society as a way for slaveholders to retain their property and slaveholders were unwilling to free enslaved people and return them to Africa.

Nonetheless, the society remained a viable organization into the 20th century and didn’t dissolve until 1964.

If white America saw the society as a practical solution to racial tensions, most Americans of African descent had no desire to go to a continent they’d never seen. In 1849, Frederick Douglass, writing in the abolitionist newspaper The Liberator observed, “I have as much right in this country as any other man…Our connection with this country is contemporaneous with your own. From the beginning of the existence of this people, as a people, the colored man has had a place upon the American soil.”

Yet there was an undercurrent of support among some African Americans as reconstruction ended and Jim Crow laws began to take effect.

“Despite financial and ideological limitations, sentiment favoring the evangelization of Africa did begin to grow among the black denominations after the late 1870s,” Williams wrote in “The Evangelization of Africa.”

The emigration movement was, Williams noted, “a nonreligious movement that pulled the church leadership into involvement.”

The call to return to Africa for Cartwright was, evidently twofold. He had become convinced that equality between the races was not possible in the United States, and a belief that he would bring the AME Zion church to Africa.

The 1877 annual society report wrote that “twenty-one promising emigrants embarked at New York on the barque ‘Liberia,’ and that … Rev. Andrew Cartwright … expect(s) to join the Liberia Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church.”

Initially Cartwright’s missionary work was not done under the authority or supervision of the AME Zion church, nor did the church provide funding for his work.

“Even though he had no financial support or authority from denominational leaders, he organized A.M.E.Z. congregations among the Americo-Liberians,” Williams wrote.

Cartwright was a master at presenting the best picture of his work possible.

“I find the young people take great delight in a church ruled and governed by colored leaders or black bishops,” he told readers of The Star of Zion, the publication of the AME Zion church.

“Rev. Cartwright sent such positive reports back to the denomination moved the 1880 Annual Conference of the African Methodist Episcopal Zion to take permanent action for the support of African missions,” Leroy Fitz wrote in “A history of the African American Church.”

That support was short-lived.

“The intensity of interest among A.M.E.Z. leaders in Africa did not last long, and within a few years Cartwright’s salary was reduced by half, to only four hundred dollars annually…The church’s lack of response toward missions was partly due to Cartwright’s lack of progress in Liberia. He was a poor administrator, and had not expanded the mission,” Williams wrote.

Cartwright’s relationship with the American church leaders was frayed. In 1896 the AME Zion church appointed John Bryan Small Bishop for Africa. His visit to Liberia did not go well.

“Small was not impressed with Andrew Cartwright, and he found the A.M.E.Z. Liberian mission in ‘poor condition,’” Williams wrote.

Reacting to the lack of support and what was apparently a damning report from his superior, Cartwright lashed out in the Nov. 12, 1896, edition of The Star of Zion, a publication of the AME Zion church.

“What has A. Cartwright done to be treated like this, after working so long in America; walking and wading, Winter and Summer, and building so many churches—twelve in ten years—then went to Africa, crossing the ocean eleven times in the interest of Zion. I know better than anyone what I went for,” he wrote.

Cartwright remained in Liberia until his death in 1903.

“Elder Andrew Cartwright fell quietly into the arms of death between twelve and one o’clock p.m., Wednesday January 14, 1903 at his residence in Africa. He was born on March 15, 1834 in Elizabeth City, N.C. and was raised in the same State. He was not an educated man, but had a little learning,” according to his obituary.

Capt. John Mallette grew up fishing, but didn’t come from a fishing family.

Born and reared around Sneads Ferry and the Topsail area, he said his mother worked in real estate in Wilmington and his father was one of Ocean City’s original developers and bought a home there in 1950.

Ocean City was established on Topsail Island in 1949 and was “the first place where Black people could have oceanfront property” in the state, Mallette recently told Coastal Review.

The motel had a pier, and “I pretty much lived on the pier fishing as a little kid,” he continued.

“There was a lady who had One Stop Bait & Tackle in Surf City — Betty Warren, she’s long passed away now — but she would babysit me, basically, and I would sit there and help sell seafood and head shrimp and filet flounder. And then her husband, Preston, would take me out shrimping in the waterway with him, and that’s how I got started commercial fishing and just never stopped. I just grew into it, and started running boats.”

From there, he became a captain and spent several years piloting various commercial, private and charter vessels in Central and South America, Australia and Hawaii. While a fishing guide on a private island near Turks and Caicos, he learned his mother was ill and returned to the U.S. in 2008 to take care of her.

These days he co-owns Southern Breeze Seafood Co. on U.S. Highway 258 between Richlands and Jacksonville. He delivers fresh seafood all over the state, including to a handful of universities such as Elon and North Carolina Central.

“Wednesday, Thursday, Friday I’m on the road for the most part,” he said.

Stories like his are the backbone of an ongoing NC Catch Initiative to highlight African American contributions to the North Carolina Seafood Industry. Established in 2011, NC Catch is a nonprofit organization that aims to educate consumers about the state’s seafood industry.

Mallette and NC Catch President Barbara Garrity-Blake, a cultural anthropologist who teaches fisheries policy at the Duke University Marine Lab in Beaufort, are heading up the project, “Recognizing African American Participation in the North Carolina Seafood Industry.”

The project is the center of a new traveling exhibit, “African Americans in North Carolina Seafood,” that will debut March 9 at the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island.

Garrity-Blake told Coastal Review that NC Catch wanted to highlight the diversity of people and roles within the seafood supply chain.

“The seafood industry is made up of men and women of various races and ethnicities who harvest, process, transport, buy, sell, and cook North Carolina seafood. We are focusing on Black contributions because African Americans have a history and legacy in North Carolina fisheries since Colonial days, from herring to menhaden, blue crab, mullet, shrimp — all of it,” she said.

For the project, people from the Black seafood business community and researchers worked together to compile narratives, video and oral histories of Black fishers, wholesalers, chefs and others working in seafood to increase recognition of African American participation in the state’s seafood industry. These currently are being housed on the NC Catch website.

Garrity-Blake said that Mallette is a “perfect co-principal investigator because he delivers seafood all over North Carolina and knows so many people in the industry. Right away he had a list of Black practitioners for us to interview,” and the “stories we are documenting are so compelling.”

Among those who shared their story for the project is Tyrone Hightower of Apex Seafood. Also on the NC Catch board, he quit a career in veterinary science to sell seafood at triangle-area farmers markets because he loves interacting with people, Garrity-Blake explained.

“He had a tough time breaking in at first, but Brett Blackburn, a major seafood distributor out of Carolina Beach, helped him out and taught him ‘fishermen’s language,’ like what shrimp counts mean,” she said.

Another is a young shrimper named Nate Ellison, who lives in the unincorporated Carteret County community of Merrimon. He “talked about his determination to maintain working waterfront access at the end of Silver Dollar Road, which was infamously sold out from under his family,” Garrity-Blake continued.

A husband-and-wife team who fish out of Hertford, Herman and Quinetta “Mermaid Q” Manley of Crackn Crab Seafood are featured as well. They “had their crab pots cut, their boat sunk, and their business shunned. But they stuck to their guns and eventually earned the respect of the community. Today they crab, fish, and sell seafood in low-income neighborhoods to help combat food insecurity,” she said.

Project’s early days

Garrity-Blake and Mallette connected during the 2021 North Carolina Seafood Festival, held annually the first weekend of October in downtown Morehead City.

Mallette said he was there to give a cooking demonstration for Got to Be NC, a marketing campaign for North Carolina products under the N.C. Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services, and they “just started a conversation.”

Garrity-Blake told Coastal Review that during this conversation, Mallette shared his experiences as a commercial fisherman out of Sneads Ferry, which she said she found interesting.

“Since the last menhaden fish factory in North Carolina closed in 2005, you don’t meet a lot of African American fishermen. Long story short, Capt. John joined the NC Catch board, and we applied for a NC Sea Grant’s Community Collaborative Research Grant — pairing researchers and practitioners — to do this project,” she said.

Mallette also recognized that “African American commercial fishermen are few and far between. And it’s always been that way. The question is, why?”

When he was the captain of larger vessels while traveling around the globe, he said only a few of the American captains were Black. “It was me and maybe two other guys. Literally the only ones.”

So, they started exploring and researching, looking into stereotypes like “Black people can’t swim” and “little things that people would actually take to heart, “Mallette said.

While talking with the old fishermen and fish house owners he grew up around, “It was never, ‘we didn’t have Black shrimp boat captains or Black guys running the boats, because they were Black.’ They tried to give them the jobs, but they wouldn’t do it because a lot of their grandmothers and moms would be like, ‘That water ain’t for us. You stay on the dock,’” Mallette recounted.

They’d pack fish or head shrimp but wouldn’t actually go out on the boats, “and it wasn’t that they didn’t have the opportunities given to them, a lot of it was they were just always told that that wasn’t for them.”

Mallette said he never understood that either, especially once he began traveling.

The best fishermen were Black when he was in Central and South America, the Caribbean, and West Africa. “All through the Caribbean, your commercial fishermen are Black,” he said, but not in the United States. “It’s the one place you just don’t see it.”

About the exhibit

During the exhibit opening that begins at 4 p.m. Sunday, March 9, visitors will have an opportunity to listen to a panel discussion, and a cooking demonstration with Chef Ricky Moore of Saltbox Seafood Joint in Durham, Chef Jamie Davis of The Hackney in Washington, and Chef Keith Rhodes of Catch in Wilmington.

The public is welcome at no charge and are asked to register online ahead of the event.

“NC Catch’s mission is to raise awareness about the superior quality of North Carolina seafood and the importance of supporting the people, families, and communities who provide consumer access to it,” Garrity-Blake said. “Through the lens of North Carolina’s African American seafood legacy, we are ‘taking it to the people’ so they can enjoy the exhibit, hear firsthand stories about Black experiences in seafood, and taste what it’s all about.”

Core Sound’s Exhibit Curator Pam Davis Morris told Coastal Review that the museum is proud to host the opening exhibition and is glad to have provided a supporting role in its development.

“This exhibition dovetails in well with and builds upon previous work produced by the Core Sound Museum such as the popular Menhaden Fishery exhibition, The Local Fisheries Knowledge Project, Community Exhibit displays and many other oral history and artifact-driven projects,” Morris said. “Built as a traveling exhibition, this display will not only be shown at the Core Sound Museum but will travel to other sites as well.”

The exhibit is a kick-off for the NC Catch Summit taking place March 10 at Carteret Community College in Morehead City. Also a no-charge event, the daylong program will look at the state’s fisheries and seafood industry. Register online to attend.

NC Catch held a preview of the exhibit at the University of North Carolina Wilmington Tuesday, followed by a “Chef’s Takeover” cooking demonstration with Davis, Rhodes, and Mallette. 

Garrity-Blake said Wednesday after the event that it “went great.” The program was well attended, there was good discussion and the “food was fantastic.” Mallette prepared shrimp and crabmeat etouffee, Rhodes made a “Soul Bowl” with salmon, black-eyed peas and plantains, and Davis prepared fried catfish with ham hock gravy.

Clarification: Dr. Smallwood is a descendant of the Tuscarora people, not the Cherokee. During his presentation when he said “we were Cherokees” he was explaining that many Native descendants assumed that Cherokee was their heritage. This story has been updated for clarity.

MOREHEAD CITY — About 50 made their way to Mug Shot Caffeine and Cocktails on a chilly Saturday afternoon in mid-January to hear Dr. Arwin D. Smallwood explain “The History of the Coree and Neusiok Native Americans of Carteret County, North Carolina.”

Smallwood was the first to present for Coastal Carolina Riverwatch’s new initiative, “Cultural Perspectives Series: Coastal Indigenous Communities and Ecological Wisdom.” The nonprofit organization works to protect the water bodies, estuaries and coastline in the White Oak River Basin, mostly in Carteret, Jones, Onslow and Pender counties.

“I’m still just an ol’ country boy from eastern North Carolina, and that’s never left me, and it’s still a part of who I am,” Smallwood began. “I grew up in Bertie County in Indian Woods,” which was the old Tuscarora reservation established in 1717.

Now the dean of the College of Liberal Arts at North Carolina Central University in Durham, Smallwood has spent his career studying the relationships among African Americans, Native Americans and Europeans in eastern North Carolina during the colonial and early antebellum periods.

During his presentation when he said that while growing up in Indian Woods, “we were Cherokees” and “grandma was Cherokee, right?” he was illustrating that many Native descendants assumed their heritage was Cherokee because the Tuscaroras’ history had largely been erased.

Smallwood said that he never fully understood who the Tuscarora and other Native groups in eastern North Carolina were until he was a student at N.C. Central, where he earned his bachelor’s and master’s degrees.

“We didn’t know anything much about our community, other than we’ve always been from there,” he said. “I knew all my family and all my people, but we didn’t know very much about the history of the area beyond our family lore and family stories.”

In a class on state history he read “North Carolina: The History of a Southern State,” written by “two great professors out of Chapel Hill,” Hugh Talmage Lefler and Albert Ray Newsome.

They mentioned his community, Indian Woods, by name in the first chapter, and “I said to myself, if this is significant enough to be in this book from these two great Carolina scholars, then it must be significant,” Smallwood explained. This inspired him to commit his life to learning and researching as much as possible about Native peoples, particularly Tuscaroras and those in eastern North Carolina.

Smallwood went on to earn his doctorate in early U.S. and African American history from the Ohio State University, and has held positions at North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University in Greensboro, the University of Memphis in Memphis, Tennessee, and Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois.

Smallwood said that, because he was presenting in Morehead City, he narrowed the focus of his talk to the Coree and Neusiok of Carteret County, who are among several groups in the region of Iroquois origin and have a connection to the Tuscarora whom he studies.

The Iroquois are an ancient people who migrated from Central America and Mexico thousands of years ago, to what is now the Midwest, then to what is now the state of New York. Many moved south from there, following the valleys and rivers, eventually reaching eastern North Carolina.

The Coree, Neusiok, Tuscarora, Meherrin and Nottoway, who straddle the Virginia and North Carolina border, are Iroquois, or the Haudenosaunee people. “We call them Iroquois. It was a name given to them by the French, but their Native name is Haudenosaunee,” or people of the long house.

“The Iroquois said that they had a confederation,” Smallwood continued. “If you attack one of the Iroquois, you attack them all. If you attack the Mohawks, then all of the Haudenosaunee would attack you. If you attack the Tuscarora, all of the Haudenosaunee and the Allies will attack you. They were a family. They were all kin.”

The Tuscaroras were the largest and most powerful group at one time and were scattered all over eastern North Carolina, from Virginia to the Cape Fear River. The population began to decline as early as Spanish contact in the late 1400s and early 1500s. By the start of the Tuscarora War in 1711, disease and conflict caused the once-heavily inhabited region to depopulate.

There were a “host of other Indians in Coastal North Carolina,” Smallwood said, and while some were Algonquian-speaking peoples, they were allied with the Tuscaroras and Corees at the start of the Tuscarora War, “and that war was as much about control of this region.”

After the Tuscarora war in the mid-1710s, “we call it the Tuscarora diaspora,” large numbers scattered all over North Carolina, Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee, eastern Ohio, Pennsylvania into Canada, and many returned to New York.

The Tuscarora had a sophisticated trade network spanning from the Outer Banks to as far south as Florida, as far north as Canada and as far west as Memphis.

The trading paths the Native people created are now the state roadways, like U.S. Highway 70 and N.C. 12, connecting old Native communities that are now North Carolina towns.

One reason the coastal areas were important for trade is the access to seashells. “Native Americans value seashells in the same way that Europeans value gold and silver, diamonds,” and other precious stones. Seashells had great spiritual meaning and were used as currency.

“And to trade, you had to speak Tuscarora. That was the trading language,” he said.

The maps Ralph Lane and John White illustrated when first reaching eastern North Carolina in 1584-85 show a well-established community with religious buildings, houses and gardens.

The Native people knew the land and cultivated for food or medicine different types of crops, many of which were introduced to the settlers and are still grown today. Smallwood gave the example of tobacco, which was originally ceremonial but is now a multibillion-dollar industry, corn, beans and white potatoes.

He recounted traditions from his childhood in Bertie County. Going out at night to fill up the bed of a truck with herring, having wild plums, strawberries, apples, pears and peaches, and watching his mother garden the way her mother did and her mother before her.

“I found that so many traditions and customs that we think are African American or European, are actually Native American and were transferred to us, and we have carried them on — cooking traditions, gardening habits and behaviors,” he said.

“We have passed them on from generation to generation. And we don’t even know why we did these things, but they were transferred somewhere when we were blending cultures,” Smallwood said.

The blending of cultures happened a handful of ways, including early white settlers marrying Native women, and white indentured servants and enslaved African Americans would run away places like the Great Dismal Swamp and intermix with the Native population.

“Our cultures are blended. Native, African and European, and it is what makes us Southern, what makes us American, what makes us North Carolinians,” but, “We’re different here in eastern North Carolina,” he said. “This is home, and we share a culture, and we share an identity, and that identity and that culture has been forged over hundreds of years.”

About the series

Riverwatch Executive Director Lisa Rider told Coastal Review that Smallwood’s “expertise in African American and Native American history, particularly in North Carolina, provides invaluable insights into the often-overlooked narratives that shape our understanding of the coastal communities we serve.”

The organizers launched the series that “recognizes the intertwined histories of African American and Indigenous communities in coastal North Carolina, emphasizing their shared heritage and contributions to ecological stewardship,” and are planning the next installment for this summer.

Secotan Alliance president and founder Gray Michael Parsons is scheduled to be the speaker Saturday, July 12, in Morehead City.

Riverwatch said that the Secotan Alliance’s inaugural symposium, “In the Spirit of Wingina and Beyond” held in May 2024 in Manteo inspired the cultural series. The theme for the 2025 symposium the last weekend in May is “Our Women: Leaders of Indigeneity.”

Parsons is a descendant of the Machapunga-Mattamuskeet people and has focused his efforts on honoring Indigenous leaders and promoting environmental stewardship. He is also the author of “Hope on Hatterask,” a work rooted in his Indigenous heritage.

Parsons founded the alliance “to educate the public on the traditional indigenous principles of the Secotan Alliance under the leadership of Chief Wingina.” The Secotan Alliance was first documented by the English at initial contact in 1584. The alliance territory included Dare, Hyde, Beaufort, Washington and Tyrrell counties. Chief Wingina was beheaded by the English military in June 1586 after an attempt to expand the alliance. 

Parsons told Coastal Review that his focus will be on providing a “functional definition and real world understanding of the ‘Indigenous Earth Ethic’ and the inclusive concept of what I refer to as ‘Indigen-us’.” 

He added that his goal is to empower all to see and understand their own deep indigenous ancestral identity as a part of the natural world.

“In doing so it is my hope that they will embrace and live a more sustainable life and thus one that is in what I call ‘Righteous Relationship with Creation,’” he said.

Editor’s note: Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the state’s coast. More of his work can be found on his personal website.

This is a special group of photographs that were taken on the Roanoke River, just west of Plymouth in the spring of 1939. Now preserved at the State Archives in Raleigh, they show the last days of two of the oldest herring seine fisheries on the North Carolina coast.

One of the herring fisheries, on the north side of the river, was called Kitty Hawk. The other, on the river’s south bank, was called Slade. They were owned by a local merchant, farmer and banker named W.R. “Roy” Hampton, whose family had operated the two fisheries since the first decade after the Civil War.

This is the first in a series of photo essays I’m writing on working lives on the North Carolina coast just before, during, and after the Second World War. The photographs all come from the N. C. Department of Conservation and Development Collection at the State Archives in Raleigh. 

In an interview with East Carolina University graduate student Charles L. Heath Jr. in 1997, Roy Hampton’s son recalled that the fishermen at his family’s fisheries had historically come from a community called Piney Woods, also known as Free Union, a historic multiracial settlement established by free African Americans and Native Americans in the late 18th and early 19th centuries.

Over the years, I have written a good bit about the history of the herring fisheries on the Albemarle Sound and on two of its tributaries, the Chowan River, a blackwater stream that flows out of the Great Dismal Swamp, and the Roanoke, which flows out of the Appalachian foothills.

I imagine that the same could be said of all historians who have studied that part of the North Carolina coast in any depth.

For centuries, for millennia really, the herring fisheries were at the very heart of life on those shores.

Yearning to return to the waters where they began their lives, the herring left the Atlantic in the last days of winter and the first days of spring. Since time immemorial, great schools of the fish moved through Outer Banks inlets, passed into Albemarle Sound, and then continued upstream into the rivers and creeks that were their spawning grounds.

In a typical year, millions of fish, maybe billions, made the journey. By the 1840s and 1850s, when thousands of free and enslaved African Americans harvested herring in giant seines a mile or more in length, they sometimes caught 100,000 fish in a single haul and, on rare occasions, as many as half a million.

That was at the great seine fisheries on the Albemarle Sound, which were basically larger versions of the kind of fishery in these photographs from Plymouth. But the silvery little fish were there for one and all. On small creeks and streams, as well as in ditches, even the poorest souls could catch herring with a homemade bow net or a bushel basket.

Despite all I have written about the history of the herring fisheries, these photographs from Plymouth still stood out to me. They may not be as grand and awe-inspiring as some of the photographs, drawings, and paintings I have seen of the seine fisheries that flourished on the Albemarle Sound in earlier times, but I found them at least as compelling.

In the first place, they give us a glimpse at the seine fisheries on the Roanoke. I have previously written a little on the Roanoke’s herring fisheries, but both contemporary accounts and my and the work of other historians has focused far more on the even larger and more eye-opening fisheries that flourished on the Albemarle Sound and the Chowan River in the 19th century.

But African American fishermen, both free and enslaved laborers, were hauling herring seines on the Roanoke all that time as well. Even as late as 1896, several hundred fishermen and women operated eight seine fisheries within 10 miles of Plymouth.

Those fisheries included Kitty Hawk and Slade in Plymouth, two others 10 miles upriver in Jamesville, and four more downriver, between Plymouth and the Cashie River.

Each of those fisheries was the center of a little world. Each had its own history and its own folkways. No doubt each had its own celebrations, for there was no time of year when bellies were likely to be fuller or money more abundant.

No doubt each left its own scars too. The work was hard, the hours long — before sunup to past sundown — and the weather was often brutally cold. If ice had to be broken to make a set, ice was broken.

All of those fisheries were bound to the local history of slavery and plantation life, as well as, in many cases, to African American/Indian communities such as Piney Woods/Free Union.

At the very least, these photographs remind us that the Roanoke was once a place of abundance, and that the lives of its people were once bound inextricably to the natural world.

-2-

I also found these photographs compelling because of when they were taken.

The photographer, who was employed by the North Carolina Department of Conservation and Development, took the last of these photographs in the first few days of May 1939.

A few days later, the Kitty Hawk and Slade fisheries closed for the last time. For reasons I will discuss shortly, Roy Hampton had decided that the size of the herring catches had fallen so drastically that he could no longer justify the expense of labor, fishing gear and provisions.

The next winter, for the first time since before the Civil War, no seine fishermen made the journey down to the site of the Hampton family’s fisheries. The fishery’s women workers, the African American women who headed, gutted, and often helped salt the fish, also stayed home.

At least on that part of the Roanoke, the age of fishermen hauling the great herring seines and of raucous crowds gathering to watch them and dine on fried herring dinners was over.

Seen in that light, these photographs mark an historic moment: the end of one way of life, the coming of another, yet unknown.

 -3-

A final compelling feature of these photographs concerns the reason that Roy Hampton closed the two fisheries. He and many other fishermen were convinced that the steep decline in herring catches was due to the construction of a giant pulp mill on the Roanoke in 1937.

A division of a large, national wood and paper products corporation based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the North Carolina Pulp Co. located its mill just upriver of the scenes in these photographs.

Plymouth, a small town of a couple thousands residents at that time, had never seen anything like it. The company’s smokestacks came to dominate the town’s skyline, as did the sulfurous smell of its furnaces. The company quickly bought or leased timberlands in at least five coastal counties, and thousands, many of them desperate to get off tenant farms, flocked to Plymouth to get jobs either in the mill or the company’s logging crews.

The arrival of the pulp mill made Plymouth into a “company town,” with the company being the North Carolina Pulp Co.

According to Hampton, the fishermen at the Slade and Kitty Hawk fisheries began seeing dramatic declines in their catches as soon as the pulp mill began releasing wastes into the Roanoke. The river’s waters smelled of sulfur, they claimed, and some reported fish kills.

At the end of the 1939 herring season, Hampton shuttered the Kitty Hawk and Slade fisheries. He kept them closed in 1940. Then, instead of reopening in 1941, he went to court.

In a pair of state and federal lawsuits, Hampton accused the North Carolina Pulp Co. of dumping untreated or inadequately treated sulphates into the Roanoke, poisoning the river’s waters and destroying the herring fisheries.

In a subsequent federal lawsuit, filed in 1943, Hampton sought $30,000 in damages, an enormous sum in that day. That lawsuit referred to the pulp mill’s wastes as “a wrongful and unlawful trespass and nuisance, destroying the fish inhabiting the water” where his fisheries were located.

At that time, Hampton could do little else. Prior to the Second World War, no state agency had the authority to regulate industrial pollutants or to set standards for pollutants in our waterways.

Federal law also provided very little meaningful regulation of pollutants.

That did not begin to change until the U.S. Congress passed the Federal Water Pollution Act of 1948.

Even then, federal regulation of water quality had little teeth. That did not change until environmental activists succeeded in pushing the Nixon Administration to create the Environmental Protection Agency in 1970 and prompted Congress to pass the Clean Water Act of 1972.

If the Trump Administration lives up to its promises, the EPA will be dismantled over the next four years. The Clean Water Act of 1972 may or may not continue to exist in name, but the protections that it has provided to our rivers and streams, to our fisheries, and to public health will disappear.

-4-

During the Second World War, Roy Hampton’s attorneys had some success in court, winning on issues of standing at the North Carolina Supreme Court and at the U. S. Court of Appeals in Richmond. For a summary of those court rulings, see Hampton v. N. C. Pulpwood Co.

However, the case does not seem to have gone any further. That may have been because of legal rulings in the lower courts, but it may also have been simply that Hampton lost heart and eventually accepted that the pulp mill, not the fisheries, was Plymouth’s future.

-5-

One by one, the last of the Roanoke’s herring seine fisheries closed. Slade and Kitty Hawk were among the last. I am aware of only one other seine fishery that was still in operation at the end of the Second World War.

That seine fishery was in Jamesville, seven miles upriver of the Kitty Hawk and Slade fisheries.

According to an April 16, 1950, story in the Raleigh News & Observer, that fishery was owned by C.C. Fleming, a businessman and political leader in Jamesville. Gus Hooper, a veteran African American waterman, was the head fisherman and the captain of the fishery’s seine boat.

The Jamesville fishery was still in business in 1955. At that time, the News & Observer April 24, 1955, referred to the seine fishery as “the only one of its type on the entire eastern seaboard.”

That herring season may have been the last for Fleming’s seine fishery. I cannot find any historical references to it after 1955.

Seines versus Bow Nets

I should note that many of the Roanoke’s herring fishermen did not shed tears over the demise of the seine fisheries.

Historically, many of the river’s people believed, probably with good reason, that the big seine fisheries took more than their fair share of herring — and shad, rockfish, perch and other fish to boot. In those people’s eyes, the seine fisheries deprived those of lesser means of food for their dinner tables.

As UNC-Chapel Hill professor Harry Watson showed in a splendid 1996 article in the Journal of American History, the more prosperous owners of seine fisheries and those who lived more hand-to-mouth had battled over access to the migratory fish on that part of the North Carolina coast since the 18th century.

They continued to do so even in the dying days of seine fishing.

C. C. Fleming’s seine fishery in Jamesville was a case in point. In 1952-53, Fleming used his political influence to persuade state legislators to give him a virtual monopoly over herring fishing on a mile-long stretch of the Roanoke.

-6-

Though an ominous sign of things to come, the closing of the seine fisheries in Plymouth and Jamesville did not mean the end of herring fishing on the Roanoke River.

For another half century, the arrival of the herring on the Roanoke remained a festive event. Up and down the river, people continued to catch herring. They just did not use the kinds of large seines, such as the ones in our photographs, that only made financial sense if there was a greater bounty of herring to be had.

Instead, they used a wide variety of lesser gear, including dragnets, bow nets, and even a device called a “fish wheel.”

Over that time, local festivals still celebrated the arrival of the herring. Churches and other community groups marked the season with fried herring dinners. Fresh and salt herring remained staples in local homes.

The herring’s spawning runs continued to decline however. For a time, a herring fishery and cannery was still flourishing 25 miles to the north of Plymouth, on the Chowan River, but even it collapsed in the 1990s.

In response, fishery regulators eventually took the drastic step of banning all herring fishing on North Carolina’s inland waters. They hoped that the herring population would recover some of its health if there was a period of time without any commercial or recreational harvest of the fish.

For the first time in thousands of years, no herring were legally caught on the Albemarle or its tributaries, including the Roanoke, beginning with the spring spawning runs of 2007.

That ban is still in effect. We are still waiting for our waters to be restored. We are still waiting for our rivers to know again an abundance of life. And we are still waiting for the herring to come back home.

-End-

KILL DEVIL HILLS — It speaks to the storytelling talent of National Park Service interpreter and historian Darrell Collins that audiences listening to his talk about the Wright brothers’ aerodynamic breakthrough of roll, pitch and yaw would often have tears welling from their eyes by the end.

Collins, who won numerous national and international awards during his four-decade career with the agency, died in his Manteo home on Dec. 24 at age 69.

As sons of a preacher, with lives absent scandal or even romance, Wilbur and Orville Wright’s story of first flight might seem heavy on aviation physics and difficult to translate in an engaging way, Scott Babinowich, acting deputy superintendent with the National Park Service Outer Banks Group, said during a remembrance for Collins held Saturday at Wright Brothers National Memorial.

“But Darrell had a gift to take those challenging concepts and craft them in a way that’s relatable to everybody,” he told the audience that filled the park’s Flight Room, where Collins had given his talk “thousands of times to hundreds of thousands of visitors.”

“He found a way to blend science and history and art to paint a picture that resonated with everybody that entered this building.”

Babinowich noted that in an agency as large as the park service, “it is rare to find a park ranger who had such a lasting impact in a single park” the way Collins did. With his easygoing approach, Collins had a way of enabling listeners to see themselves in the Wrights’ story, but also to give them a reason to “care and cherish the monumental achievement,” Babinowich said.

After four years of experiments on the Outer Banks, the Wrights achieved the first powered and controlled manned flight on Dec. 17, 1903, at what today is Kill Devil Hills.

A video of a brief portion of a Flight Room talk played during the remembrance shows Collins, wearing white conservator gloves and dressed in his olive-green and tan park service uniform, standing next to a full-size model of the 1903 Wright Flyer. Speaking in a soft Southern accent, he demonstrates how the pitch of the plane was controlled with a stick, which he then starts moving back and forth, accompanied by rhythmic squeaking as parts in the front of the aircraft respond.

Much of Collins’ mastery of his presentation was in his understated style that both moderated and modulated his speech and body language, building from an even cadence and simple demonstrations with his hands to closing with an intensified voice, soaring language and dramatic, sweeping arm gestures. Like a natural storyteller, he never faltered as he spoke. He employed gentle humor. And he used space between words and sentences to create the rhythmic cadence of a preacher.

“The elevator controls the pitch,” he says on the video, pausing as he slowly raises his right arm, “of the machine.”

“Take off and landing.” He slowly drops his arm.

“This motion of an airplane in flight …” he pauses as he moves his arm up faster, “is controlled by the elevator.”

As part of his typical 20- to 30-minute talk, Collins would bring the audience, almost imperceptibly, to seeing the Wrights’ feat in the context of humanity: the men, their family and their country.

He would talk about the intense competitive nature of aviation and science at the turn of the 20th century; of the contributions from the Outer Banks community; of the brilliance, fortitude and ingenuity of the brothers; and of the loyalty the brothers had to one another and their family.

He attributed the Wrights’ success to their willingness to persist, even after numerous disappointments, as well as their high character and extraordinary dedication to solving the mystery of flight.

At this point, Collins would start speaking a bit louder and faster, telling of how dramatically the two publicity-shy brothers from Ohio changed the world that day in 1903 at the sandy outpost on the Outer Banks. Visitors in the Wright Brothers Flight Room could see the exact spot right outside the large windows where the Wrights’ plane first found lift.

Indeed, as Collins would say in closing, it took just 66 years from the brothers’ first 12-second flight until the Apollo landing on the moon. That fact alone makes the Wrights’ invention Earth-shattering. But that’s not all, Collins would remind his rapt audiences.

“Folks, just about everything that flies — satellites, missiles, rockets, space shuttles — use the same fundamental principles,” Collins said in the 2014 Flight Room talk.

“You see,” he would add emphatically, his voice rising, “this is the immortal legacy of the Wright brothers.”

Often, people in the audience would sit quietly for a moment after Collins finished, dabbing their eyes.

Dave Hallac, superintendent of the park service Outer Banks Group, recounted after the remembrance how he had been at an agency event out of the area shortly after arriving on the Outer Banks when he mentioned his connection to the Wright Brothers park. The person he was speaking to responded that she had heard a talk there that had left her in tears. Hallac, who had not yet seen Collins’ presentation, apologized for the ranger upsetting her. But he had misunderstood.

“She said, ‘It was one of the most inspiring talks I’ve ever heard,’” Hallac recalled, adding about Collins: “He’s a legend. His ability to tell the Wright brothers’ story was unparalleled.

A native of Manteo with family roots dating back to the 1863-1867 Roanoke Island Freedmen’s Colony, a community of formerly enslaved people and free Black people, Collins graduated from Elizabeth City State University with a bachelor’s in geology and history. In 1977, he started work as a seasonal park ranger on the Outer Banks and set his sights on securing a permanent position as a history interpreter.

Early on, Collins had told interviewers that he was influenced by Paul Garber and Charles Harvard Gibbs-Smith, both well-known aviation historians and celebrated speakers. Although Collins soon gained acclaim for his speaking skills and as an expert on Wright brothers history, his fame shot up to international levels in the lead-up to the Centennial of First Flight in 2003.

Collins’ secret was that he was just “doing what he loved,” his wife Tonya Collins said after the event.

“It was just his passion for the Wrights, for choosing this place when they did,” she said. “He had a sense of pride in this place and its people. He was proud of the people here and that he was part of these people.”

According to his obituary, Collins was considered as one of the top three Wright brothers historians in the world. Even after retiring in 2017, he continued traveling to give lectures on the Wrights for five years. He was also a regular speaker for 35 years at the “Speakers’ Showcase Series” at the Experimental Aircraft Association’s annual Oshkosh Fly-In in Wisconsin.

His many awards include the Experimental Aircraft Association’s President’s Award, the Freeman Tilden Award as the park service’s top interpretive ranger in 1990, and in 2003, both the Order of the Long Leaf Pine by the North Carolina governor, and the Paul Tissandier Diploma by the National Aeronautic Association.

Collins also served for 18 years on the Manteo Board of Commissioners, filling the same seat on the town board that his mother Dellerva had held for 26 years before her death in 2005. In addition, he was the founder and president of the Pea Island Preservation Society Inc., a nonprofit dedicated to the Pea Island Lifesaving Station, the only all-Black station in the nation.

Collins, who had family connections to Pea Island, had taught the story of Keeper Richard Etheridge and the Pea Island Lifesavers to Dare County fourth graders.

Tonya Collins, who was married to Darrell for 22 years, said that her husband’s modest and friendly demeanor was genuine. Similar to his mother Dellerva, he never got angry, she said.

“He was truly raised by a kind person,” she said. “He came by it quite honestly.”

Reid Wilson does not disagree with those who tell him he had the best job in state government.

He loved being secretary of the North Carolina Department of Natural and Cultural Resources.

It’s a role he said he’s going to “miss terribly” when he steps in Monday as head of the state Department of Environmental Quality, a position appointed to him by Gov. Josh Stein.

“But I think now is a time of important opportunities and challenges in terms of public health and environmental protection and moving to DEQ brings me back to some of my roots,” he said in a recent telephone interview.

His is a storied environmental career spanning more than a quarter of a century. He’s been an environmental advocate, national political director of the Sierra Club, held three different titles during his tenure of nearly eight years at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency under the Clinton administration, and a public affairs consultant to national environmental groups.

Outside of work, he’s a husband and father of two adult children. He declares himself the least musically talented in his family. His brother played the French horn in the Toronto Symphony Orchestra for more than 30 years.

Wilson enjoys everything from classical to bluegrass to rock.

And, he loves to do his laundry.

“I don’t trust anyone else not to shrink something,” he said.

Wilson and his wife left the nation’s capital for Raleigh almost 22 years ago, lured by a job he said his wife was doubtful he would get.

She figured the Conservation Trust for North Carolina would not be interested in out-of-state applicants, Wilson said. He applied anyway.

He would go on to lead the statewide nonprofit as its executive director for 14 years. During that time, the organization’s budget nearly doubled and its success in educational outreach to youth in conservation became a national standard.

Wilson has been with the Department of Natural and Cultural Resources, or DNCR, since 2017, first at the department’s chief deputy secretary. He was appointed secretary in 2020.

Today, he is grateful to call Raleigh home. Sure, he misses the friends he made in Washington, D.C., but not life inside the Beltway.

He relishes the fact that William B. Umstead State Park is a 15-minute drive from his home.

There’s a particular spot just off Company Mill Trail where Wilson often goes when he needs to think through something or make a big life decision.

Sometimes he goes there to not think at all and breathe in the tranquility he finds in the sound of water cascading over boulders and rock slabs in a creek that cuts through the park.

“It’s just a very peaceful spot for me to sort things out. It’s just perfect for sitting and watching the water in the creek go by as it tumbles over some very small falls,” Wilson said.

He is a self-described lover of hiking. Nature is his refuge.

And whenever he gets the opportunity, he indulges in both, which married well with his position as DNCR secretary because it afforded him opportunities to hike when he visited a park or preserve on official business.

He knows the terrain he’ll be visiting as DEQ secretary will be a tad different. He’s looking forward to visiting as many of the department’s coastal reserves as he can.

“I do think one of the things I want to do is get out more, to leave Raleigh and see what’s going on with DEQ work around the state and especially with all of the challenges associated with Hurricane Helene,” Wilson said. “I want to see those challenges for DEQ firsthand.”

Hurricane Helene made landfall in Florida’s Big Bend on Sept. 26, 2024, and charged north through western North Carolina, demolishing communities and killing more than 100 people in this state alone.

Wilson did not see the areas hardest hit by the hurricane when he visited portions of western North Carolina with former Gov. Roy Cooper last fall.

“But I did get a good sense of the amazing challenges ahead and the incredible work being done by people in those communities,” he said. “There are piles and piles and piles of debris still in the affected areas. There are water quality issues in lakes and streams. There are challenges with water and drinking water structure that continue so there will be lots of work that DEQ will be doing to help communities in western North Carolina recover from Hurricane Helene. I think it’s important to see that work to understand it so that, back in Raleigh, we can do everything we can to efficiently help those communities. One thing I’ve learned over and over again is you understand an issue so much better if you actually go there and see it and talk to the people involved.”

He knows the work related to water quality issues will not be isolated to those areas of the state ravaged by the storm.

Tens of thousands of North Carolinians living everywhere from unincorporated, rural communities to towns and cities, including those within the Cape Fear Region, have been grappling with the knowledge their drinking water sources are contaminated with per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances, or PFAS.

PFAS are chemical compounds that are used in the manufacturing of a host of consumer goods from food packaging to water resistant clothing.

While research is ongoing into possible human health effects of these chemicals – there are anywhere from 12,000 to upwards of 15,000 – some have been linked to cardiovascular disease, weakened immune function, various types of cancer and decreased liver and kidney function.

Wilson underscored what he said is a firehose of information that is only starting to trickle in as he takes his new role.

“At this point I have a lot more to study on that issue so that I can speak with a deeper knowledge base,” he said. “Having said that, these are dangerous chemicals that settle in the environment. EPA has set drinking water standards for them that local water utilities must meet to protect their customers.”

The state Environmental Management Commission appears to be moving forward with establishing health standards of PFAS in groundwater, but for only three of eight chemical compounds suggested by DEQ.

The commission’s proposal has been met with a flurry of public backlash as residents demand more protections for their drinking water sources.

“I know there’s conflict about the best next steps to protect people from them, but my hope is to be able to bring together different viewpoints and figure out a way that’s equitable, that protects people from these forever chemicals,” Wilson said.

He has an outline in his head of how he wants the first month to go. There will be meetings with staff, briefings, working with members of the North Carolina Senate on the state confirmation process, and making sure he understands the intricacies of big decisions that will need to be made in his early days with DEQ.

Looking back, Wilson said he’s proud of the dramatic expansion of state park land, trails and other outdoor recreational access in the state park system under his tenure.

The department continues to work hard updating old exhibits at history museums, historic sites and other facilities that share history, expanding their online content, and making sure those exhibits include more perspectives.

He’s particularly proud of the Dueling Dinosaurs exhibit at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh. If you haven’t seen it, you must, he said.

The one thing he’ll miss most about DNCR secretary? Introducing bands that perform at the big music festivals DNCR sponsors in the state.

“Let’s just put it this way, introducing The Avett Brothers three years ago at MerleFest was a big highlight,” Wilson said. “That’s not going to happen anymore. But I am excited about (DEQ’s) mission, which is to protect public health by protecting air quality, water quality, our land and soils and that mission is also critical to strengthening our state’s economy.”

This story has been updated to include funeral arrangements.

Avid birder, wildlife enthusiast and conservationist John Oliver Fussell III, 75, of Morehead City, is being remembered for his decades of contributions to raising awareness of often-overlooked environmental issues affecting the North Carolina coast, particularly its plants and animals, of which he had a deep understanding.

Fussell, who studied zoology at North Carolina State University, died Friday, Dec. 27, 2024, at home. His fellow environmental advocates and scientists have shared their fond remembrances in the days since Fussell’s death.

Paul Branch Jr., who retired last year from his role as park ranger and historian at Fort Macon State Park, shared some details with Coastal Review on Fussell’s early work.

Fussell first held an internship at the park in summer 1974, studying the Theodore Roosevelt Natural Area and its resources and doing preliminary work to lay out a nature trail.

Then, in fall 1975, he was hired under the Comprehensive Employment Training Act, or CETA, Manpower Program both to provide a “State Parks ‘presence’ at the Natural Area during the construction of the Marine Resources Center,” now the North Carolina Aquarium at Pine Knoll Shores, and to develop the nature trail, Branch said.

“Based on his previous intern work, he established a half-mile trail through the maritime forest along the northeast corner of the tract to the salt marsh along the sound and back,” Branch explained.

The trail was named the Hoffman Nature Trail in honor of Alice Green Hoffman, the relative of the Roosevelt family who had owned and managed the large tracts of land on Bogue Banks from which the Theodore Roosevelt Natural Area had been donated.

Fussell worked there through summer 1976, and that fall under the CETA program, he worked at Fort Macon State Park as an interpreter to give nature and history programs at the park year-round.

“In addition to giving the usual history guided tours and slide shows at the fort, Fussell also began giving bird and nature walks to the public, which were well received. He also created a birding checklist for the park. In the fall and winter of 1977, he worked sorting through and cataloguing museum artifacts at the park,” Branch said, adding that Fussell left the park in 1978 for other pursuits but returned periodically over the years to take birding groups around the park.

Coastal Review contributor and former Hammocks Beach State Park superintendent Sam Bland said he first met Fussell in summer 1978, when both were working at Fort Macon State Park.

“John was the historian/naturalist and I was a park attendant,” Bland said. “I was envious of John as he was always out giving tours of the fort or taking people on nature hikes while I spent most of my time mowing the mosquito-infested grasses of the fort. But we did get to spend some time birding together and he introduced me to the painted buntings. He was a birding mentor to many and I think that is when he was happiest, sharing his knowledge with others.”

Bland said he considered Fussell to be a friend, but, he clarified, their relationship was more on a professional level.

“During my years at Hammocks Beach State Park, we would collaborate to conduct bird surveys on Bear Island and the surrounding marshes. He was my go-to person, as he was to many, for any birding identification or related questions. Often, he would give me a call to see if I had seen a species of bird that he had recently seen further up the coast,” Bland explained. “If it was a specific species of interest, such as a rare, unusual or out of season sighting, he would quiz me about details as he wasn’t going to consider it a confirmed sighting unless he was sure. One winter, a fairly large group of red phalaropes, which is an offshore bird, were spotted close to shore. John wanted to know if I had seen them off of Bear Island, which I had. But it took some convincing to reassure John that I had actually seen this specific species.”

Bland also noted that while well known as an ornithologist, Fussell was also a skilled botanist who would arrive at first light on the days of planned maintenance and cleanups at the Hoop Pole Creek nature trail in Atlantic Beach to put flagging tape on the rare plants to make sure they didn’t get trimmed and were protected.

“He was a great advocate for preservation, protection and restoration of our coastal resources. His ornithological and botanical surveys were instrumental in documenting our natural coastal heritage, especially during times of rampant development. His knowledge was an invaluable resource that will be greatly missed,” Bland said.

The day after Fussell’s death, Southern Environmental Law Center Senior Adviser Derb Carter shared on an online birding forum that with Fussell’s death, North Carolina had lost a “giant in the birding community,” of which he had been a fixture for 60 years.

“He knew the birds and every birding corner along his beloved NC coast like no one else,” Carter posted, referencing Fussell’s book published in in 1994 by the University of North Carolina Press, “Birder’s Guide to Coastal North Carolina” which “remains the definitive guide.”

Carter noted that Fussell “cared deeply” about protecting important habitats and as an accomplished naturalist contributed his knowledge and observations to the identification and preservation of lands by state and federal agencies and conservation organizations.

Among Fussell’s many contributions to promoting birding in the state, Carter explained that Fussell regularly volunteered to lead birding field trips for Audubon’s Christmas Bird Count, Wings Over Water Wildlife Festival on the Outer Banks, and other birding events.

“The one thing you could almost be certain of on one of John’s trips is you were going to get your feet soaked within the first hour. If the shortest way was dry, John would take the long way through the marsh or tidal flats on the chance of flushing a rail, sparrow, or wren,” Carter said.

He led Morehead City’s Christmas Bird Count for more than 60 years and participated in the counts in Wilmington and Masonboro Island.

“Sun, wind, rain, or snow he would be dropped off on the north end (of Masonboro Island) by boat first thing in the morning and walk the eight and a half miles to the south end to be picked up late afternoon.  The gulls, terns, shorebirds, and pelicans will be looking for him on Saturday and will miss him. We will all miss him,” Carter said.

Peter Vankevich, co-publisher of the Ocracoke Observer on Ocracoke Island, is a bird enthusiast who founded and serves as compiler of the Ocracoke and Portsmouth Island Christmas bird counts. He’s also an active supporter of the North Carolina Coastal Land Trust’s longtime efforts to protect Ocracoke’s 132-acre Springer’s Point Preserve.

“I first met John some years ago when he led a spring walk for the N.C. Coastal Land Trust through Springer’s Point on Ocracoke Island —  not for birds, but to point out the native plants of which seemed to have an equal amount of passion,” Vankevich said. “He was a gracious field trip leader.”

In recent years, Fussell frequently visited the massive wetland restoration project at North River Wetlands Preserve in Carteret County, documenting the changing bird communities as the wetlands are restored, Carter said. The preserve is a 6,000-acre restoration project of the Coastal Federation.

When recognized in 2017 by the North Carolina Coastal Federation with a Pelican Award “For Enduring Commitment to Preserving the Spectacular Natural Heritage of Our Coast,” he said that for many years he focused on environmental issues for which his involvement is disproportionately important.

For example, “Issues that I know a lot about but which are mostly ignored by the general environmental community,” he explained. “I have mostly focused on protecting rare plants and habitats in a major reserve of native biodiversity in our backyard, the Croatan National Forest.”

Fussell told Coastal Review at the time that he spent countless hours documenting the amount and numbers of rare plants in the Croatan National Forest, and sometimes their disappearance, and then getting that information on the radar screen by providing it to the North Carolina Natural Heritage Program and the U.S. Forest Service.

He added that he monitored projects, often at several stages, to make sure information did not get ignored or forgotten.

“I find it rewarding to find that if you persevere, sometimes you can make a difference,” Fussell said.

In the mid-1980s, Fussell worked with the Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review, on an effort to protect what is now Hoop Pole Creek Preserve area in Atlantic Beach from a massive development project.

“That effort turned out to be ultimately successful and it was a major milestone in the development of the Coastal Federation as an important factor in addressing environmental issues. I found out that sometimes you can make a difference,” Fussell said in 2017.

There was an outpouring of condolences and memories on the birding forum after Carter’s announcement.

Ross McGregor of Stirling, Scotland, previously of Beaufort, wrote that he joined Fussell on Sunday morning birding trips.

“What really struck me about John were two things. Firstly he wore his vast knowledge so lightly. He was a great communicator. He never bragged and was always wanting to learn,” McGregor wrote. “Secondly, he could ask questions like few I have met. He would quiz me about my research on red-cockaded woodpeckers asking questions that really made me think. I think the questions were coming from his desire to know more and understand better, rather than to demonstrate my lack of knowledge and understanding. I learned so much from these chats. For me, it was these things made spending time birding with JF such a joy. He was a thoroughly decent bloke and the world is a poorer place without him.”

Harry LeGrand, who worked for the North Carolina Natural Heritage Program, said on the forum that he and Fussell were in some of the same classes at N.C. State University in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

“He was the premier naturalist for 50+ years for the central NC coast,” LeGrand explained. “Not just with his knowledge of birds but also of botany and various other biological sciences, such as ecology and natural communities. He provided the N.C. Natural Heritage Program, where I worked for 31 years, with numerous reports of rare plants, especially from his beloved Croatan National Forest.”

LeGrand added that Fussell’s 1994 guide “was a birder’s ‘bible’ and is still useful today” because so many public sites have not substantially changed since.

“I will greatly miss JF, as he called himself, as will so many other folks who knew him, went on his many field trips, and got to learn so much from him,” he said.

Bob Lewis of Durham called Fussell “one of the giants” of North Carolina birding of the last 50 years.

Walker Golder, previously with the National Audubon Society, said on the forum that with the death of Fussell, “North Carolina has lost a great person in the bird world.”

Golder said he came to know Fussell in the mid-1980s as part of North Carolina’s early waterbird surveys.

“I consulted him often in the decades thereafter about various areas of the coast. Rest assured, he had been there. He was always glad to chat and would share the unwritten history of the regular birds and the rarities at the site. Birders visiting the coast from other states would often call my office seeking information about where they could see a particular bird. John’s book- A Birder’s Guide to Coastal North Carolina -was (and remains) the source for finding birds on the coast. I always recommended John’s book and occasionally received a call back from folks impressed with the thorough and detailed information. But that’s who I found John to be.”

His funeral will be at 3 p.m. Wednesday, Jan. 8, at Noe-Brooks Funeral Home and Crematory in Morehead City. Visitation will precede the service, beginning at 2 p.m.

Editor Mark Hibbs contributed to this report.

The acclaimed coastal scientist Orrin Pilkey, who died at the age of 90 on Sunday, had more stories than an old wet dog.

A few years back, we were sitting around the kitchen table in the retirement community in Durham, North Carolina, where he lived in later years. It was a comfortable apartment, messy with books and papers and walls filled with Orrin’s impressive collection of Indian arrowheads. Importantly, it was close to Orrin’s beloved Duke University, where he taught coastal science for a half-century and still had a coveted parking space in the faculty lot.

Orrin was telling me how he grew up in Richland, Washington, near the Hanford Reservation Reactor.

“We used to play in the puddles after it rained,” he said. “It drove my mother crazy. When the whistle went off, she would rush to the door and call us kids inside because they were about to release a radioactive cloud. We liked to say the dogs in Richland all glowed at night. It was great fun growing up there.”

In a 2019 book, “The Geography of Risk, Epic Storms, Rising Seas, And The Cost of America’s Coasts,” I described Orrin this way: “Pilkey is a short, square hobbit of a man, with an unruly gray beard and a disarming sense of humor. Depending on your point of view, he is either a prophet or the antichrist of the coast.”

I worried a little that Orrin might be offended, but when an acquaintance brought up the description, he roared and said, no, he loved it. It was exactly right.

Orrin was maybe 5 feet, 4 inches tall, and had an impressive belly. He swore to me that he used to run marathons and had broken three hours at the Boston Marathon. I was a decent enough runner back in the day and had struggled to break three hours, which is considered the standard separating real runners from hobby runners.

Like many of his stories, it verged on the unbelievable. But Orrin was like that, always surprising, a prolific and important writer of books on North Carolina and other coasts, a provocative critic, a generous, dedicated teacher, and as Rob Young, one of Orrin’s former students and the head of a coastal science program at Western Carolina University, wrote in a LinkedIn post, “He was funny as hell.”

You had to work hard to not like Orrin. Over a quarter-century, I watched developers and engineers scream invective at him for challenging the way they stacked fragile beaches and sand dunes with ever-larger investment properties. But I also reveled in how Orrin could disarm even his most hostile critics with an impish grin and a joke.

Once, back in the winter of 1998, I was showing Orrin around some of the new development in Corolla, on the northern Outer Banks. We had just finished emptying our over-caffeinated bladders behind some wax myrtle, when one of the developers roared onto the gravel lot in his Caddy and began screaming at us for violating private property. This lasted roughly a minute when suddenly he stopped, stared at Orrin, and exclaimed, “Hey, I know you. You’re that Pilkey guy.” Orrin smiled and marched over to the car. By the time it was done, the developer had Orrin’s email and was his next best friend.

Some of the engineers at the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers bitterly criticized Orrin’s science and complained that he was training a cadre of young “Pilkeyites,” who would ruin the coast. By ruin, I think they meant put a halt to the development and the Corps’ costly beach replenishment projects, in which they pump millions of cubic yards of sand onto eroding beaches to save the property lining the shoreline. Pilkey correctly pointed out that those projects were mere Band-Aids, lasting a few years before the next storm came along and washed the sand out to sea. “It’s madness,” he told me many times. “Absolute madness.”  

A Florida engineer complained that Pilkey “got all of the students who got 1600 on their SATs,” and then indoctrinated them in his ways. I loved that. They just didn’t know what to do with Pilkey.

“My approach to coastal science and management is very different from his,” Young wrote. “But, my approach to life is not. My dad died when I was 21. Orrin was the closest thing to a father I had for the last 40 years. He gave me my current position. I owe him so much.”

Orrin got his Bachelor of Science in geology at Washington State University and his master’s in Montana and figured he would become an expert on mountains and shale. During summers, he worked as a smoke jumper and manned a fire tower deep in the forest. Instead of staying out West, he picked up his PhD in coastal science at Florida State and became an expert in sedimentology.

He lived for a time on Sapelo Island, off the coast of Georgia, where he attended church in a ramshackle chapel with the Gullah Geechee. “Hey, I really like the singing, Pal,” he told me. He called everyone pal. Later, he researched the abyssal plain, a gaping mud hole in the ocean so deep sunlight does not reach the sea floor.

In the mid-1960s, Duke took a chance and hired Orrin to start a marine geology program. “It was a big leap,” he said. “They were taking a big chance.”

Over the years, he helped to train thousands of students now scattered across the land. Early on, he was approached by Paul Godfrey, a marine biologist working for the National Park Service on Cape Lookout, and asked to sign a petition protesting a reckless development along the coast. “I was new and didn’t sign,” he told me, with a frown. “It was a big mistake, one of the biggest mistakes I ever made.”

In time, he would become one of the loudest critics of what we were doing to our coasts, penning scores of opinion articles and essays, often appearing on radio and television. Duke was his local podium, but he traveled the nation and the world, spreading the gospel of Pilkey, which might be summed up this way: Preserve as much as possible of what we have left at the coast, stop hardening eroding shorelines with groins and sea walls and, above all, allow the barrier islands to keep moving, the way Mother Nature always meant.

Orrin wasn’t impressed with many of the incremental policies being implemented to protect the coast. He believed they were too little, too late. In time, he became a national advocate for retreating from the coast as the seas rose and storms became larger and more destructive. His position felt impractical to some coastal geologists, who knew that developers, politicians and property owners would fight efforts to remove them. Far too much money was at stake.

When I asked him if he was becoming out of step, he shrugged and told me “I’ve always been out of step.” And then he laughed.

BUXTON — When the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was rescued 25 years ago from the edge of the Atlantic, the nation’s tallest brick beacon was relocated with just an ordinary airport beacon in its lantern room.

It could be argued that return of the majestic first order Fresnel lens atop the 1870 lighthouse will be nearly as remarkable a feat as moving the 4,800-ton tower about a half-mile inland. But to the man crafting the replica, it’s the apex of a 40-year fascination with the unique lens that began with another lighthouse.

Dan Spinella, owner of Artworks Florida Classic Fresnel Lenses, has been meticulously replicating the design of the original Cape Hatteras Lighthouse lens as part of the current comprehensive lighthouse restoration project. The new prisms, made of a super-strong acrylic, are dyed to exactly match the sea foam green of the glass prisms they’re replacing.

Spinella is likely the only man in the nation, maybe the world, who knows about manufacturing those prisms. But when he visited the 1874 St. Augustine Lighthouse in the 1980s, it was the first time he had been even inside a lighthouse.

“And when I saw the lens, it’s like, ‘Whoa, what the heck is this?’” Spinnella recalled during a recent telephone interview. “I had no idea.”

St. Augustine’s Fresnel lens, the same impressive size as the Hatteras lens, immediately captivated him and set off an unusually productive obsession. Before he knew it, Spinella, who then was and still is employed as an engineer at Walt Disney World, offered to take dimensions and do some drawings to help in the lens restoration.

“Yeah, I went from volunteer to volunteer/business, and it just evolved over the years,” he told Coastal Review, speaking from his Orlando home. “Nothing that I planned; it just kind of worked out.”

The website of the nonprofit St. Augustine Lighthouse and Maritime Museum credits the efforts of the Junior Service League of St. Augustine and others, including Spinella and Joe Cocking, the lampist who had later saved the fixed Fresnel lens atop Bodie Island Lighthouse, for restoring its lens after being damaged by a vandal’s gunshots.

After working on the St. Augustine project for about a year, Spinella, a professed history lover, said he had learned a lot about how Fresnel lenses worked. He started with engineering books from the 1850s he had located that were written by Scottish lighthouse engineer Thomas Stevenson, the father of writer Robert Louis Stevenson.

He found optic formulas that explained the lenses’ ability to refract and reflect light, allowing him to design a cross-section of the lens “perfectly,” he recalled. And while he kept learning, he kept going. Next, he volunteered at Ponce Inlet, Florida, then continued the work by helping to replace parts at other lighthouses. All along, he was experimenting with cast acrylic, machined acrylic.

“I tried several different ways of getting these prisms made,” Spinella said. “Then in 2004, I started making reproductions.”

Around that time, John Havel, then a graphic designer at the Environmental Protection Agency’s campus in the Raleigh area, had developed a fascination with the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. After focusing on its original blueprints and plans and collecting old photographs, Havel recounted in a recent interview, he was soon doggedly researching deep into historic lighthouse archives.

“When you study the lighthouse, you see that it is this magnificent, incredible, amazing example of American Victorian architecture,” said Havel, who is now retired from the EPA and the owner of Havel Research Associates in Salvo, a Hatteras Island village north of Buxton.

The Hatteras lens, as well, is an extraordinary piece of art.

“Every first order lens is different,” he said. “There are no other lenses identical to the Cape Hatteras lens, or to the Bodie Island lens, or to the Currituck Beach Lighthouse lens. Every single factor except the height and circumference of the lens is different.”

There are a total of six orders of Fresnels lens, with the smallest able to be slipped into a purse.

A couple of years into his research, Havel recalled, he was visiting the office of the historian with Cape Hatteras National Seashore and noticed a small prism on his desk.

“And he started telling me about this guy down in Florida who made these lenses and wanted to offer a replicas lens through the park service for Hatteras,” he said.

But it wasn’t until 2015, after speaking about the lighthouse restoration at the Outer Banks Lighthouse Society Keepers Weekend, that Havel flew to Florida meet Spinella.

To put it mildly, Havel was impressed. In the years since, as a member of the Lighthouse Society board, and as a dedicated volunteer, he encouraged the National Park Service to tap Spinella’s expertise. Today, Havel is employed as a historic preservation consultant for Massachusetts-based contractor Stone & Lime Historic Restoration Services Inc., as well as an assistant and consultant for Spinella.

The $19.2 million restoration project, of which Spinella is being paid about $1.25 million, began in early 2024 and is expected to be completed by late spring or early summer 2025.

“He’s doing this entire thing,” Havel said of the skilled lens maker. “He’s doing this by himself, while he has a full-time job at Disney … He’s a genius.”

Initially, the park service was considering the possibility of restoring the original 1853 lens, the remains of which are on loan to the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum in Hatteras, a part of the North Carolina Maritime Museums system, which under the state’s Department of Natural and Cultural Resources.

“Yes, we did talk about the option of doing that, and consulted with lampist Jim Woodward,” said National Park Service Deputy Chief of Cultural Resources Jami Lanier in a recent interview. “It was determined that it would probably not be feasible to do that for a couple of reasons (including) some issues with the frame of the lens not being exactly aligned to be able to accept the new prisms. And so it was felt that there could be some potential damage to the frame, or the lens itself, if that was attempted.”

Then there was the cost of replacing all the prisms — only 268 of the 1,000 or so prisms were salvaged — which “would have been astronomical,” she said.

The lens had been removed from the 1853 lighthouse, which was a taller version added to the 1803 tower, and installed in the1870 lighthouse, Lanier said. The lens was removed again in 1949, and in 1953 the lighthouse became part of Cape Hatteras National Seashore. But in the years before and after World War II, the lighthouse was essentially abandoned and the lens was vandalized, she said.

Lanier explained that Woodward and his team had removed the original pedestal from the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse in 2006, put it together at the museum with the remains of the lens stored in a park facility on Roanoke Island.

Lanier said that the park service also discussed the potential of retrofitting the original lens with acrylic or glass replacements.

“You know, we went through all those discussions,” she said. “But in the end, it was just decided not to retrofit the original lens either way, and we knew if we were going with the replica that it would be acrylic.”

Indeed, it would cost four to seven times more to make the replica prisms in glass, Spinella said. Some prisms in glass restorations he has done cost $4,000 each, and some were as much as $20,000 each. And multiplied by 1,008 prisms, that could mean millions of dollars. Plus, glass is heavier and would put an additional load on the structure, he said. The original lens weighed 4,500 pounds, while the reproduction will weigh a mere 1,600 pounds.

A first order Fresnel lens, which is shaped like a beehive, is 8 1/2 feet high and 6 feet wide. Not only is the acrylic lighter, Spinella also used anodized aluminum frames that are a third the weight of bronze. Also, the aluminum will not deteriorate or tarnish, but it looks the same as brass except it’s not quite as shiny.

“Polished brass looks absolutely beautiful when I install them, but I can go back a couple months later and they look terrible just because of the humidity and condensation in the lantern room,” he said.

In 2009, Spinella worked with Woodward, who has worked on more than 400 lenses, to measure the lens, and he went back to his workshop and created a 3D model of it. During the intervening years while the park service mulled over having a replica lens, Spinella had continued his experiments, perfecting his acrylic prisms. The initial cast acrylic lacked the quality he wanted, and he eventually settled on optical acrylic.

“It’s a very high-quality acrylic,” he said. “I mean, they use it in fighter jet windows, and it’s UV stable, and it’s easy to machine, sand and polish and it can be tinted.”

Optical acrylic also is clearer than glass and transmits more light, he added. Although it’s strong and durable, it doesn’t last as long as glass.

Importantly, the reflective and refractive ability is nearly the same, with only slight differences.

“It actually bends light a little,” he said. “It’s got a slightly lower index of refraction, so … I’ve adjusted the formulas and adjusted the profile of each prism and shape of curvatures according to the refractive index of acrylic.”

A modern Fresnel-specific LED bulb, installed on a little stand on the pedestal, is hooked up to a sophisticated controller that, at $10,000, costs more than the $8,000 LED, Spinella said. But even with the light source now drastically different than the original kerosene oil lamp, the prisms are in the same arrangement around it.

“That lamp was a flame or omnidirectional light, so it spread 360 degrees spherically in all directions,” Spinella explained. “So that was the purpose of these lenses, to capture as much of that light as possible.”

As Havel noted, another engineering feat that Spinella accomplished was his replication of the lens’ clockwork mechanism, which was based on the 1853 original at the Graveyard museum. There are no known photographs or even descriptions of the lens and its machinery, he said.

“Dan has replicated that with all new gears, metals and whatever (mechanisms) rotated the lens so that it would flash out to sea,” Havel said.

The clockwork had been run by hemp rope, which was extremely strong but messy.

“Hemp sheds,” Havel said. “Dan found synthetic rope that looks the same but isn’t hairy like hemp.”

The rotating beacon’s original flash pattern of every 10 seconds, instead of the former 71/2-second burst, is being restored, and it will continue to be visible for up to 20 miles. As Spinella explained it, each minute the mechanism rotates a quarter turn, a full rotation takes four minutes, “And what that’ll give you is a 10-second flash interval,” he said.

Each lighthouse has its unique flashing characteristic and daymark, which are listed for mariners by the U.S. Coast Guard.

Once Spinella and Woodward reinstall the beacon — probably in June — there will be a day when people who climb to the top of the tower will be able to see for themselves the mesmerizing beauty of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse’s First Order Fresnel Lens.

Spinella said he has modified the lens with modern elements, but he said it’s still correct to consider the lens a replica because it follows the original design. For instance, while the clockwork mechanism and chariot wheels that rotated the lens are still part of it, the real rotation will now come from a 1/3-horsepower electric motor operated by a controller.

“I’ve done some things that make it more durable and more modernized,” he said. “But you really won’t see any of it.”

In the fall of 1927, G. Albert Lyon, millionaire businessman, gifted inventor, and renowned sportsman was restless and looking for a challenge.

It could be almost anything: a new gadget to tinker with in his home laboratory, a journey to an exotic country to hunt big game, or maybe a fall fishing adventure in Cape Hatteras, one of his favorite places in the world.

Lyon grew up in Philadelphia and worked as a mechanic. By day, he repaired engines, but at night, he tinkered and explored. Friends described the ebullient entrepreneur as bursting with energy and ideas. A dropout, Lyon was smarter by years than many of his better-educated companions, and more ambitious as well.

At the age of 19, he was awarded his first patent for an automobile bumper, and soon thereafter borrowed $100 to start a manufacturing company. As with many of Lyon’s ideas, the one for a bumper came from everyday life. One morning, Lyon was walking to his job at the garage when he saw a woman lose control of her sedan and crash into a street lamp, crumpling the hood. The accident left Lyon to wonder why the sedan didn’t have some sort of protective girdle or skirt, and he set about designing one. His timing was impeccable. Automobiles were transforming the daily lives of Americans and sales were booming. Within a few years, Lyon had earned his first million; many more would follow.

Patents would also keep coming, year after year: for bumpers, hub caps and stainless-steel wheel covers, fender wells and skirts, steering wheel attachments, luggage carriers, rims, disks, radiator baffles, side mirrors, horns and, later, helmets, sailboats, even aluminum masts for yachts. In all, Lyon would be awarded nearly 1,000 patents, establishing him as one of the most prolific inventors in history.

But Lyon’s unique spirit of inquiry wasn’t limited to tinkering. He also painted portraits, designed his own vacation home, studied the planets and stars, dove on coral reefs in the Bahamas, kept two or three chess games going at once, and amused his friends with his skills at the slingshot.

Lyon later moved to Allenhurst, New Jersey, from Philadelphia, but also spent part of his time in Detroit.

According to century-old newspaper stories, Lyon first visited the Outer Banks in the early 1920s to go fishing with his friends Rex Beach, a popular author of outdoor adventures tales, and Van Campen Heilner, a silver spoon explorer, and the son of a wealthy coal magnate. Heilner and Lyon both lived near Asbury Park, on the northern New Jersey coast, then a kind of arcadia for sportsmen, artists, and writers. They fished and hunted for waterfowl along Barnegat Bay with the noted illustrator, Frank Stick, who also lived nearby.

During one of their adventures, Lyon’s yacht, Alberta, exploded and burned to the waterline near the mouth of the Barnegat Inlet. Lyon and Stick saved themselves by jumping into the swirling waters.

Lyon and his pals made the long journey to the Outer Banks to take advantage of the world-famous fishing there. The warm waters of the Gulf Stream hug the coastline near Cape Hatteras, drawing some of the Atlantic’s largest and most-prized species – yellowfin tuna, blue marlin, and red drum.

Heilner already had a small fishing camp between Hatteras Village and the inlet. He also owned a 1920 Model T outfitted with fishing rods and gear, known locally as “The Pride of Pamlico.” They used the sedan to travel up and down the banks in search of fishing holes, landing 100 channel bass during one adventure, scores of red drum during another.

Lyon decided it was time to own a piece of Hatteras for himself. He purchased a 1,500-acre tract at the southern tip of Hatteras Island, not far from the world-famous inlet, from Andrew S. Austin, a local merchant. The following year, Austin helped Lyon build a hunting lodge, later named the Gooseville Gun Club. The simple structure wasn’t as large or elaborate as some of the other hunting lodges, but it served its purpose and over the years was greatly enjoyed by Lyon and his guests. Aptly, the land surrounding the lodge was shaped like a fishhook and included a creek, nearby sand reef and two miles of unspoiled oceanfront.

Luther Austin, the brother of Andrew and the longtime manager of the hunting lodge, recalled that Lyon would “travel down to Gooseville on his yacht,” which was also named Alberta, for one of his daughters, to hunt and fish with his family and friends. Rex Beach was a frequent companion and kept a houseboat nearby.

“He stopped in here and they hunted. This feller Rex had a houseboat. He had all of his hunting equipment on it. They stopped in here and old man Lyon was with him. That’s why he built the place here,” Luther Austin explained to Elizabeth Farrow and several co-authors in a history of the Gooseville Gun Club.

The hunting parties used a small boat to get out to the sand reef, where they had blinds, batteries and sink boxes, Austin recalled. The boxes were made from concrete and sunk in the sand. When the tide came in, they pulled a canvas cover around themselves and used iron decoys to sink the wooden batteries low in the water. Of course, there were wooden decoys as well. So many, it took several trips to haul them all out, Austin told the authors.

In the 1930s, Lyon hired a well-known local pilot, David Driskill, to ferry wealthy guests from Manteo and other locations to his hunting lodge. The design and operation of airplanes had improved dramatically since the Wright Brothers made their first heavier-than-air flight in 1903. But coastal flight, with its unpredictable winds, layers of marine fog, and beach landings, was still challenging. As if to prove the point, Driskill lost one of his wheels during a takeoff when it became stuck in the beach sand, according to published reports.

During the Great Depression, Driskill delivered mail, food and supplies to the federal work camps scattered up and down the Outer Banks. Thousands of poor, itinerant workers were building an artificial sand dike from the Virginia border to Ocracoke Island. According to a 2018 Driskill profile by the historian Casey Huegel, Driskill also flew more than 500 injured workers from Cape Hatteras to a Marine Corps base hospital in Norfolk. Later, Driskill became one of the first test pilots for prototype helicopters and flew one over the Outer Banks photographing the government’s sand dune. In October, 1949, Driskill was killed while testing an experimental helicopter near Moorestown, New Jersey.

Over the years, Lyon entertained scores of visitors at the Gooseville Gun Club. Many of them were wealthy business acquaintances and artists. At the same time, he tried to maintain good relations with locals from the nearby villages. In 1930, he donated $35,000 for a club building and library for high school girls in Hatteras. The hope, speculated one writer, was that the club would positively direct the girls’ “energies which in some instances, might otherwise go astray.”

Lyon’s attitude toward the locals stiffened after he found hundreds of red drum left to rot on the beach by a careless angler. Afterward, he positioned a guard on his property and angered locals by blocking them from hunting and fishing. For a time, he also battled efforts by the National Park Service to condemn his property for a national seashore on the Outer Banks. In 1954, Lyon finally sold his club and land to the Park Service for $47,000.

Lyon shifted his attention to the tiny tropical island of Bimini, in the Bahamas, where he built a million-dollar mansion on Paradise Point and spent his days snorkeling and fishing the gin-clear waters for bonefish and tuna. In 1957, a writer for Sports Illustrated profiled Lyon, calling him “The Commodore of Bimini.” The writer described a typical Lyon day this way:

“Guests find a typical day can begin in the predawn darkness with the Commodore rousing the house to come look at a favorite star through his telescope on the roof. A swim in the pool or sea may follow, and after breakfast the day really gets under way. The morning may be taken up with deep sea fishing for giant tuna or blue marlin; or a skin-diving expedition, led by the Commodore, to the wrecks around the reefs and an hour of water skiing, and always a continuous chess game aboard either of the two fishing cruisers which act as floating bases for the day’s sports.”

ROANOKE ISLAND — While immigration is a hot election-year topic, it’s perhaps notable that speculation continues unabated about the fate of America’s first English immigrants who vanished into the mists of history 437 years ago, with yet another twist in the saga of the real people who became known as the “Lost Colony.”

Could at least a group from the colony that briefly settled on the shores of today’s Roanoke Island, on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, have moved, not only 50 miles south or west, as many believe, but simply to the other side of the sound?

According to records, when the colony’s governor John White returned three years after he left for supplies in 1587, the only evidence of the colony’s whereabouts was the word “Croatoan” – once the home of the Croatan Indians on Hatteras Island – carved on a fort palisade, and the letters “CRO” carved in an oak tree. That has been widely interpreted as a signal from the colonists that they moved to Croatoan – that is, Hatteras.

Alternately, there were signs that could have meant they went 50 miles into the mainland, as White said was discussed with the colonists before he departed.

But in a recent research report, “Croatan: The Untold Story,” veteran archaeologist Eric Klingelhofer, vice president of research with the nonprofit First Colony Foundation, says that a review of historic maps indicates that the Croatan tribe who had befriended the Roanoke colonists did not actually live on Hatteras Island; they lived on land across from Roanoke Island at what is now mainland Dare County. So if at least some colonists went to live with the Croatan Indians, they may have had to merely cross the sound.

“Cartographic study therefore suggests that a broad territory was attributed in the historical period to the remnant Croatoans, and that the likely location for their core habitation and Dasemunkepeuc itself lay northwest of Roanoke in the vicinity of modern Mashoes,” Klingelhofer asserts in the report, published on the foundation’s website.

Dasemunkepeuc, an Algonquian village, was located at present-day Mann’s Harbor, near Mashoes. The Croatan and Roanoke were branches of Algonquian Indians.

What his research shows is that the Croatan had left Buxton on Hatteras Island at some point after the arrival of the English in the mid-1580s, and relocated to the mainland where they could grow crops, Klingelhofer, a retired professor of history at Mercer University, told Coastal Review in a recent interview.

“It looks like, from these maps, which were most of the official governmental maps, that the Mashoes area and south of that Manns Harbor area was the land of the Croatoans,” he said, using an alternate name for the Croatan. “The Roanokes, who probably had more problems with disease because they had greater contacts, they may have been there for a while. But then they moved south, maybe because of better resources, or there were more friendly natives that they had relations with, or something like that. And then they don’t know what happened to them beyond the fact that they were no longer in this area.”

Long catnip for charlatans, fabulists and conspiracy dabblers, the disappearance of Sir Walter Raleigh’s colony on Roanoke Island – England’s first attempted settlement in the New World – has been dubbed the “nation’s oldest mystery” for a reason: Only bits of evidence have been found that point to what may have happened to most of the 117 men, women and children who had sailed to Roanoke Island more than four centuries ago.

Perhaps because of its ephemeral intrigue, the Lost Colony, a precursor to Jamestown in 1607, the first permanent English settlement, has been the focus of numerous archaeological surveys and digs – both professional and amateur – for decades. It has sparked a beloved long-running local summer theater production. It has spawned magical fables of a White Doe and of large stones carved with cryptic writing, both linked to Virginia Dare, a colonist’s baby born in 1587. And it has inspired many books, some more authoritative than others, including Klingelhofer’s, “Excavating The Lost Colony Mystery, The Map, the Search the Discovery,” published in 2023 in association with the foundation, which features a collection he edited of research by historians, archaeologists and others.

The foundation has worked closely with pre-colonial experts who have conducted research at Williamsburg and Jamestown in Virginia, as well as at Fort Raleigh National Historic Site on Roanoke Island, which has yielded artifacts but no hints of the colonists’ settlement. In a recent archaeological exploration, the foundation had found evidence of first contact between the English explorers and Native Americans at Fort Raleigh, and also has unearthed artifacts that indicate some Lost Colonists may have lived for a time at riverfront sites in Bertie County, dubbed Site X and Site Y.

Despite the growing volume of information that has been collected over the years, and numerous Indian and English artifacts that have been unearthed, to date no pre-colonial smoking gun has been found that fills in the big blanks about the elusive Lost Colony.

“We don’t know where they started out from,” Charles Ewen, distinguished professor of anthropology at East Carolina University’s Thomas Harriot College of Arts and Sciences, told Coastal Review. “We don’t know where they went. We have sort of the general vicinity and it’s become this wonderful mystery that people are trying to figure out.”

Ewen, more cohort than rival of Klingelhofer, has also recently written a book, with co-author E. Thomson Shields Jr.: “Becoming the Lost Colony, The History, Lore and Popular Culture of the Roanoke Mystery,” published in 2024.

Whatever detritus the colonists left behind may have been lost to erosion along the shores of the Croatan Sound or to decay in the swamps. But there are also unanswered questions about 16^th century people’s choice of living conditions, and Ewen agreed that the mainland could have provided better shelter and more food.

“In fact, I think most archeologists think that the Outer Banks were just seasonally occupied,” Ewen said. “So when they said they were prepared to move 50 miles into the main, I think the Outer Banks during the winter would not have been a terribly hospitable place.”

Deciphering the clues of the Lost Colony, like a 400-year-old board game, is why the mystery of their fate continues to fascinate.

Klingelhofer, a founding member of the First Colony Foundation, a volunteer group of professional archaeologists established in 2003, has explained that their overall mission is finding evidence to fill in the gaps about the 1584-1587 Roanoke Voyages, which ultimately led to early American English colonization. Still, it’s always the Lost Colony story from the 1587 Roanoke Voyage that most ignites the public imagination and spurs continued investigations and research, such as Klingelhofer’s work.

Both Klingelhofer and the foundation, and Ewen and East Carolina University, have a close association with the late archaeologist David Phelps, professor emeritus of anthropology at ECU who died in 2009 at age 79.

An expert on prehistoric and Algonquian archaeology, Phelps was renowned for his work studying Tuscarora Indian sites at Neoheroka in Greene County and Jordan’s Landing in Bertie County. When Hurricane Emily in 1993 exposed vast amounts of pottery sherds and shell midden in Buxton, it was Phelps’ numerous excavations that determined the site had been the Croatan capital that stretched a half-mile from Cape Creek to Buxton village.

Phelps had dated what he called “the Hatteras site” from 1650 to 1720.

Manteo, who had befriended the colonists, had lived in Croatan, and his mother was the tribe’s leader. For that reason, some historians hypothesized that the colonists may have fled there, although most say the Croatan had inadequate food and space to accommodate more than a small number.

An archaeologist who had worked alongside Phelps as a young man, Clay Swindell, is now working with the foundation, Klingelhofer said.

Even though centuries separate our contemporary population from historic colonial explorers, human nature was likely as prone to boasting and deception then as it is now.

Hence, Klingelhofer said it’s worth noting that everyone is presuming what White, the governor who reported the “CRO” letters at the Lost Colony’s fort, actually knew and didn’t know.

“John White wasn’t always trustworthy,” he said. “He assumes a lot of things. He claims a lot of things that are not necessarily fully the truth. A lot of it is his interpretation of particular people and their motives behind the people that he has gotten angry with.”

In other words, White’s account may not be the only version of Lost Colony history to consider.

“But any good historian knows better than to trust a person who’s even an eyewitness to things,” Klingelhofer said. “You need corroboration. And sadly, there isn’t any except for in these maps.”

As Ewen sees the Lost Colony, all of the foundation’s hypotheses could be legitimate, but as he and Klingelhofer agree, it’s all pieces of a puzzle yet to be solved.

“I think it’s very difficult to say with any degree of certainty, until we find some more physical evidence, that we have an idea of what happened,” he said. “We need to find Christian burials from the 16th century, and I think that will really start putting us in the vicinity.”

English burials, he added, would be east-west, with the head at the west end. The clothing items would date to the 16th century, and skeletal analysis would indicate they were European. But archaeologists and historians are by no means ready to throw in the towel in pursuit of the Lost Colony.

“Honestly, I think it’s going to be an accidental discovery,” Ewen said. “Somebody will come across something while they’re developing … (and) stumble upon some of this stuff. And the archeologists will get involved, and then it will be, ‘Oh, OK!’”

Fisheries researcher Samantha Farquhar has traveled far to learn more about industrial fishing and food security, and the related effects of a changing climate on peoples’ lives. Work that first requires building a level of trust.

Her travels have taken her from the University of Washington in Seattle to East Carolina University in Greenville, with stops in Nepal, Madagascar, Greenland and a small village in northern Quebec. Also included was a stop on the Outer Banks, where she worked as a seasonal fisheries technician with the Department of Marine Fisheries.

“I got to know a lot about what fishermen think of the regulations really fast,” Farquhar told Coastal Review recently.

It was, she explained, time well spent, especially for her chosen field of research.

“You go down to Wanchese, it’s their life. You have to really respect that when you’re doing research. You can’t just go in there asking a bunch of questions,” she said. “You have to take the time to build the right partnerships and develop trust.”

She was in Greenland this summer, spending most of July in Uummannaq, a town on the west side of the country. Although most of her work has been with fisheries, in this case she was working with Hurtigruten Expeditions, a Norwegian company that offers cruises to Greenland.

She was looking into the effects of climate change on the indigenous culture there.

“Greenland is one of the only countries that is (approximately) 80% indigenous people. It’s an indigenous-run country, which is pretty cool, but with strong ties to Denmark,” she said.

Farquhar was studying how climate change was affecting the use of the qajaq (pronounced kayak), which is the traditional kayak of the Inuit people of Greenland. Made of stretched animal skins over whalebone or driftwood, it is a long, narrow watercraft, that, because of its construction, is used only in relatively calm seas.

What Farquhar found was that days with conditions safe for qajaq use were becoming more infrequent.

“I can almost definitely say it’s harder for kayakers, than, say, 30 years ago,” she said. “A kayaker will tell me, ‘I will only go kayaking when it’s between zero and 0.5 meters of wave height. If it’s greater than 0.5 meters, it’s too wavy. I don’t feel safe going out.’”

Farquhar is in an ECU doctoral program administered by the Coastal Studies Institute on the ECU Outer Banks Campus that she described as unique in the world of academia.

“I’m in a PhD program called Integrated Coastal Sciences. It’s the only PhD program in the world that has this title,” she said, adding that trying to describe the program is difficult.

“It’s like coastal resource management, but more integrated,” Farquhar said.

“I have to understand the fishery science side of things,” she said, adding that her works demands an understanding of food security, food systems and how people obtain food within the food system. “So it’s really interesting.”

After five years of study, Farquhar  expects to defend her doctoral dissertation next spring.

Aquaculture sans ocean

Farquhar, fresh out of college with an undergraduate degree in biology, began her career in Nepal, where there was opportunity, despite what she describes as a “really funny” experience, “because they don’t have an ocean.”

And it was, she said, a place where the economics of food security, society and fish intersect.

“It was an aquaculture project that was for women specifically, because in a lot of traditional Nepali societies, women are stuck in the household, and they don’t have a lot of options for economic development,” Farquhar said. “That led me to get into fisheries development … to see how fisheries could be tied to people.”

The societal aspects of fisheries became a frequently recurring concept in her work. She later spent nine months living in Madagascar on a U.S. government Fulbright Student Grant Program.

“I was working in a marine protected area,” she said, describing how it was managed by a local community, “small-scale fishers, traditional sailing vessels, that kind of thing.”

Beyond the managed area, industrial-scale fishing was permitted, but vessels from the European Union or Asian countries were entering the marine protected area. “They would get very upset,” Farquhar said. “They’d be like, ‘This boat is stealing all of our fish.’”

Often, industrial-scale fishing operations are described as “really bad for local communities, especially when the industrial fishing is by a different party and not the local community,” Farquhar said. But, empirical proof of harm is difficult to produce.

“If you think about it in terms of data, it’s really hard to prove that industrial fishing happening here is causing this household over here to lose out on meals and suffer,” she said.

Some of the difficulty in showing a link is in the recordkeeping, or lack thereof.

“There is no good long-term data for Madagascar,” Farquhar said. Even in developed nations, it can be difficult to show how food security and industrial fishing are interwoven in the local economy.

Because of COVID-19 travel restrictions, Farquhar was unable to return to Madagascar, but she did find a project in Canada, where she found, there was “much better data.”

The focus of her work in northern Quebec was in Kuujjuaq, an Inuit town on the southern side of the Hudson Straight. The town, with a population greater than 2,600 is the largest town in the Nunavik region of Quebec.

Unlike her work in Madagascar, Kujjuaq residents are developing an industrial fishing economy with the goal of benifitting the Nunavik region.

“The commercial fishery that they’re ramping up in the area is shrimp,” Farquhar said. “Shrimp is not a traditional food in the indigenous community that I’m working in. They like it, but it’s not like something that they’re (saying), ‘Yes, this is important to our culture.’”

What is important to the culture is Arctic char, a fish that looks a bit like salmon, although it has yet to catch on as an export commodity.

“It’s very important to them. It’s a really good-tasting fish. You can never find it in the United States,” she said.

The Kuujjuaq community has been fairly successful, too, exporting most of the shrimp to Asia, Farquhar said, adding although that, “they hit a bit of a bump during COVID.”

There may be a limit to how much shrimp can be harvested, however, if a healthy population of arctic char is to be maintained.

“Arctic char eats shrimp,” Farquhar noted. “So, if you’re fishing your shrimp population, is that going to affect your arctic char population?”

That remains unknown because the local ecosystem has not been well studied, something that, for Farquhar, makes working with the locals even more interesting.

“It’s very innovative work. The community is really interested in the work. They’re asking me questions to look at in my dissertation,” she said.

Steve Smith made it a point to go outside the boundaries of the Topsail Island town he served for nearly a decade to educate himself on coastal issues up and down the North Carolina seaboard.

“He was all the time keeping up with information as it became available at all different levels — state, federal, local,” said North Topsail Beach Mayor Pro Tem Mike Benson on Monday. “He was always doing his homework and had his background figured out before he brought issues forward. So, most of the time he was right. He also knew things that were going on in Virginia and South Carolina and how some of their policies might be good here.”

Smith, who was serving his second mayoral term in Topsail Beach, died “peacefully” Friday, according to a town news release. He was 73.

His death, “leaves a huge void in the Town of Topsail Beach,” the release states. “His leadership, wisdom, and compassion will be greatly missed by all who knew him.”

Topsail Beach Mayor Pro Tem Morton Blanchard said Smith was a “consummate mayor.”

“He was a better politician than I’ll ever be. He knew how to get to the legislators and get this little town money,” Blanchard said in a telephone interview Monday afternoon. “Through our time together I’ve been upset with him a few times, but he always managed to stay calmer than me. He was a good friend. Personally, he loved this beach as much as anybody.”

A native of Portsmouth, Virginia, Smith’s childhood was that of a typical military brat, moving from duty station to duty station.

The family’s final post was Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, where Smith left as a high school graduate for the halls of East Carolina University, earning a Bachelor of Science in 1973.

More than 40 years later in 2016, his alma mater honored him with its Outstanding Alumni Award, one of the most prestigious awarded by the university and that recognizes alumni for “outstanding and uncommon achievement in one’s profession, civic affairs and/or politics.”

Smith’s career in business and industry in the United States, Southeast Asia and Africa spanned nearly four decades.

He retired in 2011, moving with his wife, Edna, to their home in Topsail Beach.

It would become evident Smith had no intentions of living a life of complete leisure once the couple settled as permanent residents in the small Pender County beach town.

He was first elected to the town’s board of commissioners in 2015, holding that position for four years before running for and winning the mayor’s seat in 2019 and again in 2023.

He would come to serve on countless boards and committees, “a visionary leader who had a passion for serving his community,” according to the town release. “His commitment to preserving the town’s unique character and natural beauty was evident in his many accomplishments over the years.”

During his time in office, he chaired the Topsail Island Shoreline Protection Commission, or TISPC, and, in 2019, served on the North Carolina Beach, Inlet and Waterway Association’s Board of Directors.

Smith was known for his calm, easy disposition. It wasn’t uncommon to spot him sitting in the audience at quarterly North Carolina Coastal Resources Commission meetings, the locations of which rotate among the north, central and southern areas of the coast.

Benson, a fellow member of the TISPC, somberly recalled in a telephone interview Monday morning the man he considered to be a friend.

“Steve had such a positive outlook on life,” he said. “He would call you and say, ‘how are you today?’”

Kerri Allen, coastal management program director and coastal advocate with the North Carolina Coastal Federation’s Wrightsville Beach office, said that Smith was kind, dedicated, “and always willing to think outside the box and try innovative solutions when it came to coastal resiliency.”

“He genuinely cared about his community and always put them above any personal or political agenda,” she responded to Coastal Review in an email Monday. “He was a true leader, and had a way of making anyone and everyone feel welcome and valued. His passing leaves such a void in the Topsail community.”

Benson highlighted a number of contributions Smith made over the years, including leading the TISPC in support of state funding for beach nourishment projects on Topsail Island and Coastal Barrier Resources Act-related issues, supporting the North Carolina Marine Debris Action Plan, helping secure funding approval for Surf City’s proposed federal coastal storm risk management project, and, more recently, leading local efforts in conjunction with the Coastal Federation up to the state level in support of a ban on abandoned vessels in coastal waters.

In addition to his wife, Smith is survived by his son and daughter-in-law, two grandchildren and a brother.

A service is scheduled for noon Thursday at Emma Anderson Memorial Chapel in Topsail Beach with a reception to follow at the town Assembly Building.

Blanchard said the town board is expected to meet next week to select a mayor. A date and time for that meeting is to be determined.

“We’ve got a good team down here,” Blanchard said. “I don’t think we’ll miss a lick. Whoever gets [mayorship], it’ll be daggone hard to fill his shoes.”

The morning of Aug. 17, 1899, a Category 3 hurricane plowed across Shackleford Banks, Diamond City and Portsmouth, then-inhabited island communities in Carteret County.

With 2024 being the 125^th anniversary of the storm that forced many of these families to pack up everything – even their homes – and move inland, descendants are planning a reunion for Saturday, Aug. 17, to commemorate the exodus.

The Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island is hosting the daylong Diamond City Homecoming that is held every five years to celebrate “our ancestors of the Shackleford Banks,” in partnership with the Cape Lookout National Seashore and Island Express Ferry.

The first gathering took place in 1999 to commemorate the 100-year anniversary of the storms of 1899 that drove folks from the Banks to Harkers Island, Salter Path or the Promise Land, a community between 12^th and 15^th streets near downtown Morehead City.

The day begins with an 8:30 a.m. ferry ride to Shackleford Banks for a wreath-laying ceremony at the Wade’s Shore Cemetery, followed by an afternoon of discussion at the museum. Starting on Thursday and throughout the weekend, descendants will have on display family photos, scrapbooks and artifacts at the museum.

Carteret County native Shannon Adams has helped coordinate the homecoming, held every five years, since 2014.

“The original residents of Diamond City and their descendants were deeply connected to the sea, both because of its constant presence and its role in their livelihoods. They were a close-knit community, characterized by their strong wills, outspoken nature, and warm hearts. Their conversations are marked by a unique brogue,” Adams said.

He explained that Carteret County “has three distinct areas known for its unique mystique, reputation, and ties to Diamond City: Harkers Island, Salter Path, and Promise Land” in Morehead City.

They can trace their roots back to the seafaring folk of the Cape Banks, which are the Outer Banks islands extending west and north from Cape Lookout, including Shackleford Banks.

“Nearly a century after the last of their Ca’e Banker ancestors left these islands, their memories and heritage remain entwined with the land,” he continued. The name derived from Cape Banks, Ca’e Bankers were primarily fishermen, although they spent part of the year whaling.

“They pulled nets teeming with mullet and other fish, supplying both their own needs and the mainland market. The Banks once had abundant fresh water, supporting livestock and gardens, and their maritime forests were lush and widespread,” Adams said.

The shoals along the shoreline were treacherous, making navigation dangerous.

“Many ships ran aground before their crews could react, and the Bankers often launched boats to rescue shipwrecked sailors and salvage any floating cargo, from bananas to furniture, and even the wood from the wrecked ships. One of the most notable shipwrecks in the area was the Crissie Wright, a schooner carrying phosphate, lost off Wade’s Shore, Shackleford Banks, in a frigid January night of 1886,” he said.

Diamond City, the largest settlement on the Cape Banks, was named after the black-and-white diamond pattern of the Cape Lookout Lighthouse on the east end of Shackleford. At one time the population was nearly 500.

A series of devastating hurricanes in 1878, 1879, 1897 and two in 1899 battered the Cape Banks.

“These storms led to the maritime forest’s decline and the sand’s encroachment over the greenery, prompting an exodus from the area. By 1905, Diamond City had become a ghost town,” Adams said.

Adams said he is connected through all three areas tied to the migration from Diamond City.

His seventh great-grandfather was Ebenezer Harker, for whom Harkers Island was named.

“Many ancestors on my paternal side were born on Core Banks,” Adams explained. Bettie Gillikin Adams was a school teacher on Diamond City and moved to Salter Path in the early 1900s, after the storms of 1899. The community of Bettie is named after her.

“She met my great grandfather, Macajah ‘Cagie’ Adams and married him in 1910. They moved to the Promise Land in 1918. Cagie was a well-known boatbuilder in Morehead City in the early 20th century,” Adams said. “My wife, Cecilia, and I now own their original home on Shackleford Street in Morehead City. We purchased it in 2012 to bring it back into our family and my father restored it.”

Adams said it is important to keep this oral history alive.

“Descendants like me have a source of fierce pride and are committed to the preservation of this special place that no longer exists. My focus is The Promise Land since my recently deceased father and aunt were so proud of it and taught me well. It is my calling to keep those stories alive,” he said.

Also, a descendant, Camella Marcom, a resident of Harkers Island, has been helping coordinate the wreath-laying ceremony at Wade’s Shore Cemetery on Shackleford Banks.

Marcom noted that this is the 125^th anniversary of the 1899 storm that “made it necessary to move from that wonderful place.”

The purpose of the homecoming always is to link generations, “to remember those who came before us and help those descendants remember who they are and where they came from. Their strength in the storms and resilience is a legacy we can cherish and hold on to,” Marcom said.

She said her great-great-grandparents moved to Harkers Island from Diamond City in 1899-1900. Their names were Alfonzo “Fonzy” and Alice Hancock Guthrie.

They moved their house with them on two sail skiffs and set it up Harkers Island. They lived in it for years before it was torn down in the 1980s. One of their sons lived in it after they died until his death, Marcom explained. They have numerous descendants literally all over the world but many still here in Carteret County.

Her connection to the cemetery on Wade Share through her grandfather’s first wife Mollie Lewis Willis, who is buried there and is one of the few identified marked graves.

Marcom attended the 2019 homecoming that was rained out.

Scheduled for Aug. 17, of that year, the museum was undergoing repairs from damages associated with the September 2018 Hurricane Florence, but they made due and forged on with the homecoming.

They tried to weather the storm and took the short ferry ride to Shackleford Banks, but when they reached the island that morning, the rain was so coming down so hard, they couldn’t reach the cemetery. The ferries turned around and the ceremony took place in the museum, Marcom said.

“It was an emotional but beautiful day of remembrance when each name from the cemetery was read,” she wrote in a social media post about the ceremony at the museum, adding that though the wreath was damaged in the transport, “it stood as a reminder of the perseverance of those who came before us and our own perseverance we will hand down to the next generation.”

The next day, Sunday, Aug. 18, 2019, the wreath was repaired and taken back out to Wade Shore.

“Today, with the weather changed more favorable for an August day, the wreath got its second trip to Wade Shore. This time the sun was shining and the water was glistening. The cemetery could not have been more beautiful,” she wrote. “The stately cedars, hollies, dogwoods, and oaks with a hint of Spanish Moss stood tall reaching heavenward.”

The names were read and the plots were found. “Some of the tombstones had been broken over the years and the engravings were very difficult to read at best but each memorial still a tribute placed there by loving, grieving family members. We knew we stood on hallow, sacred ground. A place that had been revered for years as the final resting place of these sweet souls — our family,” she continued.

About the homecoming

Based at the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island, at 8:30 a.m. ferries at the neighboring Cape Lookout National Seashore visitor center docks will carry passengers to Shackleford Banks. A wreath-laying ceremony is scheduled for 9:30 a.m. at Wade’s Shore Cemetery.

“There will be a new wreath this year and renewed feelings of love and belonging. Connections will be made and remembered,” Marcom said, adding that it only happens during these gatherings that take place every five years.

Ferries will head back to Harkers Island at 10:30 a.m. Reservations are required and can be made through www.CoreSound.com/dc-ferry. Cost is $10 a person. 

The museum and community center will open its doors at 10 a.m. when visitors can view family displays and videos.

A welcome is at 11 a.m. Lunch is from 11:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. by Bring Back the Lights Committee/Harkers Island’s Christmas Decorating Project.

Cost for the barbecue and chicken plate from Fat Fellas is $15 each. Tickets for lunch can be purchased at www.CoreSound.com/dc-lunch. Hot dogs and desserts available for purchase on site.

Panel discussions are to begin at 1 p.m. with Promise Land Memories, followed at 2 p.m. with Stories from Salter Path, and at 3 p.m. the discussion will focus on the Camps of Shackleford Banks.

Those who make their way there can expect to be educated by a fiercely proud group of descendants through oral presentations, slideshows, and videos, Adams added.

The day will close out at 7 p.m. with the Diamond City Community Choir:  Music & Memories of our Shared Heritage at Free Grace Church.

Diamond City 125th homecoming shirts are available for sale on the museum’s website.

MOREHEAD CITY — The reverence for North Carolina Coastal Federation founder Todd Miller was palpable Saturday night when he was recognized with two awards, including the governor’s highest honor for service, during the nonprofit organization’s Pelican Awards ceremony.

About 200 packed into the Joslyn Hall auditorium on the Carteret Community College campus for the annual awards program that the Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review, began in 2003 to recognize individuals, businesses, organizations and agencies that have shown exemplary coastal stewardship.

In addition to Miller, staff at the Coastal Federation’s Northeast, Central and Southeast offices recognized more than a dozen at this year’s ceremony. A handful of the recipients were connected to the North Carolina State Parks system for their work to protect environmental, cultural and resources.

Miller, after more than 40 years leading the organization as executive director, turned the reins over in February to Dr. Braxton Davis, who left his leadership role at the North Carolina Division of Coastal Management to join the nonprofit. Miller now acts as senior adviser to the executive director.

“We are really excited to honor this year’s Pelican Award recipients. Each has gone above and beyond in protecting the coast, and their dedication, partnerships, and achievements are truly inspiring,” Davis told Coastal Review.

Davis and Board of Directors President April Clark presented Miller with a Lifetime Achievement Pelican Award and The Order of the Long Leaf Pine, on behalf of the governor, at the end of the hourlong ceremony.

A Carteret County native who spent his youth in the marshes of Bogue Sound, Miller founded the Coastal Federation in 1982 after completing his undergrad and master’s degrees at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill.

“Todd is a man of vision,” Clark said, and he has been instrumental in bringing supporters and partners together to accomplish the organization’s work.

“When he announced that he was moving on last year, I think everybody’s heart sunk. He’s left a legacy of work and a coastline that’s better for his presence than ever,” she continued.

After a standing ovation, Miller told the crowd that “the last 42 years have gone by in a flash for me,” and it has been rewarding to work with so many great people and be inspired by their energy.

“There are things that I can still contribute, and I’ll continue to do that, but it’s time for new leadership and new ideas and new energy in this organization. And I’m very proud that Braxton was willing to step up and take on that role. We’re in good hands, and just expect great things to happen in the future,” Miller continued.

Other accolades Miller has received while leading the organization include The Old North State Award from the governor in 2007, the National Wetlands Community Leader Award from the Environmental Law Institute in 2012, distinguished alumni of UNC in 2013, and the Peter Benchley Ocean Award for Hero of the Seas in 2015.

Miller had been on the stage to present awards in a new category, the Distinguished Career Awards, to Bill Holman, senior adviser with the Conservation Fund of North Carolina, and Derb Carter Jr., senior adviser for the Southern Environmental Law Center.

Holman was recognized “for a Distinguished Career Dedicated to Public Service and Environmental Conservation.”

Holman began his career in the early 1980s as an first environmental lobbyist and “has always been a steadfast ally, supporter and friend of the coast throughout his career,” Miller explained.

Holman was at the first meeting in April 1982, when the idea of Coastal Federation was born. “His collaboration with us and other environmental groups has resulted in countless environmental safeguards,” and his career protecting the North Carolina environment is nothing short of remarkable, Miller said.

In addition to his time as a lobbyist, Holman’s was appointed in 1998 by former Gov. Jim Hunt to serve as assistant secretary, and later as secretary, of the state’s Department of Environment and Natural Resources, now called the North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality. Other roles include executive director of the North Carolina Clean Water Management Trust, policy program director at Duke University’s Nicholas Institute For Policy, and at The Conservation Fund as a state director.

“Today, he still has a hand in the game. He’s the senior adviser for the Conservation Fund, and his passion and commitment and impact on our environment continues to inspire all of us. His legacy protecting the natural resources will endure for generations to come,” Miller said.

He was not able to attend the ceremony but accepted his award in a prerecorded video.

“Receiving the Pelican Award from the NC Coastal Federation means a lot to me,” Holman told Coastal Review in an email. Adding he’s had the opportunity to work with members and staff of since its founding in 1982. “I’m proud to say I was there at the beginning.”

Holman said he knows the work of the Coastal Federation from his days as a lobbyist, and in his many leadership positions for the state.

“I admire, respect, and appreciate (the Coastal Federation)’s advocacy, its work in local communities, and its bold ideas,” Holman continued.

The Coastal Federation pushed for some of the first policies to reduce stormwater pollution, led the massive restoration of wetlands on the North River, has promoted living shorelines, and restored oyster reefs and the oyster industry, is helping clean up Lake Mattamuskeet and so much more, he explained.

“Our coast and our state are better places because of the Coastal Federation’s work, he said. “Thanks for the honor. Keep up the great work. I plan to spend more time enjoying our coast’s resources and people as I transition into retirement.”

After Holman, Carter was recognized “for a Distinguished Career Dedicated to Environmental Protection and Justice.”

Miller said he’s had the pleasure of working with Carter as long has he’s worked with Holman, since the 1980s, and “has had a distinguished career that has left his mark on the environment.”

Carter, who grew up in Fayetteville, began his career in 1980, when he worked to promote effective environmental advocacy that aligned policy with the everyday interests of residents, Miller said.

Carter’s vision “is best illustrated by the bumper sticker he allowed us to distribute for four decades now” which reads ‘No Wetlands, No Seafood’,” Miller said. The “simple, yet powerful message” circulated millions of times by the Coastal Federation “resonates deeply with our coastal communities” and is a “rallying cry for wetlands protections, symbolizing the direct link between healthy ecosystems and the livelihoods of countless North Carolinians.”

Carter began working closely with the Coastal Federation in 1982 to incorporate it into a nonprofit and help launch the organization.

“Understanding the importance of grassroots support, he was able to blend his legal work with a diverse coalition of fishermen, farmers, hunters , birders, scientists and environmentalists,” Miller said.

They worked to successfully stop the proposal to strip mine 120,000 acres of peat wetlands along our northeast coast. That effort led to securing permanent protection for those lands, which are now the Alligator River and Pocosin Lakes wildlife refuges, he said.

Carter’s notable legal actions include major federal lawsuits that enforce wetlands rules and successful petition on behalf because the Coastal Federation to designate 10% of coastal waters is outstanding resource waters. He played a crucial role in saving Bird Island from development, led the opposition to the PCS Phosphate expansion and helped block Mobil Oil’s plans to drill out the North Carolina coast in the 1980s and 1990s.

Carter told Coastal Review that it has been an honor to work with and represent the Coastal Federation since it was founded in 1982.

“I have met along the way many volunteers, staff, and board members committed to protecting what is special about the North Carolina coast. No organization has done more to protect coastal wetlands, oysters, clean water, beaches and inlets, and traditional ways of life,” he said. “I recall the first meeting with Todd Miller when he presented the idea that informing and engaging citizens in protection of coastal resources could make a difference. His vision and the accomplishments of the organization speak for themselves.”

Other winners were recognized by region.

Northeast

Outer Banks Kayak Adventures for Dedicated Partnership in Support of Coastal Environmental Education and Engagement

Outer Banks Kayak Adventures offers kayak and stand-up paddleboard ecotours for all ages and levels of experience.

Owner Eli Wisden partnered with the Coastal Federation in 2023 to lead “Oysters Uncovered: The Kayak Edition tours.” The tours that take place in the spring and October, which is Oyster Month in North Carolina, highlight the half-acre demonstration oyster lease and shoreline protection methods at the Coastal Federation’s Wanchese office.

“Eli’s in-kind donations of kayaks, gear and guiding expertise made these tours accessible and memorable for all who participated,” staff said.

Wisden told Coastal Review that he agreed to provide the tours because he thinks that people engage more if they have first-hand experience versus listening to a presentation.

You can sit in a room and listen to a presentation, see a few props but actually going out on the kayaks see the lease and the “different ways of protecting the shoreline, and show the effect that the oysters actually really have — you can go out and physically see that the water around the lease is noticeably cleaner than the other waters that are in the sound — a really cool way to get people that maybe get excited or feel like they want to get involved more.”

He said he’s flattered and honored to be chosen for the recognition, but he said Victoria Blakey, coastal specialist with the Wanchese office, is “as deserving of the award as I am,” Wisden said, because she approached him about the partnership, and put together the presentation.  

Daniel Pullen for Exceptional Efforts to Inspire Coastal Stewardship through Art and Actions

Coming from nine generations of Cape Hatteras Lightkeepers, Daniel Pullen grew up on the Outer Banks and has been documenting the realities of life on a barrier island for the past two decades.

“He makes his art available to the Federation so that we can better illustrate our story and inspire others,” staff said, this includes his effort to document the Hatteras Island Oyster Roast each year, litter cleanups and oyster restoration events, and his advocacy describing the impact of shoreline erosion along the Outer Banks.

Pullen has won countless awards for his work including being recognized by Time Magazine in its Top 100 Photos of 2020, and the North Carolina Press Association’s Photographer of the Year in 2021.

“I’m thankful to be recognized,” Pullen said at the event, adding he looks forward to the continued partnership with the organization in the future to preserve our coastal communities.

Central

Coastal Environmental Partnership for Outstanding Collaboration in Support of Oyster Shell Recycling

The public solid waste authority has collaborated with the Coastal Federation since 2021 to collect recycled oyster shells from Pamlico, Craven, and Carteret counties.

“We truly value our partnership with CEP and commend their efforts to go the extra mile in their commitment to oyster shell recycling,” staff said.

The partnership donates its time and energy to transport the oyster shells. Their commitment both mitigates waste and help revitalizes crucial oyster habitats that contribute to improving water quality and shoreline stability along the coast.

“Through community engagement and educational outreach, CEP fosters environmental stewardship by raising awareness about the importance of oyster reefs and their role in coastal ecosystems, and the importance of their preservation for future generations,” staff said.

“Coastal Environmental Partnership is honored to be selected as a 2024 Pelican Award recipient by the North Carolina Coastal Federation. We are excited to partner with them on the Oyster Recycling Program. As a public regional solid waste authority serving Carteret, Craven, and Pamlico counties, we have a firsthand interest in protecting the coast and advancing environmental initiatives,” Executive Director Bobby Darden said about the award.

Matt Windsor for Supporting, Promoting and Advancing the Use of Living Shorelines

Now superintendent of Goose Creek State Park, Windsor has worked at seven parks, including Hammocks Beach, during his nearly 30-year career with the North Carolina Division of Parks and Recreation.

Windsor reignited the partnership between the Coastal Federation and Hammocks Beach State Park, which allowed the organization to continue its salt marsh and oyster restoration efforts at the park in Swansboro through expanding living shorelines on the park’s mainland, Bear and Jones islands.

Windsor was involved with the education, funding, planning, permitting, research and monitoring effort to construct 6,578 additional feet of living shorelines at the park.

“The living shorelines Windsor helped put in place are working to reduce shoreline erosion, provide habitat, and are helping to improve the water quality of our coast. We are truly thankful for our long-term and valued partnership with Matt that will continue into the future,” staff said.

“I am really grateful to the NC Coastal Federation for being recognized for a Pelican award for living shoreline work along with so many other deserving award winners.  None of this would have happened without the assistance of the NC Coastal Federation central office, Native Shorelines, the staff of Hammocks Beach State Park, and hardworking volunteers from the local community,” Windsor said.

Claude Crews for Leadership and Dedication to Coastal Protection, Recreation, and Cultural Resources

The success of Hammocks Beach State Park in Swansboro is due in large part to the leadership of Crews.

Hammocks Beach was established as a state park for African Americans in 1961. Before this, there was limited access for Black residents and visitors to enjoy public beaches in North Carolina. The park integrated in 1964, with the passage of the Civil Rights Act, and Crews became its first superintendent in 1969.

Crews served as a leader both at the park and within the community. He left Hammocks Beach State Park in 1981 after being superintendent for 16 years, and was then promoted to superintendent at Cliffs of the Neuse State Park. Crews currently resides in Hubert and is still involved through the Friends of the Hammocks and Bear Island.

“By leading park management and development, he contributed to a broader awareness of the significance of preserving natural habitats and cultural heritage for all communities,” staff said.

“I would like to thank the North Carolina Coastal Federation for honoring me, I am humble to be one of the many recipients who have received this award. I am sincerely grateful for the recognition,” Crews said.

Southeast

Carolina Beach State Park for Dedicated Partnership to Protect and Restore Coastal Habitat and Water Quality

Carolina Beach State Park staff have collaborated with the Federation since 2014 on a range of projects, including a 200-foot living shoreline installed in 2015. Both worked with the Division of Marine Fisheries in 2017 to create the 5-acre artificial recreational fishing and oyster reef just off the shore.

In the following years, park staff, the Federation, state agencies, Military Ocean Terminal Sunny Point, Army Corps of Engineers, and engineers combined efforts to implement a large-scale restoration project funded by the Kerr-McGee Navassa NRDA Restoration Plan.

Park and other state agency staff have worked to reduce and control invasive Phragmites on 10 acres of the park, which enabled the excavation of a 2,600-foot-long slough to restore the hydrology and wetland function of the area, and allowed for more than 100,000 wetland plants to be installed.

Staff is currently working with the Coastal Federation to install more than 1,500 feet of living shoreline and restore an additional 4 acres of oyster reef habitat in 2025.

“We are so excited to receive a Pelican Award! As the new Superintendent at Carolina Beach State Park, I love to see the park recognized for all the hard work the staff and volunteers have put in. I have to give a special shout out to park ranger Jesse Anderson for his passion and enthusiasm for protecting our natural coastal resources and sharing all of that knowledge with me since my arrival,” Park Superintendent Crystal Lloyd said.

N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission Law Enforcement Officers in Districts 1,2 and 4 for Exemplary Efforts to Remove Abandoned and Derelict Vessels from Coastal Waters

North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission law enforcement officers transitioned from rescue and recovery operations after Hurricane Florence in September 2018 to assessing damage and boats displaced by the storm.

The commission provided staff time and resources to locate, assess potential pollution hazards, report, and investigate hundreds of vessels between Carteret and Brunswick counties, then eventually coastwide after storms since.

This effort along with support and authorization from the N.C. General Assembly led to the commission launching its Abandoned and Derelict Vessel Program while simultaneously working with the Department of Environmental Quality and Coastal Federation to conduct the largest coordinated removal of ADVs in the state’s history.

At the forefront of this effort, the law enforcement officers along the coast in Districts 1, 2, and 4 dedicated an estimated three months of their time investigating, contacting owners, and enforcing the rules of the ADV program.

“These officers went above and beyond their normal duties to enable the removal of over 350 ADVs by the Commission, its partners, and local governments,” staff said.

The Wildlife Resource Commission Law Enforcement Division “truly appreciates the recognition of our efforts with the Coastal Federation in collaboratively removing abandoned and derelict vessels from NC waterways. These vessels pose significant public safety hazards to boaters while also causing harm to the resources. It is always our priority to assist in these endeavors so boaters and other outdoor enthusiasts may safely enjoy wildlife-associated recreation on the waterways of NC,” Col. Ben Meyer said.

Capt. Kyle van Althuis with District 2 told Coastal Review that the commission is honored to receive this award.

“A major part of our core mission is to conserve North Carolina’s wildlife resources and their habitats and to provide safe boating opportunities to the public. Our work in removing abandoned and derelict vessels, in partnership with so many other excellent organizations, directly serves to accomplish this mission,” he said. “In particular, we want to highlight the extraordinary lengths our officers have gone to in order to address the ADV problem in NC. They truly are public servants and willing to go the extra nautical mile.”

DREAMS Center for Arts Education for Excellence in Community Education and Engagement

DREAMS Center for Arts Education in downtown Wilmington has provided arts programming at no charge since 1997 to youth and their families. The staff hold to their mission to “create a culture of confidence for youth and teens through equitable access to arts education supported by the values of respect, family, and community.”

While its primary focus is on visual, performing and digital arts, the center has embraced stewardship of the environment, transforming its grounds into an oasis for outdoor learning experiences.

When DREAMS grew out of their first facility they relocated and renovated a vacant 1939 former City of Wilmington bus maintenance garage. In May 2012, the Historic Wilmington Foundation honored DREAMS with the Adaptive Reuse Award.

DREAMS worked with N.C. Cooperative Extension to install retrofits at their parking lot to reduce polluted stormwater runoff from flowing to Burnt Mill Creek, and with Cape Fear Surfrider Foundation and Rainstorm Solutions to install a cistern to capture rain runoff from the building’s rooftop.

Most recently, DREAMS collaborated with the Cooperative Extension, North Carolina Sea Grant and the Coastal Federation to create an outdoor educational garden that not only adds beauty to the landscape but teaches students and their families about the value of native plants through hands-on learning.

“The Federation is honored to host environmental education programming with DREAMS youth and is in awe of every student we work with at the Center,” staff said.

“The DREAMS Center for Arts Education is deeply honored to receive the Pelican Award for Excellence in Community Education and Engagement. This recognition is a testament to the hard work and dedication of our staff, students, and community partners,” Executive Director Kimberly D. Lebby said. “We are proud of our commitment to not only nurturing young artists but also cultivating environmental stewards. By integrating arts education with ecological awareness, we believe we are creating a more informed and engaged citizenry. We are grateful for the Coastal Federation’s partnership and support, and we look forward to continuing our work together to protect and preserve our environment.”

Coastwide

The Inlet Inn’s Coins for Conservation program For Outstanding Community Leadership and Collaboration

As owners of the Inlet Inn in Beaufort, When Jay Tervo and Barbara McKenzie-Tervo felt it was their responsibility to ensure that the environment continued to flourish while helping visitors enjoy the coast.

They launched the online Coins For Conservation that allows businesses to support area nonprofits. Current partners are Atlantic Beach Sea Turtle Project, Coastal Carolina Riverwatch, Friends of Rachel Carson Reserve, and the Coastal Federation.

The Inlet Inn was the first business on board, leading the way for other businesses to join them in giving back to protect our coast. In addition to coming up with the idea, launching the program, and serving as a role model for other businesses, they continue to work tirelessly to recruit local partners, host events and encourage other businesses to give back.

“Jay Tervo and Barbara McKenzie are committed to going above and beyond for our coast,” staff said.

“Jay and I are very touched and honored to receive a Pelican Award.  We are joyous to have found a way to create a steady stream of resources for the NCCF and are very encouraged that Coins for Conservation has taken a foothold here, locally. We look forward to growing business participation throughout the entire coast.  Most importantly, North Carolina deserves a clean coast and NC Coastal Federation is a huge ‘mussel’ (pardon the pun) in getting the job done! We appreciate all the work you do,” McKenzie-Tervo said in an email.

Ryan Bethea for Exemplary Actions to Inspire Stewardship of Coastal Resources

Bethea has been raising oysters since 2015 in waters near Harkers Island in Carteret County. His interest in the oyster industry was piqued after reading about the up-and-coming oyster farming business in a magazine.

An eighth-grade teacher bartending on the side at the time, he decided to try his hand at growing oysters. A graduate of N.C. Central University, Bethea earned a certificate in oyster genetics and aquaculture from the William & Mary Virginia Institute of Marine Science.

Bethea volunteers much of his time educating others about the environmental and economic benefits of oysters and the coastal habitats they depend on to thrive, hosts tours as a member of the North Carolina Oyster Trail, and teaches students at Boys and Girls Clubs and at Central University. He has been featured by Our State Magazine, PBS, NPR, Southern Living, and WRAL just to name a few.

“Ryan has used every step of his newfound career to inspire others to share his love and respect for the coast, ensuring a new generation of environmental stewards and coastal career professionals,” staff said.

“I’m honored to be recognized, and I’m proud to be able to spread the word about North Carolina oysters and our incredible resource we have here,” Bethea said.

Editor’s note: The organization provided the information on awards winners, which has been edited for length.

The vote to prohibit balloon releases within Dare County’s unincorporated areas was anticlimactic when its commissioners unanimously voted last week to support the ban.

Southern Shores resident Debbie Swick, the force behind the ban, addressed the board before they took up the vote.

When Swick began, she pointed to a large, opaque trash bag filled with pieces of balloons propped against the front of the speaker’s podium.

“This bag was collected by five of us over six months. Just five people (and) there’s several hundred balloons in there,” she said. “The National Park Service last year picked up 1,786 balloons along our 70-mile stretch of coastline.”

Now that the rule is in place, it is illegal to release balloons anywhere along the Outer Banks shoreline, from Duck to Hatteras Village.

The county joins its incorporated towns of Duck, Southern Shores, Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head in banning balloon releases. Manteo, which is on Roanoke Island, has yet to prohibited releasing balloons, but the town is in Swick’s sights.

Dare County towns are not the only beach towns in the state that have banned releasing balloons. Similar ordinances are in effect in Wrightsville Beach, Topsail Beach, North Topsail Beach and Surf City. Ten states have also banned balloon releases.

For Swick, a member of Network for Endangered Sea Turtles, or N.E.S.T., based on the Outer Banks, and Outer Banks Marine Mammal Stranding Network, banning balloons has become a crusade, and she has created Ban Balloon Release NC to accomplish her goal.

Although she is a one-person movement now, she said that may change over time. 

“I will probably just plug along until I can’t do it by myself and then start looking for more people,” she told Coastal Review.

Coastal North Carolina is just a small part of the problem, she noted.

“You release (the balloon), it’s unretrievable, and it’s going to drift upwards of 1,300 miles from where you release it,” she said, adding the state’s beaches are an ideal location to get the word out about the dangers of balloons in the environment.

“Millions of visitors come from places like Ohio and Kansas and Indiana and Pennsylvania. Balloon releases in their states impact our wildlife and our coastline. So, I’m going to use every opportunity I can to get the word out and educate them,” she said.

Her fears for wildlife are based in science. One of Swick’s arguments for banning balloon releases is that the balloons do not break down in the environment.

Mylar, which is a polyester, can take hundreds of years to completely break down in the environment. Even latex balloons that are marketed as biodegradable take five years or longer to decompose. The strings used hold balloons in place until they are released are generally not biodegradable.

Balloons in the water look similar to the marine life that are part of whales’ diets. Once in the digestive tract, the balloons are not digested and can cause blockages and death.

Education, understanding are key

Keith Rittmaster, natural sciences curator at the North Carolina Maritime Museum in Beaufort, has been responding to reports of dead and dying whales for a number of years, and he has witnessed firsthand the impact balloons have on marine life.

A Gervais beaked whale that beached off Emerald Isle in 2023 was, to Rittmaster, particularly sad.

“(It was) a nursing calf that had no food in the stomach. No squid parts or fish parts. They had mother’s milk,” he said. “This balloon was blocking the entrance to the stomach so no milk could pass. I had to use my imagination to figure out what was going on. I can’t imagine it was anything but this was the first bite that this whale took.”

Whales are not the only marine species affected by the balloons that have landed at sea. Seabirds and sea turtles regularly become entangled in the lines and sea turtles, like whales, will try to eat the balloons.

Rittmaster, whose area of expertise is marine mammals, said that researchers are seeing an unexplained phenomenon regarding whales.

“What we’re learning, which is kind of an ‘oh, wow!’ to me is, we’re finding more plastic balloons all the time in deep-diving whales rather than shallow-diving whales,” he said.

He then sounded a cautionary note about the problem’s pervasiveness.

“It’s going to get worse even if we ended it today,” he said. “If, for some miracle, we could end the releasing of balloons today — I feel pretty confident since these plastics last hundreds of years — this problem is going to continue to get worse, not just the balloons themselves, but the plastic and nylon strings that they are tied to.”

Like Swick, Rittmaster is resolute in calling for action.

“There’s a lot of things that are terrifying us that we can’t even conceive how to solve in generations. This is something we can solve,” he said.

The challenge is often frustrating.

After the city of Greenville voted 4-3 in the fall of 2023 against an ordinance that would ban balloon releases, Rittmaster led some workshops about what happens when a balloon is released.

“A politician was there,” he recalled. “And I gave the presentation and she said, ‘Can we just release the balloons inland but not release them along the coast?’ This isn’t a bad person. She doesn’t really understand, and that highlighted to me what we’re up against.”

Swick believes education is the key, and with that knowledge will come a better understanding of the world around us and perhaps a hope for future generations.

“This is just such small potatoes, so it gets pushed on the back burner…This is one of those things, it’s not going to go away until we decide to make a change,” she said. “It’s going to take a lot of educating but my hope is that the generations of children that are coming up, (that they) learn a valuable lesson and take that with them as they grow into adulthood and raise children.”

I’m sure, since you’re reading this, that you like fishing or the outdoors, possibly even both. If I’m correct, have you ever wondered what the fishing is going to be like in the future, 10, 15, 20 or more years from now?

If you have, have you ever done anything about it?

Seth Vernon is a Wilmington-area, light-tackle fishing guide and family man who not only thinks about fishing’s future, he has decided to do something about it. Having turned 45 in March, his love for his family and desire for the fishing he loves so much to be there for them in the future has led him down a path as not only an outdoorsman but also a respected conservationist filmmaker and speaker.

Growing up in suburban Houston, Texas, Vernon’s earliest fishing opportunities were in local ponds with his boyhood chums. However, his grandfather, James Elon Vernon, or “Red,” as he was known, would transport him to the blackwater rivers of the Atchafalaya River Basin.

“There we would fish with cane poles and live crickets, plugs and casting rods for a variety of sunfish, crappie and bass,” Seth Vernon said.

This would set the stage for a fishing obsession that would last a lifetime. Vernon felt transported in time in the cypress rivers and realized they had been there for a long time precisely because someone in the past had taken time to make sure they would continue to be there.

“Those trips were magical, like being teleported to another world full of wonder and timelessness,” Vernon said.

Learning the trade

Seth Vernon knew early on he wanted to work in the fishing industry. After graduating in 2001 from Appalachian State with a Bachelor of Science in communications, he stayed in the area and worked at Foscoe Fishing Co. on the Watauga River. Later, in 2001, he left to guide anglers in Alaska, but Vernon returned to Boone the next year and went back to Foscoe, working alongside guide Ollie Smith.

“I learned an immense amount of the trade of working in a fly shop and operating a guide service,” Vernon said.

Those years, 1997-2001, also nurtured his love for the abundant variety of species in North Carolina’s High Country. With Smith as his mentor, they fished North Carolina waters and Tennessee tailwaters.

“Our primary targets in the mountains were trout, smallmouth and muskellunge,” Vernon said, adding that, most importantly, he learned about a new way of fishing. “Living in Boone was when I got involved in fly fishing.”

The connections he made there have lasted him, too. “I fish with my friends there as often as I can,” Vernon said.

Going coastal

Experience and connections proved invaluable in his big move to the coast in 2004. In  Wilmington, Vernon partnered with Stuart Smith — unrelated to Ollie Smith — in running Intracoastal Angler, a saltwater outfitting and tackle business. It was during this time that he realized that there was more he’d rather be doing than sitting at the counter. He began working more exclusively as a guide and then walked away from the tackle business altogether.

“In 2006, I launched Double Haul Guide Service to focus full time on charter fishing,” he said, adding that the focus is on inshore species. “Most of the fishing has been light-tackle spin-fishing, but I’m always wanting to push the envelope of what is possible in the way of fly fishing in saltwater.”

He pointed out that one aspect of his favorite style is often overlooked by those not familiar. “In my opinion, the biggest attraction to fly fishing is the visual nature of the pursuit. In saltwater, we’re more often than not ‘sight fishing’ in shallow water to actively feeding redfish, rolling tarpon, or busting albacore.”

It’s more than just catching a fish and seeing how many you can get by the end of the day, he said.

“Seeing a target fish species pursue and grab your fly is exhilarating. It’s a feeling all fly anglers chase,” Vernon said.

In terms of advice for the new saltwater fly angler, Vernon said the real key to consistency is casting ability.

“Distance is king, but there are many situations involving wind and clouds where a close presentation is necessary,” said the guide, who added that an angler must be ready at all times. “Each wind change, target fish or angle of presentation is its own puzzle. Be fluid, learn and adapt to the situation at hand.”

A nugget that could be Vernon’s catch-phrase: “Consistency is a byproduct of being flexible.”

Practice is what is going to make the difference between catching a prize fish or going home disappointed. There is a skill in fly fishing that is important to casting when it’s windy.

“For the new to saltwater fly angler, the best piece of advice I can give is learn to double haul. This is a casting technique that unlocks the hidden potential of your fly rod for improved accuracy, distance and ultimately control.”

Vernon described it as a way to increase the flex in your rod by pulling down with your line hand. That will result in longer casts. Not knowing how makes things more difficult, he said, adding that it’s best to practice this skill before heading to the water.

“Seek instruction from a professional, and when you think you’re ready to apply these new skills to the water, practice some more,” he said.

The Vernon family likes to get out on the water with him whenever they can. Vernon’s wife and daughter are accomplished anglers in their own right.

“I’m blessed that my wife Francesca and 13-year-old daughter Olivia enjoy the water as much as I do. Olivia is getting pretty good walking the dog with a topwater for redfish these days.”

It’s part of teaching her to deeply appreciate the world that she already enjoys so much.

“Olivia has shown an interest in fishing and the ecology of our sounds and beaches. I continue to foster her appreciation for the natural world and its inhabitants,” Vernon said, adding that he hopes the state’s natural beauty will still be there for her in the future. “Our state and its agencies can do better, but the citizens of this state will have to hold them accountable in order to see a positive outcome for the next generation of anglers.”

If you saw middle schoolers at the helm of Marine Patrol skiffs gliding across Carteret County waters earlier this month, you caught a glimpse of the first group to participate in the first-ever North Carolina Marine Patrol Junior Academy.

Organized by the Marine Patrol, the camp brought together 11 youngsters aged 12 to 15, who met every day June 10-14 at the Division of Marine Fisheries headquarters in Morehead City. Spending their days both in the classroom and on boats, most of the campers were from Carteret and surrounding counties, and there were two brothers who made their way to Morehead City from Florida to join in.

The North Carolina Marine Patrol dates back to 1822, when oyster harvest gear restrictions were put in place. Today, the Marine Patrol monitors all coastal waters extending 3 miles offshore, 2.5 million acres of water and over 4,000 miles of coastline, according to the division.

Funded through grants and private donations, campers late in the morning June 13 traveled by skiff from the division’s docks on Bogue Sound to the Rachel Carson Reserve across from downtown Beaufort.

Once the skiffs reached the protected land, campers grabbed nets and wandered along the shore while patrol officers began grilling hot dogs. After lunch, campers were able to test their knowledge during a mock Marine Patrol inspection.

Enforcement Officer Erik Smith said while manning the grill that he came up with the idea to start the academy a few years ago, but the timing wasn’t right. He pitched the idea again last year, and everyone was on board.

“I grew up on the water and I got the opportunity to grow up crabbing and fishing and just enjoying the outdoors,” Smith said. After working for the division for two decades, he thought it was important to expose young people to what the Marine Patrol does and the importance of the job.

The junior patrollers learned about navigation rules, the different types of fishing licenses and gear an officer could encounter, fisheries rules and how to identify fish, and how to tie knots. There was a lot of time spent on the boat, and the campers practiced “their knots every time we pull up somewhere,” Smith said.

The academy has “not been a bootcamp, but we’ve been a little bit structured, and they’ve done a really good job,” Smith said.

Smith has a 13-year-old son, and he thought that age range would be good, and it turned out to be, he said. “We’ve not had any issues between like the 12-year-olds and 15-year-olds. Everybody’s really come together as a team.”

The camp stresses the importance of knowing navigation rules.

“Know your role on the water because most other people don’t. So, if you know what you’re doing, then you can avoid a collision,” Smith said.

As for next year, Smith said the Marine Patrol wanted to see how well the first camp went and make sure that it was successful and beneficial.

“I can tell you right now, my opinion is it absolutely was,” Smith continued. “The kids came in very nervous Monday and wouldn’t talk. Now, they’ve given staff nicknames and are bonding with each other. There’s been a lot of growth and a lot of progress.”

Smith rubbed his hand over his scalp and said his nickname was Mr. Clean, noting that his head wasn’t completely shaved.

He added that there might need to be some adjustments for next year.

“I really wanted this to be called an academy and have cadets and be really structured,” Smith said. “If we get to continue to do this, I think we may structure it more of a camp atmosphere, because the kids have really enjoyed the cast- and seine-netting that we did yesterday and, and some of the fun stuff.”

And along with the fun came learning, Smith said.

“I told them on Day 1 that my three goals and priorities were safety and fun and education. And I wanted to make sure that it was done in that order. And we succeeded so far.”

Marine Patrol Maj. Jason Walker told Coastal Review while waiting for lunch that he was surprised at how much the campers liked learning about “observed activity scenarios” typical of the Marine Patrol’s work.

The campers were shown videos of observed activities, such as hook-and-line fishing and trolling, and were “really excited about being able to tell what license was required, what the violation was, if there was one,” Walker said. “They were just as excited about that as driving a boat.”

The campers were broken up into four teams. After choosing a name, each team made their own flag and affixed it to their skiff. In addition to team Mr. Clean, other teams were Osprey, High Speed and the Harpooners.

The team flags were Marine Patrol Officer Candace Rose’s idea.

Rose said that the teams participated each day in competitions. They have to perform skills, and whichever team does so most accurately or the quickest got the points. The team with the most points that day received a prize, such as fishing gear.

Rose has been with Marine Patrol for six years. Before that, she was with North Carolina State Parks for a decade, and spent time as a 4-H camp counselor.

Rose helped plan the camp and came up with a lot of ideas and activities. For this year, they decided to keep it simple.

“I taught the fishing gear and licenses portion and also how to do a Marine Patrol inspection,” Rose said. “Working with these kids has been a combination of two of my favorite things: teaching people and marine fisheries. Having them here has been a wonderful experience as far as their energy and their interest to learn and being able to teach them about something that I love.”

One highlight for Rose was seeing the campers “learn something new that they’ve never done before, especially some of the skills like using a cast net, or learning how to tie knots, and then seeing their confidence grow as they learn how to drive a boat,” Rose said.

“I can’t wait for next year already,” she added.

If resources are available, Rose said she could see the Marine Patrol hosting a larger camp next year.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the biologists are looking at something,” she noted, adding that some campers showed more interest in biology than law enforcement.

A handful of campers, including Lukas, 12, from Winterville, paused exploring the reserve and casting nets to share with Coastal Review what drew them to the camp.

Lukas explained that the academy “looked like a really fun experience” and that he had learned a lot, from docking skills to knot-tying skills — “a lot of stuff I didn’t know before.”

Lukas said one violation he learned about was disposal of evidence upon inspection, which is “basically, if you were to have something that is evidence to a crime and something illegal that you committed, and you were to throw it over the side of your boat or something.” This will result in a ticket and a fine.

Ivy, 12, a student at Morehead City Middle School, said she thought “it would be really cool” to learn about marine fisheries. She also learned how to drive a boat, about fisheries laws, and how researchers tag the fish. From a law enforcement perspective, Ivy said she liked learning how to talk to boaters, including asking for licenses and about what is on board. Ivy also said she learned about different navigation aids.

Ivy was on team High Speed, which earned its name in jest, “Because we’re slow, and we got lost yesterday,” she said.

Bella, a rising freshman at West Carteret High School, said she “always wanted to do this.” She had previously met patrol officers and “marine stuff” was appealing.

“So I said, well, let’s try,” Bella explained.

Bella, who was on team Mr. Clean, said with a laugh that “the team got its name because that’s Mr. Erik’s nickname.”

Alexander from Clermont, Florida, said his mom asked if there was a camp he would like to go to this summer, “I said Marine Patrol camp and this is the only one available.”

The rising ninth grader said going to a Marine Patrol camp has been on his agenda for a few years, adding he plans to have a career with Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, “and this was the closest thing that we could find,” he said.

Alexander said he learned how to operate a skiff, to identify different species in North Carolina, and how to use 30-foot seine net and a 6-foot cast net.

“This has been one of the best camps that I’ve ever been to, because of a lot of outdoor experience, a lot more knowledge than most summer camps. Especially if you live on the water, it’s really useful to learn how to operate a boat and learn different fish species and regulations and so you don’t get a ticket,” Alexander said.

Walker, with the Marine Patrol, told Coastal Review after the camp concluded that the response from students and parents was amazing.

“The hard work and teamwork of the students and staff are really what made the academy effective.  We are already discussing ways to improve the academy for next year. I do want to thank James River Equipment, Boardwalk Screen Printing and West Marine for sponsoring the event,” he said.

This story has been updated.

Any time Barry Fulton spots a species of bird in his yard he has not seen before, he can’t help but ask himself the same question.

Did I do that?

“You see new species coming and you just ponder, was that because I have more water sources or more plants that have berries for a food source?” Fulton said. “Next thing you know, you’re downloading apps to identify birds.”

Fulton and his wife, Debi Gallo, are among dozens of St. James residents who have in the past several months become part of a unique, yet growing club of property owners who’ve worked to get their town certified as a Community Wildlife Habitat by the National Wildlife Foundation.

St. James officially earned the designation in late February, making it the only coastal town certified in the state. Wilmington is registered but not yet certified — that could happen next year.

To date, nearly 20 towns, cities, communities and neighborhoods in North Carolina have achieved the designation, one that denotes areas where residents have put in the time to create and enhance wildlife habitat on their land.

Proponents of the program say earning the designation is not particularly difficult or expensive.

“In someone’s typical yard they’ve already done some landscaping, so a lot of people are well on their way in what would be needed to certify their property,” said St. James resident Ernie McLaney.

McLaney, member at-large on the St. James Conservancy’s executive board, moved from Charlotte to the coast a couple of years ago to settle in a life of quasi-retirement with his wife, bringing with him a wealth of knowledge about the National Wildlife Federation’s Wildlife Habitat Certification program.

He was one of the originators in supporting Matthews earn its certification in 2012. Three years later, Charlotte picked up the designation, making it, at the time, the largest certified city east of the Mississippi.

McLaney said he was immediately struck by what the town of about 7,000 residents had to offer as a wildlife habitat community.

“When I saw the beauty and amount of tree canopy that St. James has designed into this development here I was just really blown away,” he said.

Roughly 42% of land within the town, which incorporated in the mid-1990s, has been set aside as natural preserve. Natural buffers cushion areas along N.C. Highways 211 and 906, main county thoroughfares that intersect at the town’s northwest corner.

“With all of that in mind and seeing that people were incorporating native plants, bird feeders and birdhouses in their landscape, I thought that this would be an easy project to take on,” McLaney said.

He reached out to the conservancy with the idea, eventually landing him on the nonprofit’s board. Soon he would discover that around 45 properties in St. James were already certified. The requirement to become certified was 150 individual wildlife habitats from everyone including homeowners and churches to fire stations and schools.

The conservancy, with help from organizations including The Garden Club at St. James, hosted a number of community environmental education and outreach programs to spread the word.

“It took us less than a year to get St. James certified,” McLaney said. “Record time. We were impressed.”

Today, around 165 properties in the town are certified.

Certification can be as simple as placing a bird bath or other water feature, birdhouses or nesting boxes and feeders, or planting berry-bearing shrubs in your yard.

“It’s something you can do at your own pace as your time and finances allow,” McLaney said.

That’s a message he hopes resonates throughout other communities in coastal North Carolina.

“It’s an easy lift for some and it’s a recognized process that if people see habitat destruction in their community from growing developments they can counter some of that loss by enhancing what they have in their yard,” McLaney said.

Fulton agreed.

“It’s important that we maintain habitat for our wildlife,” he said. “There’s so much of the habitat that is getting clear cut for development. Everybody can do their fair share to provide some more shelter. They’re getting chased from their natural environments in every way. It’s important to do what we can now.”

The Inner Banks region of North Carolina is home to numerous of the state’s most historic small towns.

Settled early in the 18th century, these communities host famous restaurants, architecturally significant homes, and a wide variety of civic institutions. Some of these places have a reputation that reflects their importance and beauty, with towns such as Edenton and Washington being regionally or even nationally known. On the other hand, there are a number of unsung towns that have not been featured in the New York Times. One of these is Murfreesboro.

This gem on the Meherrin River has attracted civic and educational leaders for the past three centuries and is just as poised for growth today as it was in the colonial period.

Murfreesboro was one of the first areas of North Carolina settled by the British. Its establishment was part of a wave of migration that extended out from the Albemarle Sound region in the early 18th century.

Following the earliest settlements and displacement of Native Americans like the Chowanoac, British settlers continued to seek more land for tobacco. As in Virginia and South Carolina, they moved west, marching across the colony until they reached the falls line in the mid-18th century. In North Carolina, the region closest to the Virginia border was also one of the most prosperous, as its inhabitants could trade with the wealthier Virginians and use their navigable rivers.

One of the rivers that crossed state boundaries was the Meherrin River. Passing through the home of the Meherrin Native Americans, this river provided an outlet to the Chowan River and the Albemarle Sound. Its miles of surrounding fertile farmland gained numerous tobacco plantations throughout the 18th century. By 1707, a small community had formed at a bend on the river.

Murfreesboro was incorporated as a town in 1787 and named for William Murfree, a local landowner and Revolutionary-era politician. The town’s heyday occurred during its first few decades. Architectural historian Catherine Bishir notes that in the early 1800s, the town “enjoyed trade that crowded the streets with wagons bearing produce from as far as the Blue Ridge and brought so many ships to its wharves that ‘one could cross the river on the decks of vessels lying in the stream.’”

The tobacco economy of the Murfreesboro area relied entirely on slavery. The town was a center for plantation agriculture, and enslaved workers constructed its buildings. The proximity of the Virginia border also made Murfreesboro a destination for free African Americans, many of whom were formerly enslaved and had escaped harsher conditions in Virginia. Hertford County, where Murfreesboro is located, had one of the largest populations of free African Americans in the entire state in 1860, according to historian John Hope Franklin.

Murfreesboro still retains a number of buildings from its earliest period as a town. These include nearly a dozen homes built before 1820, as well as at least three homes — Melrose, the Myrick House and the John Wheeler House — built in or around 1805. There is also the William Rea Store, which was built in 1790 and is one of the oldest commercial buildings in the state.

The antebellum period was also the beginning of Murfreesboro’s best-known site. North Carolinians’ zeal for education during the Revolutionary period led to the formation of a number of academies, along with the state university in Chapel Hill.

One of these institutions, Hertford Academy, was established in 1811 in a Murfreesboro home. It was eventually bought by local Baptists and became Chowan Baptist Female Institute, later, in 1910, Chowan College, and in 2006, Chowan University. The institution moved to its present flagship building in 1851. This structure, known as the Columns, is considered an excellent example of Greek Revival architecture and is one of the largest antebellum college buildings in the state.

The Civil War inflicted some damage to Murfreesboro. The town was attacked and looted by Union troops, but it was not burned like Winton, its neighbor to the east. As throughout the South, the war devastated the town’s economy. Tobacco declined in importance for decades. Most importantly, the abolition of slavery erased the forced-labor system upon which the entire region had relied entirely.

Like other towns of the time, Murfreesboro took a middle path as it recovered from the war. It did not embrace — or was not embraced by — industry to the extent that nearby towns such as Ahoskie or Elizabeth City had. Ahoskie, which was formed a century after Murfreesboro, passed the older town in population by the 1910 census. Still, Murfreesboro was eventually able to relax its reliance on cash crops, especially the traditional crop of tobacco. Murfreesboro had become a center for peanut cultivation as well as the home of an iron foundry and manufacturing plant by 1916.

The 20th century in Murfreesboro was defined by the growing importance of both industry and Chowan University. Murfreesboro became the home of Riverside Manufacturing Co., believed to be the world’s largest basket company, in 1927. The plant employed thousands of Murfreesboro residents for the next seven decades.

Outside of baskets, the university is a considerable draw. Chowan College closed for six years in the 1940s, but has prospered since reopening, and it became a four-year institution again in 1992. Chowan graduated a number of its best-known alumni in the late 20th century, including NBA coach Nate McMillan. Chowan counted 1,500 students in 2017, a notable achievement for a town with only about 2,800 full-time residents.

In recent decades, Murfreesboro has remembered its three centuries of history and embraced historic preservation and tourism. The Murfreesboro Historical Association incorporated in 1963 and now owns more than a dozen properties and hosts numerous events and tours each year, most notably a candlelight tour in December.

Murfreesboro is also home to the Brady C. Jefcoat Museum, a nationally known museum dedicated to the sprawling collection of everyday objects, antiques and historic artifacts owned by one man — who happened to have helped build the Memorial Belltower at North Carolina State University and dozens of other Raleigh structures — and displayed in the former high school.

While many small towns in North Carolina have at most one or two historic homes open to the public, Murfreesboro Historical Association James Moore credits the town’s commitment to sharing its history and preserving and promoting the college and the town since 2000. It has become a bedroom community to much larger, more bustling areas nearby. As Moore noted, “You can be in downtown Norfolk in an hour.” And as people continue to move to Murfreesboro, the community bolsters the historical association and provides it with the donations and interest needed to continue its work.

Today, Murfreesboro has carved its niche as a center of both education and tourism in the Inner Banks. It remains the second-largest town in Hertford County and continues to welcome new businesses such as restaurants, tattoo parlors, and recently a “barcade,” Insert Coin Arcade and Bar.

More people visit the town’s museums every year, and the Historical Association says it has the potential to expand its offerings and tours even further. Murfreesboro may not be the size of New Bern or have the prominence of Edenton, but it shows that the past — and historic preservation — can still be the future for North Carolina’s smaller coastal towns.

MANTEO — A two-day program held here last week brought together researchers who study the Indigenous people of the late 16th century who lived in what is now northeastern North Carolina.

Held on the College of The Albemarle Dare County Campus, the two-day program, “In the Spirit of Wingina … and beyond,” was sponsored by the nonprofit Secotan Alliance and focused on what happened when the English first encountered the Native peoples of the Albemarle region.

The event’s keynote speaker, Dr. Michael Oberg, distinguished professor of history at the University of New York at Geneseo, is the author of “The Head in Edward Nugent’s Hand,” which details the events leading to the death of King or Chief Wingina of the Roanoac.

Wingina was among those to first greet English captains Philip Amadas and Arthur Barlowe. In their account, the explorers reported to Queen Elizabeth I that “The king is called Wingina, the countrey Wingandacoa.”

The captains’ account makes clear that Wingina was initially friendly to the English.

“Hee made all signes of joy and welcome, striking on his head and his breast and afterwardes on ours to shew wee were all one, smiling and making shewe the best he could of al love, and familiaritie,” the explorers wrote.

By the time of the second English expedition, however, under the military command of Ralph Lane, European disease had begun to ravage the Native populations. Wingina was apparently becoming convinced that there was something spiritually out of balance in the lives of his people.

Oberg noted during his talk that the Roanoke were at the time part of the Algonkin, or Algonquin, people and that they operated, “on a belief that bad things happen for reasons often tied to the failure or the ineffectiveness of rituals or the malevolence of spiritually powerful figures.”

The Roanoac attempted prayer with the English, with Wingina and his people going to great lengths to change the horror of the diseases that were ravaging their villages.

“He (Wingina) and some of his people took the Bible, the most physical manifestation in English ritual … and rubbed the book on his body,” Oberg said.

Nothing worked and so the Native people withdrew from Roanoke Island, but before leaving, Wingina told Lane there was a gathering of tribes at the headwaters of the Albemarle Sound that were planning on attacking and wiping out the English.

Lane headed to the village of Chowanoac, captured the chief, who under duress said that Wingina was the actual plotter.

Lane then returned to Wingina’s village where he requested a meeting over what he claimed was the theft of a silver cup.

On June 15, 1586, Lane and Wingina met.

“After some time talking, Lane yells out the password, ‘Christ our victor,” and they opened fire,” Oberg said of the incident.

Wounded, Wingina ran into the forest with English soldiers in pursuit. Sometime later “… Edward Nugent emerges from the woods with Wingina’s head.”

With that history of deception and violence on the part of the English, the failure of the Roanoke Colony and the 115 to 120 colonists who arrived in 1587 may have seemed preordained.

There were, however, other factors.

Studies of tree rings show that the colonists arrived during a time of extreme drought, when it was all the area Tribal nations could do to feed themselves.

There was also a diplomatic outreach from the governor of the colony, John White, following the killing of colonist George Howe at the hands of a tribal leader, Wanchese.

The attempted diplomacy ended disastrously, with White, who had failed to get what he wanted from the local tribe, attacking a village, where “he kills the wrong people,” Oberg noted.

“And, like all little men and cowards, blame the victims,” Oberg continued. “‘If only they told us they were there, we wouldn’t have killed them.’”

Oberg, who had attended opening night of the outdoor drama, “The Lost Colony,” on Roanoke Island on the night before his lecture, talked about how the drama interpreted historic events.

“If you went to the play, you’ve seen one version of (what happened). I’m certain I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Whatever happened, Indigenous people decided their fate.”

For the Native people, it was the beginning of a period of change that was traumatic and devastating.

Oberg emphasized that there is a tendency to think of the story of the founding of the United States as a seminal event, but to the Native people it may have simply been a continuation of what they had already been experiencing.

“Was it just one chapter in a prolonged era of warfare that ran from the middle of the 18th century through the first quarter of the 19th century, the replacement of one tyrant imperialist, George III, with another, George the First, Washington?” Oberg asked.

Symposium attendees also heard from Dr. Charles Ewen, East Carolina University Harriet College Distinguished Professor of Anthropology, who explained how few contemporaneous accounts exist and that those accounts are from a European perspective.

He pointed in particular to what the Native tribes described as a village that would be the modern equivalent of a “crossroad where there’s a 7-11 and a gas station.”

North Carolina Central University Dean of Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities Dr. Arwin Smallwood was reared in Bertie County and is a member of the North Carolina Tuscarora people. He focused on the history of the Tuscarora Nation and the relationship between North Carolina and New York stat,e where many of the Nation moved after the 1711-15 Tuscarora War.

Dr. Gabrielle Tayac shared a description of Powhatan’s Mantle, a decorative garment that has been in England since the middle of the 17th century. Now housed at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, England, it could be worn, although it is so large and heavy it was doubtful that it would have been.

Consisting of four hides sewn together with sinew and thousands of shells embedded in the fabric, the work that went into the piece is extraordinary, as is its artistry. As an example of the skill and creativity of the people of the coastal area, there may be nothing else quite like it.

Also included during the two-day event were the sounds of Native American song, dance and storytelling performed by solo performer IOSDN.

Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the North Carolina coast. More of his work can be found on his personal website.

A few days ago, I gave the keynote address at an extraordinary event held in Plymouth to commemorate the Plymouth Massacre of April 1864. I found the event deeply moving, and I was honored to be there. This is a copy of my remarks.

Thank you for the invitation to say a few words here today. I will do my best not to go on too long, but I do feel as if some things need to be said. I of course will talk about the Plymouth Massacre. But I also want to talk at least briefly about the larger struggle for freedom, and to end slavery, that occurred here in Washington County and across the North Carolina coast during the Civil War.

I think that taking that somewhat broader view will help us to understand better what happened here in Plymouth and will help us to remember, mourn, and honor more fully those who lost their lives here 160 years ago.

In a way, I feel as if this is the funeral, the memorial service, that the victims of the massacre never had. They were unburied, left, by all accounts, where they fell, many of them in swamps where children would find their remains in the following days and weeks. No gravestones marked their passing. No monument has ever been raised to remember them.

We are here, then, to do what should have been done a long time ago. We are here to say words that for too long have not been spoken. We are here to lift prayers that are long overdue.

We are here to make sure that the forgotten will be remembered.

If you will bear with me, I will begin by setting the scene for what happened here in Plymouth.

At the beginning of the Civil War, Plymouth was a small town, quite a bit smaller than it is today. Most of the town’s population was African American, and the large majority of those Black men, women, and children were being held in slavery.

On the outskirts of Plymouth, on the Roanoke River, at Lake Phelps, and here and yon in every direction, thousands of African Americans were being held captive on plantations — slave labor camps, I think we would call them today, a kind of gulag of their time.

As we all know, by the time that the Civil War began in April 1861, white Southerners —and much of the North — had been treating African Americans as property, not as human beings, for more than two centuries. People, including little children, were bought and sold like mules.

That world — that way of life — finally began to crumble here in Washington County in the early part of 1862.

Very early in the Civil War, Union forces captured a long sliver of the North Carolina coast. Even before the first Yankee soldier stepped ashore, enslaved African Americans began to escape from plantations across Eastern North Carolina and move toward the sea.

Hundreds, then thousands, of African American men, women, and children fled from bondage in Confederate territory to freedom in New Bern, Beaufort, Washington, Roanoke Island—and Plymouth. As the Union force’s commanding general said, those communities were “overrun with fugitives from the surrounding towns and plantations.”

A great boatlift to freedom had begun. Across the sound here, on the Chowan River, slaves sailed away while their master shot at them from shore. Another night, a slave woman named Juno gathered her children into a dugout canoe and paddled down the Neuse River to freedom. A little east of here, at Columbia, a large group of African Americans confiscated a schooner and sailed down the Scuppernong and across the Albemarle Sound.

A little to our west, a Black boatman known as “Big Bob” carried 16 slaves down the Tar River to freedom, then turned and went back upriver for more.

Here in Plymouth, a group of slaves “patched until their patches themselves were rags” escaped and sailed through stormy weather and rough seas all the way to Roanoke Island. “How they succeeded is a wonder to us all,” a Yankee soldier exclaimed.

A little southeast of here, in Hyde County, an overseer informed a plantation’s owner that he could no longer control the enslaved men and women on the plantation, no matter what he did. Some had already escaped to Union lines. He said that he had even shot “old Pompey.”

Ten days later, that overseer reported that “something like 100 [slaves had] gone off in the last month,” 35 in a single night.

 “Almost every day negroes are shot … for attempting to run away,” a journalist in Goldsboro reported. One plantation owner, William Loftin, described the situation in letters to his mother. Even before Yankee troops reached Roanoke Island, he wrote that “a good many negroes are running away” and “all of mine are gone from the oldest to the youngest.”

“All that I ever had is gone,” Loftin wrote. Later, in 1863, reality really set in. “My boy Tony came up with the Yankees in full uniform saying he was a U.S. soldier…. He went to J. H. Bryan’s and took his gun away from him. He says he has killed four damned rebels…. He had a rifle strapped to his back.”

William Loftin’s ”boy Tony” was only the beginning. By the spring of 1864, thousands of African Americans on the North Carolina coast had joined the Union army. By war’s end, nearly 180,000 African American men had served or were serving in the Union army. (Forty thousand of them did not survive the war.) Another 19,000 served in the Union navy.

The Civil War here in Plymouth was not much like the one that you or I read about in our history books when we were young (especially if you are my age) or that you may have seen in movies such as “Gone With the Wind” or even in more recent documentaries such as Ken Burns’ “Civil War.”

The large majority of Washington County’s people were opposed to the Confederacy. Half the population, we have to remember, was African American, and large numbers of the county’s white citizens also supported the Union. In fact, in Washington County, roughly as many white men enlisted in the Union army as enlisted in the Confederate army.

The divisions among the county’s white people were deep and bitter. To quote one leading historian, here in Washington County, “Brother fought brother. Neighbor attacked neighbor.”

Prior to the Battle of Plymouth, the low point was probably in December 1862, when, in a quick in-and-out raid, Confederate troops burned most of the town.  (By that time, Plymouth had been in Union hands for months. Town leaders had peacefully handed the town over to the Union army in May 1862.)  According to a local planter, the Rebel troops burned the town to “prevent its affording shelter to the Abolitionists and run away [sic] negroes …”

By that time, a Union private reported, Plymouth had become “a general rendezvous for fugitive slaves.” They escaped from plantations far up the Roanoke, and many got their first taste of freedom on the ground where we stand.

Many of those Black men enlisted in the Union Army. For the first time, many Black families were also able to send their children to schools that had been started here so that they could learn to read and write and do arithmetic. (None of the Confederate states allowed Black children to go to school.)

By the spring of 1864, Plymouth had been held by Union troops for nearly two years. But on April 17th, some 7,000 Rebel troops under Major Gen. Robert F. Hoke lay siege to the town, hoping to take it back from the Union and make it once again part of the slave South.

Every Black man here, both those in uniform and those that were civilians, including many fugitive slaves, understood the danger. If Plymouth fell, they could expect at the very least to be re-enslaved. But by that point in the war, most African Americans understood that, if rebel troops captured them in battle, or found them wounded on the battlefield, they might well be murdered.

By the spring of 1864, relatively well-known Confederate massacres of Black Union soldiers had occurred at Fort Pillow, Tennessee; Fort Wagner, South Carolina; Milliken’s Bend, Louisiana; Poison Springs, Arkansas; and at Saltville, the Crater, and Suffolk, Virginia.

But there were others. Many killings of Black Union prisoners did not make even a ripple in the news. Memory of them was lost in the fog of war, the slowness with which news traveled, and the reluctance, even in the North, to take the accounts of Black witnesses at face value.

The Battle of Olustee was one of those. Early in 1864, reports of a massacre of wounded Black soldiers from the 35^th Regiment, United States Colored Troops, after an especially bloody battle in Olustee, Florida, reached New Bern. (The 35^th had been recruited in and around New Bern.)

After Olustee, Union leaders had grown suspicious because the Confederate commander supplied them with such a short list of Union soldiers wounded or taken prisoner in the battle. But not for some months did they conclude what the surviving Black soldiers had always known, that “most of the wounded colored men were murdered in the field.”

I do not know if the Black men and women here in Plymouth knew that Confederate general Robert Ransom’s soldiers were among the Rebel troops attacking Union positions here in Plymouth. But if they did know, they would have expected the worst. Ransom’s Brigade was one of those Confederate units notorious for not taking Black prisoners alive.

Ransom’s own men wrote about that policy. Only a month earlier, Ransom’s Brigade had taken no prisoners after encountering Black troops of the 2^nd Regiment, United States Colored Calvary, 75 miles from here, at Suffolk, Virginia. “Ransom’s Brigade never takes any negro prisoners,” one of Ransom’s soldiers bragged in a letter to the Charlotte Observer.

Another of Ransom’s soldiers, Pvt. Gabriel Sherrill, echoed those words. In a letter home a few weeks before the Battle of Plymouth, he wrote, referring to Black soldiers, “They will fite,” rather than surrender, “for they know that it is deth eny way if we got hold of them for wee have no quarters for a negroe.”

One of Ransom’s officers, Maj. John W. Graham, said much the same in a letter to his father. (Graham’s father represented North Carolina in the Confederacy’s senate.) In that letter, Maj. Graham said, speaking of Suffolk, the “ladies … were standing at their doors, some waving handkerchiefs, some crying, some praying, and others calling to us to `kill the negroes.’”

He told his father, “Our brigade did not need this to make them give `no quarter,’ as it is understood amongst us that we take no Negro prisoners.”

After a very bloody, four-day siege — one hard on both sides, but with especially heavy Confederate casualties — Hoke’s forces did capture the town of Plymouth on April 20^th, 1864. At that point, Rebel troops were left to ransack the town and the worst fears of the Black people and the white Unionists in the town were realized.

One of the first historians to write about the Plymouth Massacre in any detail was Dr. Wayne Durrill. Durrill earned his Ph.D. in history at the University of North Carolina in 1987, and he is now a professor at the University of Cincinnati. His book “War of Another Kind“ is the fullest scholarly study of the Civil War here in Washington County.

In his book, Professor Durrill quotes the only known account of the Battle of Plymouth given by an African American eyewitness, a man who identified himself as a Union sergeant. “Upon the capture of Plymouth by the rebel forces, all the negroes found in blue uniform, or with any outward marks of a Union soldier upon him, was killed,” he testified.

The Black eyewitness also observed that “some [were] taken into the woods and hung … Others I saw stripped of all their clothing and then stood upon the bank of the river with the faces riverward, and there they were shot … Still others were killed by having their brains beaten out by the butt-end of the muskets in the hands of the rebels.”

Professor Durrill quotes another Union serviceman, a white lieutenant named Alonzo Cooper, of the 12^th New York Volunteers, who reported that “the negro soldiers who had surrendered, were drawn up in line at the breastwork, and shot down as they stood.”

According to another eyewitness, when an unknown number of Black men, probably Union enlistees, saw what was happening and fired at Confederate troops, the Confederates “charged them with every conceivable weapon in their possession, whereupon the negroes [most of whom were unarmed] ran, taking refuge in Coneby Creek swamp and the flats beyond, scarcely a mile away.”

According to that account, the Rebels followed them into the swamp and “slaughtered” them “like rats.” Lt. Cooper, recalled, “the crack, crack of muskets down in the swamp where the negroes had fled to escape capture,” and reported that the Blacks were “hunted like squirrels or rabbits.”

Years later, B. D. Latham, who was a 12-year-old boy at the time, remembered that he and some other local white boys went into the swamp the Sunday morning after the battle. Professor Durrill wrote: “There they saw `hundreds of slain negro troops,’ their bodies having been left to decay for four days.”

Soon after Professor Durrill’s book was published, two highly respected Civil War historians, Weymouth T. Jordan and Gerald W. Thomas, undertook a far more exhaustive and in-depth study of the Battle of Plymouth’s aftermath. Deeply knowledgeable of the Civil War, both had, and have, reputations for being conservative, judicious, and diligent scholars.

Their goal was first to determine if what happened in Plymouth should truly be called a “massacre” and — if a massacre did occur here — how many people were killed.

At the time of their study, Jordan was the head of the Civil War Roster Project at the N.C. Division of Archives and History. Thomas, a native of Bertie County, had nearly finished his book “Divided Allegiances: Bertie County during the Civil War,” but took a break to assist Jordan to get to the bottom of what happened in Plymouth.

Together they sifted through thousands of pages of historical evidence. They then presented their results in a 72-page article called “Massacre at Plymouth:  April 20, 1864.” That article was published in the North Carolina Historical Review, the state’s foremost historical journal, in the spring of 1995. To this day, it remains the definitive study of what happened here in Plymouth.

Theirs was a very cautious approach. They did not accept evidence that could not be corroborated, and they looked askance at evidence if the individual that was the source of that evidence had any reason to exaggerate or be dismissive of claims of a massacre.

At times, when I reviewed their research, I personally felt that they may have been too cautious and leant over backwards too far for the sake of wanting their research to be utterly beyond reproach.

In their article, Jordan and Thomas acknowledged that we will probably never know every detail of what happened here on those April days in 1864, or know the exact number of people that lost their lives here. Yet their findings were unambiguous. In their conclusion, they wrote, “it is clear that blacks and Buffaloes [white Unionists] were killed at Plymouth under circumstances that merit the appellation `massacre’….”

They concluded that Confederate troops, mainly Ransom’s Brigade and cavalrymen led by Col. James Dearing, executed approximately 25 Black prisoners in the first days after the Battle of Plymouth. “Some blacks captured in uniform were shot out of hand…. [S]ome were dispatched later, [and] some black male civilians were murdered also….”

They went on to say: “The number of blacks, uniformed and otherwise, who were murdered in Plymouth on April 20 was probably no more than 10. Fifteen more may have been executed on April 23 or 24…. Forty were killed as they fled the battlefield, [and] 40 were hunted down and dispatched in the swamps.” Others died in combat, hundreds of others managed to escape, and “approximately 400, including a few uniformed soldiers and many women and children, were captured and taken prisoner.”

At least a handful of “Buffaloes” — the white Unionists — were also killed either in town or in the swamps.

To me one of the war’s most remarkable phenomenon was the courage and determination that African Americans soldiers and sailors displayed even though they knew that this kind of treatment could well be their fate whenever, and wherever, they fell into Rebel hands.

“We have fought … where captivity meant cool murder on the field, by fire, sword, and halter; and yet no black man ever flinched,” African American delegates — including North Carolina’s Abraham Galloway — declared at a convention of African American leaders in 1864.

Here in Plymouth, as well as on distant battlefields, America’s Black soldiers held onto a prophetic vision of the Civil War that in their eyes justified their hardships and sacrifices.

We have to remember: their courage, and their willingness to fight and die, was rooted in something bigger than themselves and far more personal than the Union cause. Their Civil War — the slaves’ Civil War — was grounded in the love of their wives and children, their brothers and sisters, their mothers and grandmothers, their yet-to-be-born grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all of whom, if they prevailed, would be free.

If they prevailed, they knew, a child of theirs might one day go to school. A son might not be whipped to his last breath. A daughter could be raised in safety. Husbands and wives would know that they could grow old together.

If they prevailed, the unspeakable fear that a child could be taken away from them at any age, and at any moment, of any day, would disappear forever. A man or woman’s work would be their own.

A Black Union sergeant named Charles Brown expressed the prevailing sentiment among the country’s Black soldiers as well as anyone in the ranks.

While encamped near New Bern, Sgt. Brown weighed the dangers that his company faced from Confederate soldiers, as well as the discrimination that his men faced within the Union army due to their race.

And yet he wrote: “I feel more inclined daily, to press the army on further and further; and, let my opposition be in life what it will, I do firmly vow that I will fight as long as a star can be seen, and if it should be my lot to be cut down in battle, I do believe… that my soul will be forever at rest.”

As his regiment marched into battle, Brown said, they sang:

We are the gallant first 
Who slightly have been tried, 
Who ordered to a battle, 
Take Jesus for our guide.

May all of their souls forever be at rest. May they all be remembered. May we all find hope in the stars as they did.

Note: Photographer Sharon C. Bryant is the African American Outreach Coordinator at Tryon Palace in New Bern, and she prepared extensive educational materials on the history of the 35th USCT that were displayed at the encampment in Plymouth.

HATTERAS — Following last week’s private tours and state officials doing the honors at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum reopened to the public Monday with a brand-new exhibit gallery that artfully illustrates the sweep of four centuries of some of the most dramatic maritime history in the world.

“I have a question for you,” said North Carolina Department of Natural and Cultural Resources Secretary Reid Wilson during his remarks Thursday. “The last five letters of the word history — what do those letters spell? Story.”

And that is the value of museums: telling the human story, he told a large crowd gathered for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Understanding where we were, he added, is the only way we move forward.

“We should not be scared of our history,” he said. “We should learn from it.”

For the island community, the celebration is more than the museum reopening; the celebration is that it is completed. It took 38 years of persistence from stubborn Hatteras Villagers to get there. But that’s another story.

“Goodness gracious, I hardly know where to begin to thank the hundreds of individuals and entities who this important cultural facility would not be possible without them and their sacrifices both personal and in their livelihoods,” said Danny Couch, president of the nonprofit Friends of the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum, in his remarks Thursday.

Couch, a Hatteras Island native, is one of those who stuck it out for decades, never letting go of the idea that Hatteras had to have a maritime museum.

“Raleigh (officials) said it should be in Manteo or Nags Head,” he told Coastal Review in a later interview. “Which is the last thing you want to tell a Hatterasman.”

Standing at the entrance in front of a huge digital measuring stick showing current weather conditions and past hurricane details, Wilson applauded the new state-of-the-art exhibits that include features such as touchscreens, holographic historic people and a huge dynamic sculpture of lifesavers rowing a surfboat through a stormy sea.

The Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum harbors a motherlode of maritime stories unique to the Outer Banks, from colonial exploration to piracy to heroic lifesaving service rescues to vicious U-boat attacks to premier boatbuilding.

Situated off the treacherous Diamond Shoals, which squeezed vessels transiting the Atlantic shipping lane close to Cape Hatteras, the Outer Banks has the largest number of the 2,000 shipwrecks scattered along the North Carolina coast.

Today, shipwrecks are only part of subject at the museum, but their significant role on the Outer Banks was the spark that ignited the idea for the museum in Hatteras Village and villagers’ minds. Some islanders have compared a shipwreck off the beach in the old days to a Walmart store spilling its contents today.

Couch remembers the seed first germinating, back in 1973 when a team on the Research Vessel Eastward from Duke University’s Marine Laboratory in Beaufort discovered the long-sought Civil War-era ironclad U.S.S. Monitor 16 miles off the Hatteras coast, where it sank in a storm on New Year’s Eve, 1862.

“Literally, when the Eastward was over top, we saw it as a tremendous opportunity,” he said. “We thought it was a great way to bring in people and a great way to tell our history here.”

There was no place to house even a few artifacts, but villagers wanted to find funding to build a museum. The Monitor was designated as a National Marine Sanctuary, the nation’s first, in 1975. It was to be managed by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. In 1987, The Mariners’ Museum in Newport News, Virginia, was chosen as the principal repository for more than 210 tons of artifacts recovered from the wreck site.

Villagers were disappointed, but they knew they were up against strong competition.

“A lot of it is the isolation out here,” Couch said about being passed over.

But a year before the Virginia museum was selected, local representatives from the National Park Service and Congress encouraged the nonprofit Hatteras Village Civic Association to compete for the artifacts. Thanks largely to Rep. Walter Jones Sr., a Democrat who represented the Outer Banks at the time, Congress in 1988 passed a bill that funded a feasibility and design-development plan. Jones also made sure that any future Hatteras museum would get a share of Monitor artifacts.

The museum was formally incorporated the next year and designated a nonprofit educational organization in 1991. The National Park Service agreed for a nominal fee to lease the museum 7 acres near the Hatteras docks.

Cathy Parsons, one of the original museum board members, during a chat in the gallery after the ribbon-cutting, remembered the then-Cape Hatteras National Seashore superintendent’s excitement.

“Tom Hartman came running up to us and said, ‘Hey, we’ve got a plan!’” she recounted about the superintendent, who was especially supportive of the museum idea. “He said, ‘Y’all should pull something together and put a bid in for the artifacts.’ We did that.”

Along with Belinda Willis and Katie Oden, Parsons is one of the original group of villagers who somehow pulled together the support and money to build the museum.

“It was a group effort,” she said. “They did all the work. All I did was the money part.”

Willis said that the museum originally was going to be small — about 6,500 square feet — and would look like an old Coast Guard station. She described interviewing to find a director, a fundraiser and the architect. Money started coming in: $1 million from NOAA, $800,000 from the state.

Before long, the museum building and its concept expanded.

“It just was mushrooming and mushrooming until we realized that we had a tiger by the tail,” Couch said.

From 1995 to December 1999, additional state and federal support rolled in, and construction began Dec. 10, 1999. The nearly 19,000-square-foot museum, with its imposing ship-like exterior, opened in 2002, with its interior partially completed.

Joseph Schwarzer, who retired in March, was hired as the museum’s executive director in 1995, and he later became director of all three state maritime museums.

Along with Schwarzer’s yeoman work at the helm, the three women who still live in Hatteras also gave credit to their late fellow board member Dale Burrus, who mastered dealing with the political aspects and reveled in talking about the island’s maritime history and the importance of the museum in its telling. Then there was dedication of other late advocates, Richard Jones with the Hatteras Monitor and the late Irene Nolan, then-editor of the Island Breeze and later the founder and editor of the Island Free Press, who volunteered for the museum and kept the islanders informed about the project.

Over the years, continued contributions of charitable funds and grants, including from the Outer Banks Visitors Bureau, allowed slow progress on the museum, which had been transferred to the state in 2007.

The museum proved to be a popular public attraction, despite its limited exhibits. But to the frustration of the island community — and Schwarzer — funding always seemed to fall short of finishing the gallery and the exhibits.

There were plenty of times they wanted to give up, the women agreed.

“Lots of times,” Willis said. “Then something would happen and we’d get a little push forward.

“We wrote many a letter.”

Meanwhile, as Willis put it, “the community lost faith in us.” Added Oden: “For 20 years, they’d keep hearing how close we’re getting, how close we’re getting. When we finally opened up, none of this was here. They would be shocked.”

In 2021, money was provided for renovations, and in 2022, contractor Riggs Ward Design started work on the exhibit design.

In addition to the Monomoy surf boat in the center of the gallery area, a first-order Fresnel lens that had once been atop the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse dominates the exhibits, which include numerous artifacts ranging from Native Americans here, early English settlements, wars and shipwrecks, including U-boats.

As visitors step into the museum, they’re greeted with a huge video screen with scenes that thrust them into the ocean with lifesavers and fishers and sailors and that carries them over the barrier islands for a bird’s-eye view. All doors open automatically in the middle like those on Star Trek to ensure temperature control. And the Meekins Chandlery Gift Shop now has entrances from the lobby and the museum.

“This is where the state of North Carolina — as a colony — began to develop, to lead us where we are today,” North Carolina Office of Archives and History Deputy Secretary Darin Waters told attendees before the ribbon-cutting. “And I’m so proud of the fact that you are going to see all of that told within this museum.”

North Carolina Maritime Museums System Interim Director Maria Vann, who joined the project in 2023, said the gallery “has been re-imaged as a treasure chest filled with this region’s unique tales of tragedy and triumph.”

Vann said in a later interview that the selection of a new director is underway, but she is not involved.

“The department will make the decision,” she said. “That decision is not mine.”

Now that the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum is actually completed, the former board members said they believe that villagers will be more supportive and start pulling out their old shipwreck artifacts from under the bed to donate to the museum.

“Finally — after all these years!” the women exclaimed in unison.

“This is our vision: a world-class museum that can be enjoyed by everyone,” Willis added.

“It’s a national museum. It’s a peoples’ museum.”

A nonprofit organization founded late last year honors the Secotan leader, Chief Wingina, who was beheaded by the English in June 1586.

Wingina was chief of the tribes that inhabited modern-day Roanoke Island and the mainland across the Albemarle and Croatan sounds. Wingina was first documented by the English during their initial contact in 1584, according to the “Secotan Alliance … and Beyond” website.

A respected regional leader in the Algonquian tribe, early on, Wingina and the tribe helped the English, but soon they realized that the colonists intended to take over the land. Wingina then began using the name Pemisapan out of regret over having invited the English to settle here.

He started working with other tribal leaders to drive the colony away from Roanoke, but the English had learned from an Algonquian hostage of Wingina’s plan to unite the tribes. As a result, he was murdered, one of the earliest documented in North America, according to state documents.

Gray Parsons of Frisco, a descendant of the Machapunga-Mattamuskeet people of the North Carolina inner banks, had the idea to form the nonprofit, “The Secotan Alliance … and beyond” after spending several years “wondering how to create a way to show proper historical respect to Chief Wingina and his Secotan Alliance people, who had been historically marginalized. And also, I wanted to share his traditional indigenous values in a modern-day world that, in my opinion, was sorely in need of it.”

Parsons, who grew up in Washington, graduated from East Carolina University in 1972 with a degree in parks, outdoor recreation and conservation. He spent his career in various fields, including human services, medical sales and marketing, and the organic and natural foods industry.

Now retired, Parsons, in addition to heading up the Secotan Alliance organization, is on the Friends of the Outer Banks History Center board of directors, a volunteer at the Frisco Native American Museum and Natural History Center, and is vice president of the Pitt-GAP chapter of Epsilon Chi Nu Inc., the first Native American fraternity in the U.S. He is the author of the book, “Hope on Hatterask,” published in 2013.

Parsons explained that he launched the nonprofit with the help of Joyce Bornfriend, director of the Frisco Native American Museum, which was approved for IRS 501(c)(3) status in late September 2023.

“Although I had founded and managed my own business for many years before retirement, I had never created nor managed a nonprofit. It’s not an exaggeration to say that without her help and support (the alliance) would likely still be a fantasy rather than a reality,” Parsons said.

Parsons said the focus of the organization is “the indigenous Earth ethic of balance and sustainability, both of which are reflected in the alliance’s dual mission statement.”

After getting the nonprofit started, Parsons has been directing his attention over the last several months to coordinating “In the Spirit of Wingina … and beyond,” the alliance’s inaugural event scheduled for May 30-31.

The symposium is two full days of discussion with professors, environmental groups and authors and is to take place at The College of the Albemarle’s Dare Campus in Manteo. There is no charge to attend but Parsons asks that those who want to attend reserve a seat ahead of time.

“We hope this program accomplishes the initial stages of our missions with a myriad of leaders and grassroots workers from the Outer Banks and Inner Banks … and beyond,” Parsons said, “And that they will be motivated to share what they learn over the packed schedule of this two-day event.”

A kick-off event is set for 4-6 p.m. May 29 at the Frisco Native American Museum with two of the speakers. Seating is limited.

Discussion on the first day of the session will focus on “the consequential (yet often marginalized) life of Chief Wingina/Pemisapan and his Secotan Alliance during early contact with English expeditioners, the English military and the effects of his death on the failed colonization attempt … and beyond,” according to the event webpage.

The second day is to transition from history to Wingina’s and the alliance’s longstanding Earth ethic and a traditional Indigenous approach to modern-day environmentalism. Several area and regional environmental organizations and indigenous people are expected to be on hand.

The symposium has been designed, Parsons explained, to “offer a unique indigenous and ‘indigen-us’ approach to reaching the everyday citizen in terms of modifying our collective behavior in protecting our Mother Earth.  We hope to learn and teach each other in that regard.”

Parsons said the symposium was made possible through grants from the Outer Banks Community Foundation, Dare Arts and a handful of people who are dedicated to making it happen.

Outer Banks History Center Executive Director Tammy Woodward will be joining Parsons as a moderator for the event.

Woodward explained that when Parsons started the nonprofit, he approached the center for feedback.

“When he decided to do this event, he was looking for volunteers to help with some of the duties,” she said, including announcing the speakers, and she volunteered to help. Also, by being director of the history center, she can help answer questions about what records are available locally.

“I think, us being a part of it also lends credibility because Gray’s nonprofit is fairly new. We believe in his mission and we support his highlighting this era of history,” she said. “I’m really excited about this symposium,” adding she’s looking forward to hearing the different perspectives.

The keynote speaker for the two-day discussion is Dr. Michael Leroy Oberg, distinguished professor of history at State University of New York Geneseo, and author of “The Head in Edward Nugent’s Hand, Roanoke’s Forgotten Indians” published in 2010.

“Dr. Oberg’s book tells the story of Chief Wingina instead of subjugating him to a secondary and relatively inconsequential character in the often-told story of ‘The Lost Colony,’” Parsons said, explaining that Oberg did not ignore the events during that chaotic period regarding the role of the English colonists. 

“He simply told the story accurately with balance, including the perspective of both the indigenous population as well as the early civilian and military English expeditioners and colonists. And it was done within the constraints of the academic world as per appropriate citation and peer reviewed scrutiny,” Parsons continued, explaining that this is the only academically accepted work he’s aware of that gave equal time to both the English and Indigenous perspectives in that period.

“From that moment forward, Dr. Oberg became somewhat of a hero to me personally and thus the obvious choice as our keynote and primary speaker at our first event,” Parsons said.

Parsons said that Dr. Charles Ewen, Harriot College distinguished professor of Anthropology at East Carolina University, also is expected to speak May 30.  

Ewen will discuss methods and techniques of how archaeological artifacts are gathered, identified and pieced together in the coastal environment to help better understand parts of the various aspects of culture. 

Dr. Arwin Smallwood, Dean of Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities at North Carolina Central University, and descendant of the Tuscarora people of North Carolina, will speak on the relationship between the state’s Tuscarora and the Algonquin people of The Secotan Alliance before, during and after English contact.

Dr. Gabrielle Tayac is associate professor in the Department of History and Art History at George Mason University, as well as its faculty adviser for the Native American Student Association. She is a member of the Piscataway Nation, consulting curator for the Smithsonian American Art Museum, and a contributing author on “Native Prospects: Indigeneity and landscapes. Speaking Sovereignty: Powhatan’s Mantle.”

Parsons said Tayac will present “The Indigenous Atlantic: Ancestors Rising,” focusing on land and water ethics, drawing from both her formal and indigenous traditional education models to discuss examples and how they are still relevant today.

The panel planned for the afternoon of the first day is to include representatives from the indigenous tribes, museums and general indigenous diaspora in eastern North Carolina, including the Roanoke Hatterask Tribe, the Machapunga/Mattamuskeet Tribe, the Chowanoke Tribe, Frisco Native American Museum, The Piscataway Nation and other indigenous individuals, Parsons said.

Muddy Sneakers Outdoor Classroom Executive Director David Webb, award-winning author of “The Spanish Seminole” and lifelong environmental activist and director of environmental non-profits from Florida to New York state, will be on hand May 31.

The panel discussion for the second day is to include representatives of Sound Rivers, Peace Garden Project, Coastal Carolina Riverwatch, Frisco Native American Museum, North Carolina Coastal Federation, Hatteras Island Wildlife Rescue, North Carolina Oyster Trail, Albemarle-Pamlico National Estuary Partnership, Ban Balloon Release NC, and from indigenous groups and individuals.

Aio Sifu, Cherokee descendant, will perform with indigenous flute, storytelling and a Women’s Eastern Blanket Dance demo at 5 p.m. May 31.

Parsons said the hope is attendees “walk away knowing that Chief Wingina was the first indigenous leader on the continent to give his life in resistance to the English destruction of a beautiful indigenous culture and their natural resources, and that Chief Wingina’s Secotan Alliance Earth ethic functioned sustainably for thousands of years and merits strong consideration for mainstream adoption.”

Since 2013 Steve and Sally Gudas have been organizing and hosting a Flat Top Cottage tour in Southern Shores, giving people a chance to see and experience, if for a brief time, an iconic part of Outer Banks architectural history.

This year, that tour was Saturday, and more than 1,000 came out — a record attendance, the Gudases said. It was 1,013 to be exact, compared to 2022, “when we had 722,” Sally Gudas told Coastal Review Wednesday.

Built over a 15-year span beginning in the late 1940s, the houses were simple structures. Designed for a summer vacation, the homes were concrete block construction. There was no foundation really, just a concrete floor on sand. And there was no insulation.

“When, we come in here when it’s cold, it takes one full day to get it warm, including the fireplace. Thank God for that,” Steve Gudas said Sunday, having been too busy to chat during the tour.

The houses were designed by Frank Stick, an artist, real estate developer and, to many, a visionary with a knack for self-promotion. In 1946, Stick had just purchased the 2,600 acres that now comprise Southern Shores, and he had the idea that to sell each lot and home for one flat price.

But to do that, he needed something that was easy to build and used as much locally sourced material as he could get his hands on. The sand came from Outer Banks beaches, until the federal government made that illegal in 1955. The structural beams, the cabinets — any interior wood — were all juniper, which at the time was readily available and the cheapest wood to be had.

Frank Stick also, as his son, David, wrote, “… introduced a completely new cottage style for the Outer Banks … What he came up with was flat-top structures of varying sizes and shapes, using concrete blocks as the primary building material.”

Related: Frank Stick finds success, designs signature Banks cottage

Tours of the homes were held this past weekend and revealed just how varied the flat-top design could be, and how the structures – each uniquely named – evolved over the decades.

Sea Breezes, built in 1956, was originally a duplex, but the common wall was removed some time after it was built, and a sliding pocket wall was put into place. This modification allowed the house to be used as either two, two-bedroom cottages or a single, four-bedroom home.

Pink Perfection, built in 1952, is a rambling four-bedroom Flat Top. Unlike almost all of other Flat Tops, it was neither designed nor built by Frank Stick.

Aside from the obvious design element, there are among the Flat Tops several similarities. Among them, in almost every house, the original juniper beams and trim have been retained. Outside, almost all have wide soffits.

Very few are still in the original owners’ hands. Ashbel Falconer is an exception. The Falconer Cottage his parents purchased in 1955 when he was 4 is situated on a side street, atop a low rise that, at one time, had an unobstructed view of the ocean. Not anymore. Live oaks and other houses block that view now.

“The only thing that was here was sea oats and sand spurs,” Falconer told Coastal Review recently. “It was all sand.”

The tidy homes are a labor of love for the owners, as Falconer noted with a laugh.

“They are maintenance hogs.”

Steve Gudas shares that sentiment. “When you own it, you’re just invested in it,” he said.

Preserving a legacy

Matt Neal, owner of Neal Contracting of Kitty Hawk, has been in love with Flat Tops since his family lived in one when he was a child.

“In the late ’80s, early ’90s, we lived in one for a period of time in Kill Devil Hills, and so it’s always been a childhood memory of mine,” Neal said recently.

He now owns a Flat Top built in the 1950s in Southern Shores, although he describes it as “full-flat roof —  a low, sloped, single shed-style roof.”

His experience in restoring reflected the challenges other owners know from simply maintaining one. “It’s a challenge,” Neal said.

“It was fun in a way,” he said.

“I would take juniper out of the interior closets and use it to refurbish the cabinets. And I had to take the juniper off the wall in the bathroom to update the wiring and then put it back,” Neal explained. “That house had a slab (floor) that had no vapor barrier. We were able to get the old linoleum up, put a vapor barrier on top of the slab (and) put cork flooring down and keep … original doors and hardware. And it still has the original windows.”

The homes are also vanishing. While unclear how many there were originally, some estimate as many as 300, Sally Gudas told Coastal Review that number seems high.

“I don’t think it’s 300,” she said. “I’ve been asked that question. I just really don’t know. But I am working on it.”

She has a reasonable guess as to how many are still standing in Southern Shores.

“I think we’ve identified 25,” she said.

There are attempts to preserve the structures. The town of Southern Shores created a Historic Landmarks Commission that evaluates homes more than 50 years old. If a house meets the criteria, property owners get a reduction in their town property tax.

To date, there have been five Flat Tops added to the program, although additional property owners have submitted applications.

Tax incentives alone, however, are not enough to save the buildings. With property values in the millions along the oceanfront, the economics of preservation may not add up when a property is passed to two or three sibling heirs.

There is increasing concern that the Flat Top legacy will be lost.

Architect Chris Nason of the Kill Devil Hills-based Beacon Architecture and Design is a Southern Shores resident who has for the past seven or eight years been documenting Flat Tops in town.

“It was just a first impulse,” he told Coastal Review. “So we’ve got this moment in time. Let’s just measure it, take pictures.”

Initially Nason wasn’t sure what he would do with his documentation, but since he began the project, it has become a historic record and teaching tool for his interns.

“It was a good learning experience for them. You can learn to take measurements on a small house. It’s a perfect learning experience,” Nason said.

As an architect, Nason would like to see as many of the houses saved as possible, but he acknowledged that it can’t always happen.

“I am both realistic and aspirational about encouraging folks to keep them,” he said. “These things don’t meet any codes. They’re oftentimes too low. They don’t meet the flood zone. There’s all sorts of reasons not to keep them, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try, and where we can’t keep it, it’s great to come back with something that is inspired by what was there,” he said.

To date, Nason has measured and created elevations for 34 homes, many of them no longer exist. He has created a website documenting his work, and is hoping more can be done with it.

“Eventually our goal is to do a book on it and put these plans in a book and do some photography with it. That’s still in the works,” he said.

Neal, in addition to restoring the home he owns, is also working to preserve the legacy and has built three homes based on the Flat Top design.

He characterizes the concept as Usonian, which is a Frank Lloyd Wright term to describe a single-story, flat-roofed home with wide eaves using as many locally sourced building materials as possible.

Building a home for the 21st century meant taking the original concept and bringing it to modern standards and efficiency.

“It’s always astonishing to me what people were willing to accept back then, but they’re not willing to accept it this time,” he said. “But it works. I’s very functional and very utilitarian. It’s a throwback to the quietness in sort of a more out-there living of the Outer Banks.”

Post has been updated.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Hannah Bunn West that the children’s book she helped author on the history of Jockey’s Ridge was released while protections for the National Natural Landmark are at risk on the state level.

That threat is similar to what prompted the largest sand dune system on the East Coast to be saved and ostensibly permanently protected 50 years ago.

On Aug. 15, 1973, siblings Ann-Cabell, Inglis and Gibbs Baum of Kill Devil Hills saw bulldozers at Jockey’s Ridge and ran home to tell their mother, Carolista Baum. In protest, their mother stood in front of that bulldozer, forcing the operator intent on removing sand to abandon his post.

Carolista Baum rallied the community to save the dunes, and she co-founded the group People to Preserve Jockey’s Ridge. The group raised money, held petition drives and lobbied state and local officials. The effort paid off. In 1975, Jockey’s Ridge was designated as a North Carolina state park.

Ann-Cabell Baum spent her youth in Nags Head across from Jockey’s Ridge. She is now vice chairwoman of the Friends of Jockey’s Ridge State Park.

“We were 6, 5 and 3½ the summer of 1973 when we were playing and saw the bulldozer at the back side of the dune,” Ann-Cabell Baum said.

“Jockey’s Ridge means so much to our family, it’s where we as children played every summer day and ran up and rolled down, requiring a swim in the ocean to get some of the sand off before our nightly baths,” she said. “As a kid we thought all kids had a sand dune, and we shared ours with all the visitors to the beach. We always would talk to other kids that we’d meet at the ridge and share with them the best place to jump and catch the most air as well as not leaning too far forward when you ran down, otherwise you might faceplant.”

North Carolina Office of Archives and History Historical Research and Publications Supervisor Ansley Herring Wegner, who came into the role in October last year, thought this was an important part of North Carolina history and decided early on in her new position to pursue a book on the Baums and Jockey’s Ridge.

Wegner has been with the archives office since 1994. She was administrator of the Highway Historical Marker Program since 2014, before taking on the supervisor role last fall.

The conversation to make the story a children’s book was fueled by the attention social media posts would garner when Wegner would share the story of Carolista Baum on the anniversary of the day she stood in front of that bulldozer at Jockey’s Ridge, and began in earnest during the process to establish a historical marker for Carolista Baum, which was installed in July 2023 in Nags Head.

“I thought, I would love to do a children’s book about this because it’s a story for children. It’s a story about children getting things done in their community with their mom’s help,” she said.

Wegner said the archives office has always published historical books, and has recently launched a series for young readers. Her hope is that these children’s books expand their audience and teaches more people about North Carolina history.

Wegner said that, within a week of becoming supervisor, she met with Ann-Cabell, who resides in Raleigh as well, to talk about getting the book written.

“It was my first round with a children’s book, and I just felt like it would be a good one to do,” Wegner said. “It’s an important story. It’s environmental history. It’s children using their voices and getting things done.” 

Baum found the watercolors of Outer Banks artist Larry McCarter that were used for the book. Book designer Sheila Barrett Carroll suggested West write the story because of the book “Remarkable Women of the Outer Banks” that West had published in 2022.

West agreed.

West grew up on the Outer Banks, attended Manteo High School and graduated from University of North Carolina Wilmington. She taught second, third and fourth grades before becoming a freelance writer, publishing in 2022 her book, “Remarkable Women of the Outer Banks,” which features a chapter on the late Carolista Baum, who died in 1991.

West told Coastal Review earlier this week that she met with Ann-Cabell Baum to hear her perspective of that day her mother stood in front of the bulldozer for the chapter on Carolista Baum West included in her book. West and Baum then collaborated on the children’s book.

West explained that in addition to being asked to adapt that chapter for an upper elementary-age reader, she has developed lesson plans and classroom activities to accompany the book for teachers to use as part of the North Carolina curriculum.

“Save Our Sand Dunes” is accessible for everyone from lower elementary, through upper-middle high school, and adults would even enjoy it, West said, and there’s what she called a “really neat mix of visuals” including illustrations, watercolors, photographs, graphics, the bumper stickers they sold to purchase the sand dunes that were privately owned at the time, and at the end, a page for the reader’s own Jockey’s Ridge scrapbook.

West said she wanted to focus on the children’s initiative to save the dune, rather than the legislative work that is heavily featured in her book.

“I wanted the main takeaway of this story to be how it was the three Baum children that really got the ball rolling, and even if you’re young or small, that your voice matters, especially when it comes to protecting the environment or your community or the people around you,” West said, adding she really wanted to drive the point home that kids made such a big difference in this story.

In thinking about what would really connect with young readers, she developed the narrative of the day the children went up on the dune and saw the bulldozer and then witnessed their mother stand in front of the heavy equipment.

Now herself the mother of two, ages 4 and 7, West said many of the parents in her circle have been receptive of the book.

“It’s so timely, such coincidental timing to that we have a book coming out called ‘Save Our Sand Dunes’ and there’s issues happening right now with Jockey’s Ridge.”

She’s referring to the protections for Jockey’s Ridge under the Coastal Area Management Act that are in jeopardy because of a dispute between the Coastal Resources Commission that is legislatively empowered to write the rules, in this case protections for Jockey’s Ridge as a designated Area of Environmental Concern, and the Rules Review Commission, a panel empowered to review and either approve or reject rules.

In October, the rules commission axed 30 longstanding Coastal Resources Commission-enacted rules from the state administrative code, including the AEC for Jockey’s Ridge. Since then, there has been a back and forth between the two commissions over 16 temporary rules the CRC subsequently approved to reinstate what it said were the most critical rules that had been rejected.

The Rules Review Commission then rejected those rules earlier this month over language used, particularly the word “unique,” in describing the sand dune system. The CRC met Thursday to discuss the rejection and heard from several residents fighting again for the dune’s protection, including West and Baum.

The slogan for the campaign to save Jockey’s Ridge in the 1970s was “Jockey’s Ridge for all the People,” West said. “The message is that this is a space for everyone to enjoy, rather than have private developers profit off of it. It’s a space for all the people to enjoy.”

West continued that she thinks that’s the main worry right now with Jockey’s Ridge.

“People’s fear is that it’s going to pave the way for people to be able to develop not necessarily on (the park) because it is a state park but around the area of Jockey’s Ridge. We’ve just seen so incredibly much development on the Outer Banks recently, even in the in the last 10 years, I would say, and while people are becoming really disheartened by a lot of it,” she said.

West said she hopes to use the book to spread awareness of how the dunes were originally saved, so it can serve as a reminder to those who know the story of Jockey’s Ridge, or as a way to educate new residents.

Ann-Cabell Baum recalled writing a book about Jockey’s Ridge in the second grade, “but not quite as great as ‘Save Our Sand Dunes.’ I even made the cover and sewed the pages into the book as part of a class project.”

However, Ann-Cabell Baum continued, “my book wasn’t as beautifully illustrated nor were my pictures as gorgeous as those painted by Larry McCarter. Hannah did a wonderful job of job of taking the summer of 1973 and sharing all the events that unfolded through 1975. We all hope that as kids and adults alike read this book, they’ll become members of the Friends of Jockey’s Ridge and help us build the next generation of kids and adults to make sure Jockey’s Ridge is here for years to come.”

The book really highlights how special a place Jockey’s Ridge is to her family and to everyone in Dare County, and everyone that comes to visit,” Ann-Cabell Baum said.

Ann-Cabell Baum said that with all the concern now that sand may be removed from the dunes without AEC protections, “It’s super important now that everyone realizes protection of natural resources goes beyond just a designation, it’s truly a responsibility to our children and the generations to come that we preserve and protect this super special place.

“It’s all of ours to enjoy, and it’s also all of ours make sure we save it, time and time again, when it’s in jeopardy. And, when it’s in jeopardy like now, with the removal of the AEC, area of environmental concern, we have to raise a fuss, it’s our obligation to make sure we take care of Jockey’s Ridge State Park.”

Buy the book

“Save Our Sand Dunes” by By Hannah Bunn West with Ann-Cabell Baum and illustrated by Larry McCarter and Anne Marshall Runyon can be purchased through UNC Press, which is distributing the book for N.C. Office of Archives and History.

Second in a series

In January 1972, Earl Slick purchased the Pine Island Hunt Club for $2.75 million.

It was in some ways a steal. The nearly 3,000-acre tract ran from the Atlantic Ocean to the Currituck Sound and included miles of oceanfront, pristine marsh, wooded uplands and interior ponds. A two-story white clapboard lodge straddled a sprawling grass field and freshwater pond built for migrating waterfowl. On blue sky days it was possible to see three miles across the shallow sound to the distant mainland towns of Coinjock and Moyock. Look to the east and the even darker blue ocean limned the sand dunes.

Slick was unsure what to do with the historic property now that he owned it – or if he even wanted to keep it. He wavered between developing it and preserving it. Between building a small arcadia of cottages and leaving the rest alone, a sanctuary.

In 1973, he asked William E. Hollan Jr., who had recently begun working for him, to see if the National Audubon Society, The Nature Conservancy or the federal government might be interested in buying the tract. “He thought at the time he could flip it to a conservation entity,” Hollan recalled. “I spent about a year trying to find some type of nonprofit or government entity to acquire Pine Island at cost. … At that time there was no money or no interest.”

Slick didn’t want the Currituck Banks to be swamped by development the way Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head had been in the postwar building boom that transformed the Lower Banks into a vacation resort. Currituck County commissioners shared his concern and asked for Slick’s help as they scrambled to formulate a plan to manage the expected growth. In a controversial move, Slick agreed to restrict traffic through his property unless developers agreed to cluster-style resorts with centralized utilities. But slowing the wave of development was never going to be easy. Developers and speculators had already acquired 6,000 lots on the Currituck Banks, and another 5,000 were listed for sale. It seemed inevitable that a road would eventually be built.

And it was.

Unable to sell the property, Slick tried to develop it. For help, he turned to his first cousins, Joe and Rex Frates, real estate developers from Oklahoma, and their associate Devane Clarke from Dallas, Texas. The out-of-state trio entered into a partnership with Slick to design and market a modest resort. “They sent out a man and he did a lot of work,” Hollan said. “The idea was to build 50 to 100 cottages around the Pine Island Club House. They would leave the rest of the property open. It would have a low-density appearance.”

But the timing couldn’t have been worse. In 1973, the nation slipped into a lengthy recession after OPEC implemented an oil embargo. Real estate projects dried up everywhere and the Frates brothers and Devane Clark found themselves squeezed for cash. The plan for Pine Island stalled as well. The cousins met with Slick and it was decided to end the partnership. “I think they looked at the plan and said this is just not marketable. We’re not going to get our investment back. We would like to gracefully back out,” Hollan recalled.

Slick turned his attention to the southern portion of his Pine Island holdings, known as the South Mile, near the border of Dare County. He had sold a small tract to the Venture Management Group, which included John C. Whitaker Jr., the son of Slick’s Winston-Salem friend, John Whitaker Sr., the CEO of Reynolds Tobacco. The young developers modeled their Sanderling resort – named for the small, puffy sandpipers that skitter along the beaches – after the restrained, Nags Head style cottages of old, advertising Sanderling as “Life the way it was” on the Outer Banks. There were no pools or tennis courts but lots of trails and quiet, natural spaces.

The group developed two sections of Sanderling but then stopped. Once more, Slick faced a dilemma: find someone to continue building or sell and recoup some of his original investment. Hollan said Slick leaned toward selling but that he convinced his boss to allow him to take over the project. They finished six additional sections and in 1986 added an inn with 29 condominium-style rooms. Over time, more condominiums were added, a spa and tennis facility, and two restaurants, one basically a coffee shop, the other for fine dining. A copy of Audubon’s “Birds of America” was placed in the lobby of the inn.

“Mr. Slick wanted it to resemble a hunting lodge,” Hollan said.

~

Earl Slick didn’t run Pine Island like other hunting clubs. There were no memberships, meaning you couldn’t buy your way in. You had to be invited. Slick kept a close group of friends from his Yale days and business dealings. Many were from the Winston-Salem area. But there were also friends from Nova Scotia and a “flying preacher” who likely landed his plane on an airstrip Slick built near the marsh. There was a men’s only trip, trips with wives, a dove-hunting trip in September, trips to fish, and of course opening day of duck hunting season in December – maybe a dozen trips a year, said Hollan.

The guests might hunt for an hour or two, have lunch at Pine Island or The Narrows, play cards (Slick loved to bet and to win), and enjoy a drink before supper. The bar was fully stocked and there was usually a bottle of Aquavit in the freezer. Slick stuck with vodka, gin or light rum, depending on the season and his mood. The upstairs bedrooms were small and spare but comfortable enough. Later, Slick built several cabin-style houses for his wife and family in the upland woods overlooking the fields and marsh. His daughter Phyllis and Paul Mickey Sr., the Steptoe & Johnson attorney, also built cabins nearby.

One of Slick’s favorite guests was Donal O’Brien, a prominent New York City attorney for the Rockefellers and a board member of the Audubon Society. He came every year with his wife Kate. O’Brien was a legendary fundraiser and likely met Slick that way. Slick donated to Audubon and was the recipient of various conservation awards. The duo got along famously. O’Brien was a natural storyteller, discreet, humble, and he could shoot. He quickly saw the value of the Pine Island marshes as a refuge for birds and in March 1977 wrote an impassioned memo to his board following a solitary morning hike.

“There must have been 2,000 birds, mostly Pintails and Canada Geese, but there were others as well – Blacks, Ducks, Mallards and Green-Winged Teal. I was stunned by this spectacle. I know I had never seen so many waterfowl in one place at one time … and in those magical moments of that March sunrise, I knew that this was a property that had to be saved for the ages.”

A year later, in August 1978, Earl Slick agreed to donate half of Pine Island to Audubon and help to endow a fund for the planned sanctuary. As part of the agreement, Slick continued to manage the property for a decade, while also earning a generous tax break, spread over several years. Initially. Audubon agreed to pay Currituck County property taxes on the tract but then reversed itself, fearing the nonprofit was setting a precedent that could affect its other land holdings.

~

A decade later, in 1989, Donal O’Brien approached Slick with a new idea. According to Hollan, O’Brien proposed to Slick that Audubon give back most of the oceanfront it had received as part of the original donation. In return, Slick would give Audubon the remaining marsh he owned. Audubon officials described the deal as a win-win. The marsh held more value for migrating birds; it was a safe place for the birds to rest and feed. Slick, on the other hand, would add prized oceanfront. This at a time ocean property was doubling and tripling in value.   

Slick saw the value of the swap. But Hollan said he was concerned how the trade would look. “He didn’t want to be thought of as a slick (no pun intended) real estate developer.” There had to be a net gain to Audubon, so Slick decided to also give the nonprofit the 1,000 acres of mainland marsh he owned as part of The Narrows Hunting Club. After the trade, Audubon controlled about 3,000-acres of marsh, while Slick owned most of the oceanfront from Sanderling to Pine Island.

Slick, now nearly 70, wanted to move quickly. The market for oceanfront real estate had begun to veer toward larger, more luxurious houses from the more restrained cottages that John Whitaker Jr. built as part of the original Sanderling. Instead of passing second homes across generations, investors saw the bigger homes as money machines — a way to generate both sizable tax breaks and profits by renting them to vacationers for up to $10,000 a week. An investor could pay off his or her mortgage in less than a decade and use the profits to buy another house, and then maybe another. Currituck, once a lonely outpost, was fast becoming a source of vast wealth for developers, investors, and county officials.

Slick owned the land. But Hollan turned to a popular local builder, Bob DeGabrielle, to develop and market Pine Island. In a bio, DeGabrielle writes that he developed and sold over $1 Billion worth of real estate on the Outer Banks. After he retired in the 2000’s, he became one of the early entrepreneurs in the emerging cannabis industry, founding the largest outdoor cannabis farm in North America. In 2001, he sold the farm for $67 million.

“Bob is a force of nature, very enthusiastic, the most efficient person I’ve ever met in my life,” Hollan said. “He started at 5 in the morning … and he carried two Dictaphones with him.” 

DeGabrielle built to the new luxury market – houses with six to 10 bedrooms, HGTV-style kitchens, entertainments centers, and pocket pools fronting the sand dunes. On weekends, it wasn’t uncommon to see a dozen cars parked in driveways. But where the oceanfront narrowed along the South Mile, the long rows of houses appeared crowded together. Not everyone was happy. Stories and letters to the editor appeared in local newspapers. The writers complained that Pine Island changed the aesthetics and economics of the Banks. They weren’t wrong. But it was too late to pine for the old days. The Outer Banks were now driven by wealth and that wasn’t about to change. 

Hollan told me that Slick, who passed away in 2007, at the age of 86, was pleased with the houses. “I think the Audubon thing worked out well,” he said. “I think it was what he wanted to see happen and I helped to bring it to fruition.

“Yeah, those are bigger lots than typical lots, but those are bigger houses,” he continued. “They are what they are. It’s not Sanderling. It is a nice community.”

In June 2022, I arranged to visit the Pine Island sanctuary, just a stone’s toss from the oceanfront mega houses. Robbie Fearn, the manager of the sanctuary the last decade, took me on a tour of the century-old lodge before we picked our way through the nearby woods to a pocket beach where brackish water has crept ever higher and created a ghost forest.

In the distance, a car speeding past the mansions left a contrail of noise but then was gone. At one point, Fearn, medium-built and thoughtful, raised his hands as if addressing the sky. “Isn’t it amazing,” he said, meaning the road, the cars, the mansions, and this startling refuge for thousands of migrating birds. “In the summer all of these cars fly by and I don’t think any of them even know we are here. It’s as if we don’t exist.”       

First of two parts

In 1972, between 50 and 100 people called the Currituck Banks home. The actual number isn’t important. It could have been a little more or even a little less. The point is no one really knew or cared. The miles of scrubby sand dunes, low-lying interior flats, and sprawling brackish marsh was largely empty except for birds and fish, and that was how the natives preferred it. 

That it couldn’t stay unspoiled was more or less a given. Currituck, a poor, centuries-old economy based on agriculture, needed money, and developing its 23 miles of unspoiled oceanfront seemed to be the answer. Developers had already purchased thousands of acres and were busy laying out designs for resorts from Duck to Corolla. The county had a rough plan to manage what was coming but needed time and help to pull it off. It was, in a way, an existential moment. No less than the future of the Currituck Banks, so bright yet also so perilous, stood in the balance.

One night that year, Earl Slick, a multimillionaire developer from Winston-Salem, took a surprising phone call from a Currituck duck hunting guide. Carl P. White knew every inch of the sound, sure. But more than that he was a savvy investor who listened closely to the wealthy industrialists who hunted the Banks and used that knowledge to buy stocks and land. A few years earlier, White had steered Slick to purchase the Narrows Island Club, a 1,000-acre strip of rich mainland marsh south of Poplar Branch Landing. Now, White proposed another deal. The longtime owners of the Pine Island Hunt Club, the Barney family from Hartford, Connecticut, were looking for a buyer. The property included nearly five miles of unblemished marsh and oceanfront stretching from the Dare County border north.

Slick knew the property. He had been a guest at the club and enjoyed shooting there. But he already owned The Narrows and planned to build a larger, more accommodating family lodge there. His answer was no. Still, the idea of owning Pine Island nagged at him and over the course of several days, Slick found himself wavering back and forth. Finally, he asked White to find out how much the Widow Barney wanted.

Slick’s decision would have an outsized impact on the future direction of the Currituck Banks, both dramatically preserving and altering its landscape, reshaping the architecture, even helping to shift the economics from an economy based on second homes to an investment-driven market. Not that many of the visitors teeming onto the Northern Banks would recognize these impacts. Most have never heard of Earl Slick or know his history. And for Slick, who died in 2007 at the age of 86, that would have been just fine.

When asked his profession, Slick jokingly called himself a “dog-trainer.” Yet here was a maverick, instinctual investor who owned airlines, cattle farms, wineries, and television stations, among his many and varied interests. And while Slick rarely sought publicity, he built two of the most talked-about resorts on the Currituck Banks – Sanderling, a rustic, nature-themed community, and the sprawling Pine Island resort, with more than 300 luxury-styled beach mansions. In a way, Earl Slick’s story mirrors the larger, complicated story of the Banks themselves, a mix of breathtaking natural reserves, waterways and maritime forests, interposed with a conveyor belt of ever-larger, more exclusive vacation resorts — a cultural and environmental drift that has been playing out now for decades.

~

Earl Frates Slick was born in 1920 in western Pennsylvania but grew up in Oklahoma City, where his father moved the family to hunt for oil. Tom Baker Slick was a man of the American moment: independent, hard-charging, seemingly tireless. But he was so luckless at first, locals took to calling him “Dry Hole Slick.” That changed in a heartbeat when Tom B. struck oil at the No. 4 Eakin well, producing 10,000 barrels a day. Another well produced a staggering 43,000 barrels a day. Soon, the same locals were calling Tom B. the luckiest wildcatter around — hell, “The King of all wildcatters,” the most famous wildcatter in the world!

Money spilled all around. Millions and millions of dollars. Earl and his older brother, Tom Jr., grew up in wealth and privilege, boarding at Exeter and attending Yale, with a $10,000-a-year living stipend. But life wasn’t always easy. They lost their father to a stroke at the age of 46. The boys were only 14 and 10. Their mother remarried Tom B.’s partner, Charles Urschel, who continued running the oil business. Years later, Tom Jr., considered a brilliantly esoteric student, became obsessed with hunting the Yeti. He, too, died at 46 when a plane he was piloting crashed returning from a Canadian adventure. Those who knew Earl Slick said he was haunted by the deaths and worried that he was destined to die young as well.

After Yale, Slick flew cargo transports in the war and saw the business possibilities of using planes to haul food and cargo from coast to coast. Shortly after being discharged, in December 1945, he learned that the military planned to auction nine surplus Army Curtus Commandos and headed to Washington. According to a short profile in Time Magazine, he walked into the surplus plane division at 1 p.m. and came out 15 minutes later owning the planes. “After that, things really began to move fast,” he told the reporter.

Slick was all of 25. Clearly, he wouldn’t have been able to buy the planes, which cost $247,000, without family money. Yet, like his father, he was relentless, impatient, and endlessly creative. Over the years, he would build Slick Airways into one of the two-largest air transport businesses in the nation, hauling fresh fruit and vegetables in refrigerated cargo planes from California to the East Coast, later contracting to transport military equipment back and forth to Southeast Asia.

While building Slick Airways, Earl was also on the prowl for other business opportunities. In 1948, he sold two cotton ranches to Lloyd Bentsen Sr., father of the future U.S. senator and candidate for vice president. He also bought a 16,000-acre quail-hunting farm, Mossy Dell, in Georgia, where the boyishly handsome six-footer would shoot from the saddle, and invested in a sprawling cattle ranch in southwestern Australia with the television host Art Linkletter and other celebrities. In time, he would expand into commercial real estate development, building one of the first Thruway Shopping Centers in North Carolina, invest in a vineyard, renovate historic buildings, buy stakes in radio and television stations, build nursing homes, fund a Formula 1 racing team, Slick Racers Inc., collect expensive artwork, and exhibit show horses, including Beau Black, a solid black gelding that, according to newspaper stories, “seldom tasted defeat in the show ring.”

“Earl loved the adventure,” recalled Paul Mickey Jr., an attorney and family friend. “I think he kind of liked the life of Ernest Hemingway. I never got the sense he was a deep thinker so much as a resourceful, canny businessman. Whenever I saw him, he was in fatigues. He was a sportsman.” 

In 1952, Earl moved the operations of Slick Airways to Los Angeles while relocating his family to Winston-Salem, a small but prosperous center of textile and tobacco industries. William E. Hollan Jr., a family friend and longtime business colleague, explained that it was probably so Slick could be closer to Washington, D.C., where he and his air transport business were represented by the powerful regulatory law firm, Steptoe & Johnson. “This was before jets. It was propeller-driven planes … and it was a long flight from San Antonio to Washington. Winston-Salem was a lot closer. He could get up and back in a day,” Hollan said.

Slick also liked the close-knit, genteel culture of Winston-Salem. He quickly became friends with CEOs from Hanes textiles, Chatham Manufacturing, Reynolds Tobacco, as well as Paul Mickey Sr., a managing partner at Steptoe & Johnson, who also was from Winston-Salem. Earl and his wife Jane built a retreat at Roaring Gap, a small, exclusive mountain resort where corporate elites from Winston-Salem socialized. There, they fell into a comfortable rhythm among a small group of friends who valued their privacy and privilege.

“There was a lot of money, yes,” said Hollan, who acted as a spokesman for the family for this article, “but it was not showy wealth, like the Yankees up North. Earl admired that. There was a lot of Southern charm. It was much more his style of things.”

Earlier in his career, Slick spoke to the press and even seemed to enjoy it. But as he aged, he became more discreet, even publicity shy. Pictures rarely appeared in the papers and he avoided interviews. His philanthropy, often generous, wasn’t broadcast. When different rumors and stories circulated, he instructed his employees not to respond. A code of behavior was evolving. His approach extended to hunting on the Currituck Banks, which Slick first appears to have visited in 1952 as a guest of Steptoe & Johnson. When he purchased his own club and had guests down, they discovered there were strict rules. Guests never shot before dawn and once they were given a blind, they weren’t allowed to change. They were provided one box of shells – always copper, never lead because lead was poisonous – and when they were gone, that was it. For Slick, hunting was about the experience and the camaraderie, not how many birds a hunter put in his bag.

There is another possible explanation for Slick’s penchant for privacy. In the 1930s, his stepfather Charles Urschel was kidnapped from their Oklahoma City mansion while playing bridge with friends. The kidnappers were led by the infamous George “Machine Gun” Kelly and his wife Kathryn. Urschel was returned home after nine days. But the family was never the same, withdrawing from public life and hiring armed guards to surround their house.

Now, as he debated whether to buy the Pine Island Club, Slick wavered between his roles as a conservationist who loved the outdoors, and as a developer who made millions buying and selling land. How could he balance these seemingly opposing forces? Should he even try? Or should he just walk away from the deal?

Next in the series: The story of Pine Island

Lifelong Ocracoke resident Alton Ballance can trace ancestors on both sides of his family back to the barrier island’s first settlers, he writes in the preface of his 255-page book, “Ocracokers.”

The book that is about “Ocracoke and Ocracokers, past and present, and how both have adapted to the changes that have taken place within the last few years” was published in 1989 by UNC Press.

His parents both grew up on Ocracoke, with roots going back generations to the 1700s. “We were related to so many people,” he told Coastal Review recently.

His late father, Lawrence, worked for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and his mother Vera, was “an Island girl” who was born in 1918 in the house where Alton Ballance lives today. “And she lived over 77 years there and died there,” he explained.

Ballance said that he remembers his childhood fondly “because of the connection to the outdoors, the families and the voices, the stories, the humor.”

Growing up in the 1960s and ’70s in the island village “was a time when you had immediate contact with people like grandparents, who had themselves grown up in the age of sail and in homes without running water or electricity and they depended on sailing across the sound to trade or go to Carteret County” to shop or get medical care.

Ballance will be taking the same Pamlico Sound route his ancestors likely took to Carteret County on Friday, Feb. 23, when he visits Harkers Island — one of the 13 unincorporated, tight-knit communities north of Beaufort referred to as Down East. He’ll be the guest speaker for the winter Taste of Core Sound.

The annual fundraising dinner at the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center includes a family-style feast and two auctions. Located at the end of Island Road, the center is next to the Cape Lookout National Seashore visitor center.

Previously a teacher at Ocracoke’s K-12 school and staff at North Carolina Center for the Advancement of Teaching on the island, Ballance has owned The Crews Inn on Back Road since 1989, served on Hyde County Board of Commissioners from 1984 to 1992 and was on the state’s Coastal Resources Commission, which establishes rules for coastal development, from 1996 to 2002. He has two daughters, Emma Reese, 11, who lives with her mother in High Point, and Vera, 23, who lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Ballance explained that the book is in three parts. The first is the history of Ocracoke through World War II, including the island’s geological formation. The second part focuses on the Ocracokers themselves, those who represent the island when he was growing up, and finally, what “launched us into where we are today,” including the National Park Service, tourism, and school.

He acknowledges in the preface that some of the people in the book have died or don’t do what they used to since he started writing the book in the late 1970s, but “this difference doesn’t bother me too much because the book really is about the past, about the people and events who have made Ocracoke what it is today. For all that might happen to the island in time to come, it will always have its past – a past full of rich history, some of it alive today.”

Ballance began working on the book in the late 1970s and it took to the late 1980s, to get it done. “It took me a while.”

The book went through through several revisions as it was transferred from handwritten pages, to manual typewriter, to electronic typewriter and finally, a computer.

The idea for the book happened shortly after Ballance graduated from high school.

He attended University of North Carolina Asheville for a few years — hitchhiking across the state the day before Thanksgiving one year to surprise his family — before transferring to UNC Chapel Hill.

At Chapel Hill, he discovered the library’s North Carolina collection and became interested in trying to record the stories of Ocracoke’s past and its people, which eventually became the core of “Ocracokers,” he explained.

He did much of the work after graduating from UNC and going back to Ocracoke around 1980. “I spent a year fishing with these old guys that I portray in the book,” he said, and writing, interviewing and keeping journal.

He said he took his first teaching job in Hillsborough after that year but moved back home to teach at Ocracoke School. He taught at the kindergarten through 12th grade school from 1982 to 2003. He also worked on his master’s through Middlebury College in Vermont, where he could take summer classes.

He became interested in village politics because of the Anchorage Inn being built on Ocracoke at the time and decided to run as the village’s representative for the Hyde County Board of Commissioners. This was in 1984.

He described the Anchorage Inn as a “brick building, like a roadside interstate hotel that had been jammed on a residential lot,” adding it was “Only 3 or 4 feet from the highway” and at some point, a ladder had to be on the highway to finish the project.

“So, I was interested in introducing the island’s first development ordinance. I wrote it myself in 1985 and so what got introduced was height limit, and setbacks and parking and things like that,” he said.

Before that, there were no development rules. “That wasn’t easy. To go from nothing to something, and most people, I think, were supportive,” he said.

While teaching, he heard about the program, North Carolina Center for the Advancement of Teaching, or NCCAT, where teachers could take seminars in Cullowhee. He made his way there in the mid-1990s and the director at the time approached him about expanding the program to Ocracoke.

The first program they developed on the island was held in 1995 and took place a few times a year. Then one day, Ballance said they were heading over to historic Portsmouth Village, now protected as part of Cape Lookout National Seashore, and were discussing how the Coast Guard was downsizing and leaving Ocracoke. As well as its World War II-era station on the shore of Silver Lake empty.

“We had a dream to make the old station an eastern campus for NCCAT, he said.

“It took an act of Congress — literally and figuratively — for them to give the building to the state (for NCCAT) and we came very close in the late 90s to getting it,” he said, “But then Hurricane Floyd and a few other things put the brakes on the funding.”

When the effort reignited in 2003, he stepped away from teaching and began working to get NCCAT eastern campus to Ocracoke, which he succeeded in doing and it is still in operation today.

Though not offered anymore, one of the most popular seminars was called “Salty Dogs.” Groups of teachers would spend the day on commercial fishing boats. They would clean what they helped catch and then cook the seafood in Ballance’s backyard.

The teachers after that experience “would never look at seafood the same way again because of the complexities,” from having to be your own lawyer and accountant to having to take the risks. “I’ve seen my two nephews, who are commercial fishermen, you know, they make zero one day because they lost gear, and the next day make $10,000, so you’ve got to be really in tune to a lot change.”

Ballance led seminars at NCCAT until 2018, when he decided to spend more time at The Crews Inn.

“I’ve spent my time renovating. I’m kind of a do-it-yourself person, so after Hurricane Dorian (in 2019) I had rebuilt whole first floor of the inn, and my house, and The Crews Inn cottage,” he said.

Ballance told Coastal Review that he feels like Ocracoke and Down East are both kind of “at the end of the road,” the center’s slogan, and are “kindred spirits” for their coastal connection and concerns with when storms come along.

“You have to learn to be resilient if you’re going to keep living there. You’ve got to get used to pushing sand around, you’ve got to get used to being flooded, you’ve got to get used to having your roof blown off, trees down, and your backyards growing wetter,” he said. “We’ve got some of the same sort of concerns.”

About Taste of Core Sound

Taste of Core Sound begins at 6 p.m. Feb. 23 with a reception that includes oysters on the half shell.

The dinner, served at 7 p.m., is to include “Hancock Salad” with homemade poppy seed dressing, venison bites, stewed conchs, assorted fruits and cheese, oyster dressing, shrimp and grits, scallop fritters, redhead ducks and rutabagas, Ocracoke pork tenderloin, winter collards, sweet potato pudding, squash casserole and light rolls. For dessert, culinary students at East Carteret and West Carteret high schools are baking Down East fig cakes.

Ballance, who is slated to start his talk around 8 p.m. after dinner is served, will also be on hand to sign copies of his book throughout the event.

Visitors will have a chance to bid on decoys, collectibles and waterfowl art during live and silent auctions.

Davis Springle carved this year’s contemporary decoy for the live auction.

He said that both of his grandfathers started taking carving classes at the community college after retiring “so when I was growing up I was always helping them sand a decoy head or painting ‘abstract’ decoys,” he said.

He began carving decoys while in college, after joining his grandfather, Clinton Barnes, at the Core Sound Decoy Carvers Guild and have been carving since. “I usually carve Core Sound style decoys but will occasionally carve and paint a more decorative bird. I enjoy carving wood ducks the most but have carved most of the birds local to our area.”

A vintage decoy will also be auctioned.

Tickets are $100 per member or $125 each for nonmembers, and that includes an annual membership. There’s also the option to reserve a table with seating for 10 for $1,000. Call the museum at 252-725-1500 or visit www.coresound.com/wintertaste or at the giftshop in downtown Morehead City.

It may be hard to overstate the influence, creativity and genius of Max Roach.

The famous coastal North Carolina native’s instrument was the drums, but calling him a drummer is roughly akin to comparing the Atlantic Ocean to a pond.

The subject of a PBS documentary that premiered in October 2023, Max Roach was born in 1924 in Newland Township, about 12 or 13 miles north of Elizabeth City. It might be a stretch, though, to claim Roach as a product of North Carolina. His family moved to New York when he was just 4.

If he didn’t grow up in North Carolina, it does appear as though he maintained his connection to the area.

“He wasn’t raised here. He wasn’t educated here. But he has cousins that are still here, and my understanding is that he would come back every once in a while, and they’d have a big family party out in Newland,” said Douglas Jackson, professor of music at Elizabeth City State University.

Jackson was keynote speaker at the centennial celebration of Roach’s birthday Jan. 10 at the Museum of the Albemarle in Elizabeth City. Jackson, who plays trumpet, was aware of Roach, but as he went deeper into researching him, his appreciation grew.

“I started listening to more of his recordings and what people were writing and saying about … the influence on how he maintained tempo, his cymbal technique, where he’s he’s feathering the cymbal, and it’s so fast and it’s always so consistent,” Jackson said. “People were referring to him as a lyrical drummer. He used all of the different pieces of the drum set to complement the musicians, but he never got in the way.”

Roach died in 2007 at his home in Manhattan, but during his lifetime, he received a number of accolades. These include a MacArthur Genius Grant in 1988, Commander of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in France in 1989 and the International Percussive Art Society’s Hall of Fame and the DownBeat Hall of Fame. In 2009 he was inducted into the North Carolina Music Hall of Fame.

Roach was a musical prodigy. In an interview recorded in 1984 at Howard University, he described growing up in Brooklyn and his earliest musical experiences.

“When I was about 8 years old, I joined the marching band in Concord Baptist Church,” he said. “My first instrument in that band was a bugle. And I had a problem with that and later switched to the marching drum.”

Roach had an aunt who taught him to play piano and read music, but his love was always the drums, and by the time he graduated from high school in 1942, he was already in demand when a drummer was needed in New York City.

At age 17 he sat in with the Duke Ellington Orchestra, perhaps one of the most accomplished jazz orchestras of its day. Ellington’s regular drummer, Sonny Greer, was sick and a substitute was needed.

But, as he told NPR’s Terry Gross, host of “Fresh Air,” in a 1987 interview, Greer played by ear and by watching what was happening around him.

“I couldn’t play by ear at that time. I was about 17,” Roach said. “So Mr. Ellington, before the curtain came up, he looked at me and saw the fright of fear in my face and said keep one eye on me and one eye on the acts on the stage. And I made it through.”

That night, in spite of the fear, was also a defining moment for Roach.

“I made up my mind I wanted to be in this area of music because Duke had (it) all, the theater and the drama and the pageantry was just surrounding him when he presented a show. And that’s when I really decided that was what I wanted to do,” he told Gross.

The big-band era was coming to an end, however. There were a number of factors that led to that, but a World War II tax in particular may have been the death knell as Roach recounted in his Howard University interview.

“The Second World War, we had an extra 20% cabaret taxes,” he explained, pointing to already existing federal, state and city taxes. “On top of that (a club owner) had to pay a 20% government tax called entertainment tax. If he had a singer, if he had public dancing or dancing on a stage or a comedian, this really heralded the demise of big bands during that time.”

What did not face the cabaret tax, however, were small improvisational groups. It was a time when some of the finest jazz musicians in the world were gravitating to New York, and Roach was in the middle of it.

“Right after high school, of course, I went into New York and started working with people like Dizzy Gillespie (trumpet) and (saxophonists) Charlie Parker and Coleman Hawkins,” he recalled in his Howard University interview.

The improvisational sound of the small groups had challenges, Roach told Terry Gross.

“When you played in a small band, more was required of you because there were less people. It was like playing in a string quartet is vis-a-vis symphony orchestras,” he said. “You heard more drums, you heard more piano, you heard more this then that and the other to fill it out.”

He was 18 and 19 when he first began playing with Gillespie and Hawkins and sometimes Parker. From those sessions a new form of jazz music emerged that continues to influence how jazz is performed.

“What we hear in clubs today is a manifestation that came out of the whole bebop period, when small bands took the place of big bands and people came into these smaller clubs, sat down and listened to instrumentalists perform,” he said in his Howard university interview.

One of the most distinctive features of bebop is how the cymbal is used to keep time instead of the kick drum — it was a technique the Roach pioneered. In his first recordings in the late 1940s and 50s, there is almost no bass drum at all, but in an article written for the Percussive Arts Society, Roach is quoted from an interview published in the 1998 book “The Drummer’s Time” in which he clarified why the bass drum wasn’t heard.

“We played the bass drum, but the engineers would cover it up because it would cause distortion due to the technology at the time. There were never any mics near our feet; they would have one mic above the drum set, and that was all,” he said.

Over his career Roach went far beyond the sounds of bebop.

“The creative mind is always turning and Max had a creative mind and he kept it turning,” Jackson said, and that creative mind led to some intriguing and compelling use of percussion instruments. His 1980 album, “M’Boom,” features only percussion instruments — no stringed instruments, brass or woodwinds. The sound is complex, haunting and at times surprisingly melodic.

Music does not exist in a vacuum, Roach commented in a number of interviews, and he specifically saw jazz as an expression of the Black experience in America, and that experience is very much a part of the fabric of life in this country.

“When I look around and listen to most anybody… they have been touched by, and I mean profoundly touched, by what came out of the Black community culturally. That’s what America is,” he told his Howard University interviewer. “It reflects the whole democratic aspect, improvisation. Collective improvisation is democratic.”

He was also a powerful advocate for civil rights and African American equality. In 1960 he released “We Insist! Freedom Now Suite” featuring his wife Abby Lincoln as vocalist and Coleman Hawkins on tenor sax, with lyrics by Oscar Brown. In 2022 the album was selected into the Library of Congress National Recording Registry.

Writing about the album for the Library of Congress, writer Christa Gammage noted the album was not widely praised when it debuted.

“The album received mixed reviews; some critics claimed the album displayed a ‘bitter mood’ and felt it was ‘new-frontier club stuff and most likely a little too far out in uncut timber for most tastes,’” Gammage wrote.

Asked by Gross in the NPR interview if the album was a result of the growing Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, Roach drew attention to the music Black artists had already been performing.

“I go back to Bessie Smith with “Black Mountain Blues” and then to Duke Ellington with his “Black, Brown And Beige.” It’s always been there,” he said.

He went on to tell Gross that the inspiration for his activism was what the future would hold for his children.

“You’re always thinking about … their future as well,” he said. “If they’re going to come up and be responsible human beings, they have to have education and the things like everyone else has. And the society has to accommodate that.”

Coastal Review regularly features the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who writes about the history, culture and politics of the North Carolina coast. Cecelski shares on his website essays and lectures he has written about the state’s coast as well as brings readers along on his search for the lost stories of our coastal past in the museums, libraries and archives he visits in the U.S. and across the globe. 

At first light we gathered at the Friendship Holiness Church, down on the edge of the great swamp country that makes up the headwaters of the Lockwoods Folly River.

The church is in the heart of a community called Piney Grove, which is in Brunswick County, North Carolina, between the little town of Bolivia and the Green Swamp.

This was just a few days ago, on the Monday morning of the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. The day broke chilly, but the only clouds that I could see in the sky were far to the east, over the Atlantic, and they were a breathtaking shade of red.

I remembered the words in Homer’s “The Odyssey”: “Child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn.”

I always love going to Piney Grove. My friend Marion Evans is the keeper of the community’s stories and she’s a fantastic local historian, as well as just a really special person.

Marion had invited me to spend the day with 25 or 30 of her family members as they went in search of the community’s history in the local woods and swamps.

Their ancestor, Caesar Evans, had escaped from slavery during the Civil War and fought for his freedom in the Union army. After the war, he and his family had worked and saved until they could buy 228 acres there in that central part of Brunswick County.

 I highly recommend a visit to the Cameron Art Museum in Wilmington to see Marion’s wonderful short film about the life of Caesar Evans and the birth of Piney Grove. It’s running continuously as part of the museum’s Monument exhibit thru March 31. 

You can also learn more about Marion Evans’ remarkable work on Piney Grove’s history in my story “A Day in Piney Grove: A Journey into Brunswick County’s Past.” 

That land became the community of Piney Grove, and with the exception of me, everybody there that morning was one of Caesar Evans’ descendants and a son or daughter of Piney Grove.

I just felt lucky to be there. It’s a wonderful family, and I was excited to spend a day with them.

We had a number of goals for the day. First, we were hoping to find the site of an old tar kiln that was run by the Evans family at least in the early 20th century and probably quite a bit earlier.

Marion’s sister Melissa had found the site of the tar kiln marked on a 1913 survey chart of the family’s land. She had brought the survey chart to the church with her.

The family was also hoping to find several other sites that their elders had told them about when they were young.

Those sites included the community’s old cart road, two or three burial grounds, a haunted spot or two (so the old people said), a shingle mill’s tram road, and a low-lying place deep in the woods that the community’s elders had simply called “The Hole.”

According to Marion’s grandmother, The Hole was a place of refuge down in the swamps. Before we left the church, Marion explained that it was “the place where they used to hide.”

Everybody except for me seemed to understand exactly what that meant without any explanation, but I had to ask.

Vinnie Joyner, one of Marion’s cousins, explained The Hole to me: In the old days, he said, they took shelter there when the nightriders came.

He explained that their ancestors always had a plan for evacuating the community’s children quickly to The Hole and for defending themselves once they were there.

Some of the ladies made a wonderful breakfast for us in the church’s annex, then we headed out into the woods. Nearly everybody was on foot, though two of the guys did ride their ATVs until the woods got too thick for them.

We had the survey chart to help guide us, but we relied more on the young people.

Most of the young guys and at least one of the young women were hunters and knew those woods inside out. A few of them had brought their shotguns, or more, and seemed ready for anything.

The whole day was just a delight. We found everything we were looking for, except for the tram road, and a few other things, too. And now and then, we’d all pause and Marion or one of her relatives would tell a story, often a tale that they remembered hearing when they were children.

As we wandered deeper into the forest, the sun rose above the trees. The day warmed up. The woods and swamps came out of the shadows and we could take in the beauty of the land in all its glory.

Spirits were high, too. Even when the undergrowth was so thick that we could only see a few feet in front of us, the forest was filled with laughter and the sounds of storytelling.

I am writing this at a hospital in Madison, Wisconsin, where I am waiting for a friend to finish up a round of treatment.

And as I think back on my day in Piney Grove, I guess I remember two things most of all.

Both will make me sound like an old fogey, but well, we are who we are.

First of all, I remember the kindness and almost old-fashioned solicitousness of Piney Grove’s young people.

Again and again, they helped me and the other older people across creeks and ditches and opened our way through overgrown paths by pushing brambles aside or holding back branches.

Personally, I don’t think that I always needed so much help, but the young guys did it with so much generosity of spirit that it did just kind of warm my heart.

And I remember one of the young men, a gentle soul named Javelin Bell, who saw at one point that I was feeling a little unsettled as we crossed along the edges of a big swamp.

He just came over and whispered real soft like, “You don’t have to worry about nothing. You’re with family.” And after he said that, I didn’t worry anymore.

As much as that meant to me, something else meant even more.

I have to confess that, in my line of work, I have grown accustomed to it being older people who care most about the stories from our past.

In many settings where I go to talk about history, the room is full of people who are at least as old as I am. I don’t mind that — I’m interested in sharing the little I know with people of any age. But I do notice how rarely young people are in the room.

But the young people of Piney Grove were different. When Marion paused to tell a story, they crowded near to hear her.

And when some of the young people asked me about Abraham Galloway, they crowded around me.

Abraham Galloway, the subject of my book “The Fire of Freedom,” had family roots in that part of Brunswick County; his mother came from the area around Piney Grove.

Their enthusiasm, and the joy they took in the day, seemed boundless.

When we found an old graveyard, the young people didn’t stop until they removed the leaves and the dirt around every last headstone so we could all read the inscriptions.

And whether we were exploring one of the burial grounds or standing by the old refuge that they called The Hole, those young people showed a kind of respect and reverence for the sacredness of those places and for the importance of the stories that made me instantly and forever lose my heart to them.

In 1976, Walter Davis purchased 4 miles of oceanfront near Kitty Hawk for $2.1 million. It was not his first foray on the Outer Banks. The colorful oilman turned land speculator had been gobbling up large chunks of the Banks for the better part of a decade, with an eye toward controlling the oceanfront from Kitty Hawk to Corolla. 

Davis, who grew up on a soybean farm near Elizabeth City, worked as a stockboy for $9.50 a week at F.W. Woolworth’s, then built a billion-dollar empire stretching from Texas to New York, wasn’t interested in building beach houses. He saw the sandy tract as an investment and one day hoped to sell it at a hefty profit. After all, he was a speculator and that’s what speculators do. They don’t get rich by betting small. They bet big. Which is what Walter Davis had been doing for decades, sometimes rashly, but almost always without regret.

Still, this latest purchase was different. Southern Shores was an actual development with hundreds of houses and at least that many empty lots waiting to be built. Davis was like a dog chasing a car. Now that he had finally caught the car, he didn’t know what to do. He needed help.

He turned to Charles Hayes Jr., better known as Mickey, a talented young landscape architect who had grown up in Virginia Beach and spent part of his youth frolicking on the Banks. Davis called Hayes to come visit him at an upstate office in Cary. When Hayes arrived, Davis was nowhere to be found. So, he plopped down in a chair to wait. And wait. When Davis finally emerged from an interior office, Mickey Hayes saw that he was wrapped in a spider’s web of telephone wires.

“He had three telephones going at once. It was a Sunday and he had $350,000 bet on pro football games. He was in there managing his bets,” Hayes recalled.

It is unclear if Davis won or lost that day. He bet so much, and so often, it was hard to keep score. It was a different story for Mickey Hayes. Not only did he win a job, Davis gave him “full autonomy” to finish designing and building Southern Shores, today considered one of the more attractive communities on the Outer Banks. Walter Davis’ bet on Southern Shores eventually paid off as well. In 1985, he agreed to sell the development for $6 million – or about three times his original investment.

~

How do you begin to describe someone who in many ways is indescribable?

Walter Royal Davis was a singular, larger-than-life American: self-possessed, enigmatic, impulsive, quick-tempered, yet wildly, even rashly, generous. Booted from several high schools for his indifference to classroom schooling, he nonetheless prized learning and later gave away millions for scholarships and libraries and was invited to sit on the boards of prestigious universities. But his philanthropy wasn’t limited to slapping his name on buildings. Stories abound in Eastern North Carolina of Davis leaving $100 tips for $1 cups of coffee. A rare raconteur who also listened closely, Davis would lean into a waitress and ask about her life and goals. If she dreamed of going to college, Davis would make it happen.

According to a family biography written by North Carolina journalist Ned Cline, Davis once paid to bring the comedian Bill Cosby to a school in Manteo as a reward to the children. By the time he died in 2008, at the age of 88, it is estimated that Davis had given away over $100 million. His generosity included his ex-wives. Davis was married six times to four different women (two, twice). Cline recounts that Davis agreed to settle one divorce for $1 million but insisted that the money be delivered in $1 bills by armored truck. That was also Davis: an unrepentant rogue. But not one you wanted to rub the wrong way.

Davis’s politics veered from Democrat to Republican, depending which party happened to be in office. He gave generously to all, millions by his count, not necessarily expecting anything in return except that the politicians would pick up the telephone when he called, which they did. Walter Davis could make or break careers and legislation. He knew everyone and, if he didn’t know someone, he quickly found a way to befriend him. When he returned to his native North Carolina from the Texas oil fields, he kept a suite at the Radisson Inn in Raleigh Triangle Park, where politicians paraded by for his drinks, advice and money. In the late 1960s, he bought a shabby motel in Kitty Hawk and spruced up one of the rooms to host all-night poker parties. Among his guests were Sen. William J. Fulbright of Arkansas and House Speaker Thomas “Tip” O’Neill. He also knew Henry Kissinger and Dean Rusk, and once socialized with French President Charles de Gaulle, according to his biographical sketch.

When young Marc Basnight was considering a run for the North Carolina Senate in the 1980s, Davis pulled him aside and told him he wasn’t ready. Still, he saw something. Like Davis, Basnight had barely escaped high school yet was preternaturally smart and good around people. Davis bought Basnight a subscription to The Economist magazine and quizzed him weekly while they tooled around Manteo in his Lincoln Town Car. When it appeared Basnight wasn’t keeping up, Davis called him stupid and advised the would-be politician to pick up the pace. Basnight won his election and went on to serve as Senate pro tempore, the second-most important position in North Carolina politics. Visitors to his Raleigh office recalled it being filled with magazines of all stripes — many of which were dogeared or marked-up. Clearly, he had gotten the message. Dumb wasn’t going to cut it.

~

After quitting Woolworth’s, Davis rotated through different jobs, working as a long-haul trucker, office manager and restauranteur. He spent three months in federal prison for failing to pay business taxes, then relocated to Salinas, California, where he met another rebellious entrepreneur, Fred Rumbley, who quickly recognized Davis’s innate business savvy. The pair worked profitably together for a quarter-century. In the 1950s, Rumbley backed Davis on a new venture: hauling oil from wells to refineries in the booming Texas Panhandle. Davis moved to Midland, the hard-driving, hard-drinking center of the oil fields, and began buying tanker trucks and making friends, including the future president, George H.W. Bush. The flamboyant Davis became so popular, bartenders named a drink for him at the Midland Petroleum Club – the “Walter Davis,” straight Seagram’s VO over ice, according to Cline’s biography.

After a number of years, Davis was hauling a half-million barrels of crude a day and making millions for the Rumbley-Davis partnership. In time, he would branch out, adding real estate and manufacturing businesses, and his wealth would grow to preposterous levels. But the Texas Panhandle was brutally hot in summer and Davis decided to split his time at a Nags Head bungalow he bought. In the late ’60s, he began to invest in Outer Banks real estate, picking up a home here and there, the old Sea Ranch Motel, even a fishing pier.

Davis had more stories than a dog. One that stands out is how, one summer day in 1968, he was looking for a bottle of Orange Crush soda on a Kitty Hawk pier. When he couldn’t find one, he complained to the pier manager, who apparently didn’t recognize Davis and told him, “Tough,” and if he didn’t like it, he should buy the pier. Which Davis did, writing a check on the spot for $96,000. A decade later, he sold the pier for $2.5 million – a testament to Davis’s skill, luck, and the soaring real estate values on the Outer Banks.

About this time, Davis was introduced to Armand Hammer, volatile chairman of the board of Occidental Petroleum. The meeting was arranged by North Carolina Gov. Terry Sanford and took place at an Outer Banks marina, where Hammer’s yacht docked beside Davis’s prized boat, Gemel 1. Initially, Davis liked Hammer. He was an impulsive gambler, like him. Two years later, he merged his oil business with Occidental. It would prove to be a horrible mistake, Davis would later say. The worst decision he ever made.

In the late ’60s, Davis began to buy large tracts along the pristine Currituck Banks, including 4 miles of oceanfront for $1.2 million from the members of the Currituck Shooting Club. He used Carl P. White, a legendary waterfowl guide and hunt lodge manager who speculated in land on the side, as his proxy. White acquired an option and then sold it back to Davis.

A year later, Davis turned to White again, this time to buy the Pine Island Hunt Club, which had been owned since the 1930s by the Barney family from Connecticut. The tract included roughly 5 miles of gently rolling sand dunes, interior forests and sprawling salt marsh from the Atlantic Ocean to the Currituck Sound. Davis, then a vice president of Occidental, used a company subsidiary to pay for the $2.5 million option on the land. According to legend, when Hammer learned about the deal, he quickly canceled the payment. Not long after, an embittered Davis left Occidental.

With his plans to control the Currituck Banks scuttled, Davis sold the Currituck Shooting Club land to James Johnson and Coastland Realty, which developed the popular Ocean Sands resort. But Davis wasn’t quite done. In 1976, he purchased the 2,700-acre Southern Shores property from David Stick, the local historian and developer, who was having money issues. Davis and Stick had become friends while working together on the initial Coastal Resources Commission Advisory Committee a few years earlier. Stick was divorced and in debt and wanted to devote more time to his writing. According to Mickey Hayes, “Mr. Davis thought a lot of David. He had no interest in the real estate. He wanted to help David and that is what he did.”

Davis left Hayes to finish Southern Shores. Hayes said he worked tirelessly during the day laying out the undeveloped lots, “trying to make the houses fit the land,” and his nights designing houses on the side. One house he designed was for Davis along the northern oceanfront in Southern Shores. Hayes laid it out horizontally, not vertically, like most beach houses today. “It was a huge house and had everything you could put in there,” he said. “It didn’t matter what it cost. Mr. Davis said: `Do what you can do.’ And I did.”

In the early 1970s, the Outer Banks were still rough enough around the edges that it was possible to confuse the rolling sand dunes and pounding surf with the rugged coast of England. At least, that is what Lilias J. Morrison thought the first time she saw Nags Head.

It was sometime around 1970, she thinks. She was cruising along the interstate in a turquoise VW Bug with her good friend, Jennifer Frost. They were on holiday, heading back to New York City, where they were graduate students at Columbia University. It was 4 or 5 in the afternoon. The sun was sinking. Rounding a bend in the road, a sign for the then-modest resort appeared. “It sounded like a place back home in England,” Morrison recalled. “I said to Jennifer, ‘Let’s go see.’”

Morrison had grown up in Lancashire, on the edge of the Lake district of the United Kingdom, earned degrees in theology at Sheffield and Oxford, then spent three years teaching Latin at a girl’s high school in Nairobi, before moving to the United States to continue studies for her doctorate.

She never collected the advanced degree.

The Outer Banks got in the way.  

~

Most of the visitors who crowd onto the Outer Banks probably have never heard of Lilias Morrison, let alone know her remarkable backstory: A theology student who became one of the Outer Banks’s most influential designers — not to mention, the first woman builder of consequence along the Northern Banks. Like one of her mentors, the late Earl Slick, she is proud yet quiet, comfortable yet humble. But don’t ever confuse her with lacking ambition. Morrison helped to design and market Sanderling and Palmer’s Island, two of the more admired developments north of Duck. She later formed her own company, Real Escapes, focusing on environmentally friendly and energy efficient builds, remodels, and sales – or as she likes to say, “houses that blend into the land” instead of overwhelming it. Along the way, there were forays into local politics, a campaign to protect the quaint, village-like nature of Duck, even a drive to fend off big-box stores and keep the skies dark.

Morrison, who describes herself as “over 75” and still has a pleasing lilt in her voice, never wanted to be an ordinary developer. “I became a builder because local builders wouldn’t do anything except beach boxes,” she said “We didn’t want to turn the oceanfront into suburbia by the sea. We placed a great emphasis on preservation and conservation.”

Which isn’t surprising when you learn a bit about Morrison’s past. Growing up in the Lake District in Northwest England, she was surrounded by botanical gardens and historic buildings. “I grew up with these wonderful landscapes. There were living gardens. Land for parks and museums. In the old industrial steel towns, historic factory buildings with abstract strength I admired. All of this had a great influence, you see.”

Morrison had always wanted to travel in Africa and after university got her chance. With a family friend’s help, she landed a job teaching at The Kenya High School for Girls, one of the best schools in the British Commonwealth. “My job other than teaching some biblical stuff to train people to think, I taught Greek and Latin as well. It was high academics with a goal of getting the girls to take the Oxford and Cambridge entrance exams.”

During breaks, Morrison and the other young teachers explored the continent, visiting wildlife parks and climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. One of her favorite places was Kampala, the capital of Uganda. “Those days, Kampala was the Athens of Africa, (home to) writers and artists,” she said.

In the mid-1960s, Morrison moved to the United States to continue graduate studies in theology at Union Theological Seminary, affiliated with Columbia University. She landed there amid wrenching cultural shifts and student protests. “We were rebels,” she laughed. “I remember climbing a gate.”

She met Jennifer Frost at Columbia, an older student from Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, who liked to travel and surf. They planned adventures, moved to Germany to learn the language, drove to Atlanta, and then tumbled into Nags Head, where they fell in love with the locals and the coast. “We didn’t have much time. We spent the days walking the beach, swimming, walking the upper ridge of Jockey’s Ridge, which was bigger in those days. We both said we would come back to this wonderful place,” Morrison said. And they did.

They returned the following fall. Then again that spring. The owners of a Nags Head bakery invited them for drinks, recalling how they had moved to the Banks from the Midwest. The idea for a bakery evolved slowly but once it did, it stuck. They opened on Memorial Day and closed on Labor Day, and made just enough to get through their first winter and reopen the following spring. Lilias and Jennifer were enthralled and decided they should do a business, too. But what kind of business? And where?

They wound up in Manteo where they discovered the history of “The Lost Colony” and met a helpful real estate agent named Phil Quidley. They had no money, they explained, but wanted to start a small business. Somehow, Quidley negotiated a modest down payment and they became the owners of the Fort Raleigh Hotel. During season they could count on overnight guests coming to see “The Lost Colony.” They also became agents for Western Union. Lilias used her botanical skills to turn a garden into a local attraction, naming it for Sir Richard Granville, the daring naval commander from Cornwall.

Lilias and Jennifer ran the hotel for two seasons. Like many Bankers they scrambled in the off-season, working as waitresses at the Sea Ranch Motel and studying in their spare time for their real estate licenses. “We weren’t too proud to be waitresses. Our main financial goal was survival, you see,” said Morrison.

By now, it was the mid-1970s. Lilias and Jennifer began to sell houses and lots in Hatteras, Nags Head, and Collington. They eventually found their way north, to the Village of Duck, which wasn’t much more than a few dozen houses, a surf shop, post office, and a grocery store. Still, they saw the potential and wanted a piece of the action.

One day, Jennifer saw an advertisement for a project called Sanderling and, on a hunch, phoned. She soon found herself speaking with John C. Whitaker Jr., a talented young builder with a vision for a quaint, natural community built in the old Nags Head style – no tennis courts, no swimming pools, but lots of nature trails and unpretentious houses meant to be passed from generation to generation.

In 1977, Lilias and Jennifer began working for Whitaker as sales agents and landscape designers. Morrison gives credit to Whitaker for creating one of the more unique resort communities on the Northern Banks. But without Lilias and Jennifer, their boundless energy and creativity, Sanderling may never have thrived. “They turned out to be super salespeople,” said William E. Hollan Jr., who continued developing Sanderling after Whitaker and his partners stepped away in the early 1980s. “I give them 100% of the credit for carrying through on the mission.”

Hollan and Earl Slick, the owner of the property, finished six additional sections of Sanderling and then built the Sanderling Inn. Jennifer left to start a radio station in Duck and take up other real estate ventures. Lilias continued to work closely with Hollan and Slick at Sanderling. Later, when Hollan acquired a small tract of land just north of the Dare County border, Morrison joined him in developing the exclusive gated community known as Palmer’s Island. There was only enough room for a dozen houses – but what houses! They were outsized, New England-style beach homes, with spectacular views of the ocean and the sound.

 “It was zoned for multifamily and could have been condominiums. It would have changed the whole character and Sanderling. And so, we decided to build large summer homes rather like Newport for extended families,” Morrison said. “In a way, Sanderling and Palmer’s Island was more old money and old beach atmosphere. Pine Island was more new money: fortunes from the computer industry and Wall Street. Owners who wanted the latest thing. The character of those houses changed.”

At Palmer’s Island, Morrison designed a house for an executive of General Motors. Another house sold to heirs of the DuPont fortune. “Their goal was to be very peaceful and incognito. They were very cautious of their privacy,” Morrison said.

Around 1993, Morrison moved out of Sanderling and set up a new business, the Real Escapes Group, in a historic building in the center of Duck. Her focus shifted from building to designing and remodeling, with a strong focus on preservation and conservation. Today, she runs her business out of a commercial outlet in Harbinger but lives near the sound in Southern Shores in a house she purchased from David Stick, the late historian, politician, and developer.

Related: Frank Stick: A Maverick Who Helped Shape the Outer Banks

She owns other property but doesn’t think she will develop it. “Let’s face it,” she said, “if you are in real estate … you are interested in acquiring property the way (other) people acquire a good overcoat or a pair of shoes.”

Morrison has now lived on the Outer Banks for a half-century. During that time, she has witnessed incalculable changes yet hasn’t lost the sense of surprise or awe she felt that late afternoon she landed in Nags Head years ago. “As far as I am concerned, the Outer Banks are world class,” she said. “There is still a pristine quality I hope will remain in spite of development.”

Fishing means a lot of different things to people. For some it’s a simple escape from the hectic world, for others a way to connect with family, still others have managed to use it as a way to earn a living in the world. For Dave Rohde of Kitty Hawk, it’s not hyperbole to say that fishing saved his life.

The fish-rich waters of the Northwest is where this story begins. Born in Pocatello, Idaho, and raised in Seattle, fishing was part of Rohde’s life from the very beginning. His father would shepherd him around to local fishing holes.

“I started fishing when I was 5 or 6 years old and my dad would take me to stocked farm ponds to fish for trout,” he recalled recently.

Ironically though, Rohde’s father didn’t fish much himself.

“My father was supposed to be a fisherman. In my 18 years in his house, I only saw him fish once, but our house was loaded with antique bamboo fly rods by famous makers such as Horrocks-Ibbotson and other famous rod builders.”

When confronted with the problem of catching fish, Rohde figured it out one way or the other.

“I was a completely self-taught angler and I would fish the streams around my house in Seattle with eggs and worms until I graduated to Mepps and Panther Martin spinners,” he explained.

Later, he found advice in the printed word and outside helpers: “I learned mostly from Boys Life and the Scouts.”

Like many in the armed services, Rohde’s family moved around a bit, first from Seattle to Puerto Rico and then to the Tidewater, Virginia, area. Rohde didn’t fish much in Puerto Rico but a new passion found him while there.

“From 19 to 24, surfing dominated my life, and when I was in Puerto Rico, surfing was my focus.”

Once the family moved to Virginia his passion turned again to fishing.

“As soon as I returned to the mainland I was back at it.”

Then in 1976 he met the woman who would become his first wife.

“When I was 24, I met my wife to be, Gretchen Majors.” This relationship would change his life in more ways than he could ever had imagined at that time. Rohde met a man who would teach him the fishing and outdoors skills he still uses.

“Her father was a gentleman named Ergo Majors III. He simply became my life mentor, taught me how to fly fish, tie my own flies, shoot clays and load my own shells,” Rohde said. “This man was as important to me as my own father. He was larger than life to say the least.”

And then Rohde’s star began to rise in the surfing community.

“By this time, I was a well-known West Coast surfboard builder and I split my passion between fishing and surfing.”

While out West, Rohde started to fish some legendary waters.

“I started going to Mammoth, California, fly fishing the Kern Valley rivers, and to Northern California to chase steelhead,” he said.

But then it all came apart.

When his marriage ended messily in 1980, it affected him deeply.

“When my marriage fell apart, I went on a mini self-destruct and ended up in my dad’s house in Norfolk, Virginia. I really didn’t fish much for three or four years,” Rohde said, adding that he found solace in drinking and drugs at that time. It took an outside force to bring him out of it.

“The company I was working for, Wave Riding Vehicles, moved their factory to the Outer Banks and it was game-on with fishing again,” Rohde said.

Among those in the sport, Rohde is a well-known name for his surfboard-shaping prowess, and a WRV board bearing the Rohde name is highly coveted.

“I started fly fishing the bass ponds in Currituck and chasing bluefish on the beach,” he said, and that is what brought him out of a very dangerous time. Rohde figures that if not for fishing he may not be here today.

“I got sober in 1994 and started fly fishing for stripers around Oregon Inlet. By 1996, I was doing wade trips around the Oregon Inlet Fishing Center. I’ve been guiding on the Outer Banks ever since,” he said.

Then in 2000, Rohde met Joanne Lassiter, and he called her a great influence who made him a father with her son, Alex Lassiter.

“I had him since he was 10 and I raised him like he was my own. He and I would go surfing and fishing together all the time,” Rohde said.

But then a few years later, tragedy hit and again threatened to pull Rohde apart.

“Alex passed away from a very rare cancer in 2013, and I stepped away from guiding for six years,” Rohde said. But once again, his lifelong passion found him and brought him back. “After we lost our son, fishing and surfing saved me. Fishing brought me mentally back from the abyss of loss and depression.”

Rohde has been fly fishing for a long time and has a few words of wisdom for those getting into the sport: “The only way to get better at anything, and especially fly fishing, is practice and a good mentor.”

Having a good place to practice also makes all the difference, he added.

“My father-in-law introduced me to the San Diego fly fishers. We would go to Balboa Park on Sundays and there would be a ton of guys there that would work with me on my cast. There is no substitute for this. YouTube videos will not make you a good caster.”

Lacking a professional club of outstanding fly casters, just get out there on a pond or lawn or wherever there is enough room, he advised.

“I think the most important thing in saltwater fly fishing is presentation. The ability to cast the right fly that swims properly, to the right spot, is the key to success. And if you can’t cast over 30 or 40 feet, you’re going to be out of luck quite often.”

These days, Rohde keeps busy with a multitude of projects. He’s guiding still around the Oregon Inlet area, but there’s more.

“I supply all the local shops with flies. I still build a few surfboards. But I do it all part-time now,” he said.

And fishing remains a favorite pastime, but he’s also found new passions.

“My preferred method of fishing is fly, but I probably actually spin fish 70% of the time. Totally situational,” he said.

That other more recent driving force of late has been Rohde’s soft spot for animals. He is involved with animal rescue and specifically saving the feral and abandoned cats that proliferate all along the North Carolina coast.

“I’m quite an animal activist. I do trapping for the local animal rescue groups, and I’ve saved several cats myself,” he said.

And for those reading this who might feel they’re in a dark place like he once was, Rohde offers encouragement.

“I’m not shy about getting sober. If I can do it, anybody can,” he said.

Note from the author, North Carolina historian David Cecelski: This is an updated version of a short essay that I first published two years ago. To write this version, I drew on additional research that I did in preparation for giving a special lecture to mark the New Bern Historical Society’s 100th anniversary. That event was held Nov. 12 at Craven County Community College in New Bern. The event was sold out and I was deeply impressed at the local interest in the subject. 

A friend in New Bern recently sent me an issue of the Raleigh News & Observer that he found in his family’s old papers. The newspaper’s date was Nov. 5, 1898. A front-page article was about a large white supremacy meeting at the Craven County Courthouse in New Bern.

That was only a few days before the massacre of Black citizens in Wilmington that was in the news so much a few months ago.

Wilmington, the state’s largest city at that time, was 90 miles from New Bern. However, as I read the issue of the News & Observer that my friend sent me, I couldn’t help but feel that what happened in Wilmington could easily have happened in New Bern, too.

‘White Supremacy Plum’

On that fifth day of November 1898, the News & Observer featured a large drawing of a plum on the top of its front page. The artist had labeled the fruit “White Supremacy Plum.”

Above the drawing was a headline: “A Fruit We All Like.”  Below the drawing was another headline: “We Will Pluck It on the 8^th.”

The Nov. 8, 1898, was the date of the fall elections. At the time, the News & Observer was playing a central role in a white supremacy movement that reached across North Carolina.

The story from New Bern appeared under the drawing of the “White Supremacy Plum.” Its headline read:

PATIENCE CEASES: Ringing Resolutions Adopted by White Men

With a summary of the story’s content appeared beneath those words.

WHITES WHO VOTE WITH THE NEGROES DENOUNCED

as traitors to race and country

Will have Nothing to do with them, White Labor To Be Employed Instead Of Colored, Strong Speeches by Shaw, Bryan and Others

The story began below those words. According to the newspaper’s correspondent, a mass meeting of “the white men of Newbern [sic]” had been held at the Craven County Courthouse. At that meeting, many of the town’s wealthiest and most influential white citizens had gathered to make a statement on white supremacy.

The chairman of the meeting was Alfred Decator “A.D.” Ward, a prominent local attorney. He was originally from Duplin County, where he had been mayor of Kenansville and where he had been elected to the North Carolina House of Representatives.

Probably the most prominent of the city leaders at the meeting was James A. Bryan. At the time, Bryan was the president of both the National Bank of New Bern and the Atlantic and North Carolina Railroad Co.

He was also one of the largest landowners in the state of North Carolina. His holdings included, but were not limited to, more than 57,000 acres in what is now the Croatan National Forest.

Bryan owned and resided in what is now known as the John Wright Stanly House, which is one of the historic sites at Tryon Palace. Educated at Princeton, he later chaired the Craven County Board of Commissioners for two decades and served a term each as mayor of New Bern and state senator.

According to the story in the News & Observer, both James A. Bryan and A.D. Ward were among the local leaders that gave “enthusiastic and patriotic speeches” during the white supremacy meeting.

‘Deliverance from Negro Domination’

At the Craven County Courthouse, the white leaders passed five resolutions that were very similar to ones that the white supremacists in Wilmington passed that same week, just prior to the massacre and coup d’etat there.

In the first resolution, they resolved that:

“It is the duty of every white person, male and female, to do everything in their power to achieve an honorable deliverance from negro domination and its accompanying ruin and disgrace.”

At that time, African Americans made up about 65% of New Bern’s population. In any free and fair election, Black citizens would inevitably have held a significant number of offices.

The town’s African Americans did hold some elective offices, but relatively few. Black citizens held three of the 11 positions on New Bern’s board of aldermen, for instance. That was a large number compared to many other North Carolina towns, but far from what one could reasonably call “negro domination.”

In this first resolution, the white supremacists were announcing that they would no longer tolerate even that degree of Black participation in politics in New Bern or the rest of Craven County.

‘Traitors to their race and country’

The meeting’s second resolution read:

“That it is the sense of this meeting that from henceforth all white men who vote and ally themselves in politics with the negro shall be denounced and regarded as traitors to their race and country and as public enemies, and not to be associated with.”

A duly elected political coalition of Republicans (largely Black) and Populists (largely white) had governed North Carolina since 1894. In this resolution, the city’s white supremacists were threatening their white neighbors who persisted in supporting that coalition of Black and white voters.

The language of the resolution is noteworthy. In many parts of the world, and at many different times, extremist political movements have begun to refer to their political opponents as “public enemies” and “traitors to their race and country.” It is never a good sign, and of course it is often a prelude to great violence and widespread persecution.

The white supremacists in Wilmington also used that kind of language just before the shooting started.

‘Traitors to the white race’

The meeting’s third resolution read:

“That we denounce such traitors to the white race as make a business of organizing the negro, and we hereby warn [them] to desist from their efforts to further ruin and humiliate the white people ere the day of forbearance shall pass and the time shall come when an outraged people shall realize that such creatures are nothing more than beasts of prey to be driven away.”

In this resolution, New Bern’s white supremacists continued to use language that demonized their opponents. In this case, they were threatening local white leaders of the Republican Party.

Calling them “beasts of prey” also sounds very much like Wilmington just before the shooting started.

‘Brave and honorable men’

The meeting’s fourth resolution read:

“That while our brothers of the white race in other communities are bravely daring all danger to rid themselves and us of the dark cloud of negro domination, it behooves us to encourage them with the assurance that we, too, have resolved to use every means that brave and honorable men may for the deliverance and salvation of our State from the horrible fate which threatens.”

In this resolution, the white supremacists in New Bern were making clear that they knew what was about to happen in Wilmington and they supported it.

That they knew what was going to happen in Wilmington was not surprising. By the Nov. 5, 1898, it was widely known that white supremacists were planning to take control of Wilmington three days later, even if they had to resort to violence in the streets, massive electoral fraud and military rule.

Newspaper reporters from as far away as Chicago were already on their way to Wilmington because they had gotten wind of the coming storm.

In this resolution, New Bern’s white supremacy leaders signaled that they knew what was coming in Wilmington, too. They also seem to be saying that they would take similar steps in New Bern if necessary.

‘Preference to white people’

The white supremacists in New Bern intended the fifth and final resolution to encourage New Bern’s poor and working class white men to support their efforts. The resolution read:

“That we, the employers of labor, will give preference to white people in all cases wherever practicable.”

In this resolution, the town’s leading businessmen were promising white workers that they would hire them in their shops and factories over Black workers, even if the Black workers were more qualified and had more experience, if the white workers supported the “white supremacy ticket.”

They were, in effect, cutting a deal: side with us, and not your fellow Black workers, and we will look out for you.

The same thing happened in Wilmington.

The business leaders in both cities proved true to their word. In the coming years, that kind of racial discrimination in employment became universal, and as much a part of Jim Crow as separate drinking fountains and segregated lunch counters.

A different kind of coup d’état

The Nov. 8 election was said to have passed peacefully in New Bern, though we know very little about what might have happened there and gone unsaid.

We do know though that the white supremacists prevailed. There was a bright spot or two for the town’s Black citizens: Isaac H. Smith, a prominent local Black businessman, for instance, won a seat to the NC House.

But he was the exception. The white men at the meeting that the News & Observer described on Nov. 5, 1898, became the town’s mayors, aldermen, county commissioners, educational leaders, state legislators and U. S. congressmen for the next generation.

We also know that, in the weeks after the election, the white supremacists did not wait for the town officials that had not been up for re-election in 1898 to serve out their terms before they moved to replace them. They instead convinced the state legislature to dissolve the city’s charter and throw all of their political opponents, both Black and white, out of office.

The North Carolina General Assembly voted to repeal New Bern’s charter on Feb. 3, 1899. At that time, the legislators put the city’s assets under the authority of a small group of trustees.

The act went into effect a week later, Feb. 10, 1899.

Ten days later, the General Assembly passed another act to incorporate the City of New Bern. The legislators named a new board of aldermen, purged the city’s voter rolls, and set a date for elections later that spring. When the new charter went into effect Feb. 20, 1899, white supremacists held all the power in the city.

For the sake of white supremacy, the City of New Bern did not exist for those 10 days.

For more on that chapter in the city’s history, see Dr. Thomas Hanchett and Ms. Ruth Little’s excellent 1994 report on the history of two of New Bern’s African American neighborhoods, Long Wharf and Duffyfield.

In that way, the white supremacists in New Bern accomplished their own kind a coup d’état, much like what happened in Wilmington. Their coup was bloodless, as far as we know, but just as effective.

It could have been even worse. Judging from the Nov. 5, 1898, issue of the News & Observer that my friend shared with me, I find it hard not to think that, if things had gone just a little differently, and if a spark had been lit, we might well be talking about bodies in the streets of New Bern, too.

~

Coastal Review is featuring the work of North Carolina historian David Cecelski, who shares on his website essays and lectures about the state’s coast. He brings readers along on his search for the lost stories of our coastal past in the museums, libraries and archives where he visits in the U.S. and across the globe. 

People are always saying things about how they are going to take the thing they love to do and turn it into their life’s work. Most of us never act on it. Tim Still of Havelock has, and by all accounts seems to be doing well at it.

Next time you’re in a tackle shop, look at the selection of casting spoons, chances are, Still’s Beach Bum Lures will be represented on that rack. Still has taken his avocation and turned it into an ongoing vocation. It’s not many of us who can make their love of fishing into a successful career. 

Originally from Salisbury, that’s where Still was introduced to fishing by his family.

“I grew up pond and river fishing with my family for crappie, bream, catfish and white bass,” he recently told Coastal Review.

It was his father’s best friend, Mr. J.C. Campbell, who taught him about doing more than just sitting and waiting.

“He only used artificial baits, which I found more interesting because he was constantly moving around the pond looking for fish rather than waiting.”

Mainly, Still enjoyed pond and river fishing for panfish as a kid, but the saltwater was always there, an annual event.

“Once a year we would go to Virginia to fish for spot and croaker,” he explained.

As he got older, Still developed into a good athlete, good enough to play three sports in high school and to play college baseball.

“In high school, I played football, baseball and indoor track; I played college baseball at Wingate University,” he said, referring to the private

He was also good enough to pursue a career as a baseball player for several years. But like most of us, he had to come back to Earth and get a job. For a while the sports world continued to keep him busy.

“After baseball ended, I was a sports writer at the Sun Journal in New Bern, then at the Daily Reflector in Greenville,” he recalled. Then a career change landed him in Charlotte, where he worked for Wachovia, now Wells Fargo.

But another change was in the works.

Still made untold numbers of trips to the coast from Charlotte and developed a real love for casting to schooling fish from the beach.

Spanish mackerel and false albacore will bite anything shiny when they are visibly feeding close to shore. The problem was, Still said, many of the products available to do the job were made with poor finishes that flaked off after a few fish strikes, along with cheap hooks and split rings that bent or rusted quickly.

Still decided to do something about it.

“I started Beach Bum Lures Fishing Co. in 2019, full time in 2021-present, designing lures for saltwater fishing,” said Still.

The way Still figured, even though quality finishes and hardware might cost a little more, he could still get into the market at a lower price point than some of the mass-produced casting spoons. He began to produce higher-quality lures with longer-lasting paint jobs, nicer sharp hooks, and split rings that don’t break. He does it all himself.

At first, Still’s output was just a way to pay fishing expenses, but he gradually shifted to a full-time operation.

“I manage sales, design, quality control and customer service. From start to the order being delivered, I handle pretty much every step in the process,” he said.

That vertical integration – cutting out the middle man — helps keep the lures competitively priced.

“The plan is to handle distribution, production, and anything else independently, rather than through a distributor,” he said.

Still shares his home in Havelock with Shirley, his wife of 24 years, a Vanceboro native, and his three younger kids.

“We have six kids, three are adults, three in school. The younger kids all enjoy fishing and really like being close to the beach,” Still said. “I will fish for just about anything if I’m able to use an artificial bait.”

But he has definite favorites: “Spanish mackerel and false albacore are at the top of the list.” And fishing from the surf or shore is what he enjoys most.

“I prefer being on the sand rather than a boat or pier. I like the challenge of coming up with a strategy,” he said, adding that surf fishing is definitely not a game of numbers most days. “The key to my and many others’ success is putting the time in and being OK with the fact that some days, you’re not going to catch them.”

That’s a pretty good outlook to remember no matter what kind of fishing you’re doing. A big key to success in surf fishing is being aware of the variable conditions that will affect fish location and their feeding mood.

“Understanding the wind direction, water temperature and clarity are vital for the type of fishing that I do and those three things are everything,” he said.

If you understand how these three things combined with tide affect the fish you seek, you greatly enhance your chances of success. The only way to know this is by being aware of what is going on through time on the water.

In terms of the future, Still sees himself continuing to grow his business, expanding beyond North Carolina. “

The market is wide open,” Still said, noting that he has a lot of new product in the pipeline. “I’ve only sold 10% of my designs this season. I will introduce them a few at a time, adding onto already-established patterns.”

Anglers who know are likely looking forward to seeing what comes next.

Frank Stick was in search of two things when he arrived on the Outer Banks in the 1920s: adventure and money. He found enough adventure to fill a lifetime but like many Bankers on the isolated barrier islands, he scrambled to pay the bills. Once one of the largest landowners, with property from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras, the artist turned developer lost many of his holdings during the Great Depression. Stick eventually recovered and developed the much-admired Southern Shores community with his son David and other partners. A complex man of shifting interests and unwavering opinions, Stick was both a conservationist who played an instrumental role in the formation of Cape Hatteras National Seashore and an avid land speculator who wrote of turning the Banks into a playground for tourists.

This is his story.

Chapter 5: Southern Shores

Read the entire series

Frank Stick was now in his sixties and approaching retirement. He had managed to right the family’s finances by selling his remaining real estate and keeping to his steady work habits. There was even enough money for he and Maud to spend winters in Florida, first at San Carlos Bay, near Fort Myers Beach, and later in Key West. Still, Frank worried about building a nest egg and, as always, kept an eye out for opportunities.

One surfaced in 1945 when Walter J. Townsend, a shipping magnate from Bayonne, New Jersey, considered selling 2,700 acres he owned just north of Kitty Hawk — his only investment on the Outer Banks. The tract ran from ocean to sound and included four miles of pristine oceanfront and even more shoreline fronting Currituck Sound and Ginguite Bay. Long ago, a sand wave had washed over the flat beach and sculpted a series of terraces and gradually rising slopes that elevated the profile from beach to sound.

At $30,000, the price was considered extraordinary and was well beyond Frank’s reach. But he believed the area was promising; developers were busy filling up Nags Head and Kill Devil Hills and would eventually look north for more land. He approached friends for help and offered Townsend an option on the four miles. Townsend’s secretary officially accepted. But then Townsend began having second thoughts. Sensing that his land was worth even more, he declined to go through with the sale and failed to respond to letters Frank wrote.

Frank turned to his son-in-law, attorney John McMullan of Elizabeth City, who sued Townsend for failing to exercise the contract. McMullan won at trial and then on appeal. Frank rewarded his son-in-law with a one-third interest in the property. McMullan suggested that his law partner, N. Elton Aydlett, and Aydlett’s brother, Cyrus, a successful realtor/investor, cover the $30,000 option in return for another one-third interest. A partnership was born, with Frank in charge of managing the design and construction.

The first order of business, choosing a name, proved problematic. Frank and his partners bounced around possibilities, finally settling on Southern Shores. Frank had hoped for something a little artier that captured his plan to build a communal kind of resort that appealed to artists, writers and vacationers of all economic stripes, not only wealthy outsiders. The name was also geographically confusing. The four-mile tract near the Wright Brothers Memorial Bridge served as a gateway to the northern beaches of Duck and Corolla, and wasn’t part of the Lower Banks. An advertisement even stressed its location “At the north end of the beach – A fully restricted ocean front development for discriminating people.”

Frank got busy laying out the streets along the oceanfront, with a paved road, Ocean Boulevard, running north to south and side streets positioned east to west. Lots were set in 50-foot increments. However, customers were required to buy two lots at a time, or 100 feet of frontage. Instead of a la carte pricing, Frank introduced fixed-pricing that included the lot, site preparation, and house. Using his skills as an artist, he gave each potential owner a handsome sketch of his house.

One of the earliest buyers was Huntington Cairns, a polymath from Washington, D.C., who had gone directly to law school after high school, skipping college, and spent his spare time studying Plato and Shakespeare. In addition to his work as lawyer, Cairns wrote books across such diverse subjects as philosophy and journalism, including a biography of his old friend, Baltimore writer, H.L. Mencken. For years, he served as secretary and general counsel for the National Gallery of Art, and as an unpaid adviser to the Treasury Department, judging whether Post-War art arriving in America should be considered pornographic. Unsurprisingly, Huntington and Frank hit it off and Frank built Cairns a cottage next door to an oceanfront house Frank built for himself. The Sticks and Cairns often shared dinners with an array of famous and not-so-famous writers and artist friends of Huntington. Cairns called Southern Shores his second Eden and later retired there.

Building affordable housing during the war years had influenced Frank’s thoughts on style. So, too, the simple low-slung bungalows that Frank saw in Florida, At Southern Shores, Frank merged these influences in a signature new Outer Banks bungalow known as a Flat Top – a single-story, whitewashed block bungalow with a flat roof. The design was driven in part by a shortage of building supplies following the war. Many of the usual supplies, wood and steel, weren’t available. Frank and his Hatteras buddy, Curtis Gray, formed a company, Kitty Hawk Concrete Products, and used sand they carted off the beach (illegal today) to manufacture concrete blocks.

According to the architecture writer Marimar McNaughton, “A Flat Top house took roughly four months to build and cost one-third less than a traditional home.” Nevertheless the Southern Shores partners sold only one house in 1947 and Frank was forced to take on the role of salesman, reaching out to a long list of friends and associates. He also turned to his son David, then working in New York City as an editor, to come help.

For the next few years, the Sticks concentrated on the oceanfront, slowly filling in scores of lots and developing new sections. Meanwhile, the land along the sound and scruffy upper terraces remained untouched because it was thought to be worthless. It would be David who saw the value of extending Southern Shores, laying out lots and roads, digging lagoons, adding a marina, golf course and freshwater lake, turning Southern Shores into a destination for retirees and year-round Bankers, as well as an oceanfront resort.

But even as the business was beginning to show a profit, the working relationship between Frank and David soured. There were scuffles over responsibilities, salaries, and business philosophies. David resented the way Elton Aydlett seemed to question his every decision, and more than once threatened to quit.

Some of the tension was likely the normal back and forth between fathers and sons. But the disagreements also felt personal at times. Frank could be impatient and controlling and may not have given David enough credit for his good work. “Tact was a trait for which Dad was never noted, nor am I,” David once observed.

One of the issues was that Frank was growing restless once more. Southern Shores was moving along and he wanted more time for himself, for Maud, and for his beloved art. He had begun painting again and wanted to do more than illustrations; he wanted to leave something lasting for his family as his legacy. In the 1950s, Frank also began visiting the island of St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands, and being Frank Stick, he of course had ideas.

In 1952, Frank formed a new partnership with John McMullan and the Aydlett brothers and purchased 1,600 acres of the old Lameshur Sugar Plantation overlooking Cruz Bay on the island’s south coast. The goal was to develop an exclusive mountainside resort or, alternatively, restore the property and “make a quick and profitable turn-over,” Frank wrote. It never worked out. Money was short and the investors had trouble finding equipment and workers. In 1954, Frank wrote that he had had an epiphany: Instead of building a resort, why not set aside the land as part of a national park, like he had done on the Outer Banks. Frank donated his share of the land and sold the rest at cost for the park. Working with the financier Laurance Rockefeller, who owned property on the north coast, Caneel Bay, and his old friend, Conrad Wirth, of the National Park Service, Frank helped plan the Virgin Islands National Park.

That same year Frank informed his partners that he was retiring. He was 70. While he would continue to give advice to David and help to mediate the growing disagreements between David and Elton Aydlett, Frank used most of his time to travel and paint. He died in 1966, at the age of 82, and was buried in Kill Devil Hills.

After Frank’s death, David continued to develop the soundside at Southern Shores, digging channels to the Currituck Sound and interior ponds to help drain swamp land for building. Planning began for a separate development-within-a-development known as Chicahauk, with canals and open space nestled among the coastal dunes. Sales increased. Nevertheless, David was saddled with debts and “almost on the verge of bankruptcy,” he would later recall. In 1976, he agreed to sell Southern Shores for $2.1 million to Walter Royal Davis, a flamboyant character who had grown up poor near Elizabeth City but gone on to make millions hauling oil in the Texas Panhandle. Davis turned the job over to a talented landscape architect named Charles “Mickey” Hayes Jr. who finished Southern Shores and then designed the exclusive Currituck Club in Corolla.

Frank Stick was in search of two things when he arrived on the Outer Banks in the 1920s: adventure and money. He found enough adventure to fill a lifetime but like many Bankers on the isolated barrier islands, he scrambled to pay the bills. Once one of the largest landowners, with property from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras, the artist turned developer lost many of his holdings during the Great Depression. Stick eventually recovered and developed the much-admired Southern Shores community with his son David and other partners. A complex man of shifting interests and unwavering opinions, Stick was both a conservationist who played an instrumental role in the formation of Cape Hatteras National Seashore and an avid land speculator who wrote of turning the Banks into a playground for tourists.

This is his story.

Chapter Four: Inventing the Seashore

Read the ongoing series

In the 1930s, with the nation in the throes of the Great Depression and any signs of a land boom now a distant memory, Frank Stick shifted tactics and returned to his role as a conservationist.

Writing in the July 21, 1933, edition of The Elizabeth City Independent, Frank outlined a sprawling new vision calling for the government to set aside a large share of the Outer Banks as a park. Entitled: A COASTAL PARK FOR NORTH CAROLINA AND THE NATION, Frank argued that the government had scores of beautiful parks out West – Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Canyon, among others – but barely any presence in the East, and nothing along the coast. Why not a park for the Outer Banks? he asked. The low, slim barrier islands included miles of “shining beaches, peaceful sun-kissed sounds, and bountiful wildlife.”

Frank’s cri de coeur took up an entire page of W.O. Saunders’s broadsheet. That by itself should have signaled to readers that Saunders favored the idea. In fact, a decade earlier the editor had called for a state park in Hatteras in his newspaper. Frank Stick’s plan was far more elaborate, taking the readers through the logic for a park, where it might be located, and how it would boost the isolated Banks and its faltering economy.   

Frank began by telling readers that the “opportunity for healthful outdoor recreation and communion with nature” was an indispensable part of America’s progress as a nation — as important as commerce, politics or education. Unfortunately, he continued, speculators had acquired the majority of the nation’s shoreline for private development. With so much land tied up in private hands, ordinary citizens would have dwindling opportunities to experience the serenity and beauty of the seashore.

At first blush, it might seem odd that Stick, one of the largest title holders on the Outer Banks until the Depression, would single out speculators. However, it is worth remembering that Frank never saw himself as a real estate man greedily buying up the oceanfront. In his mind, he was a conservationist striving for an equitable balance between development and nature. Was it true? Not exactly. He landed on the Banks with a plan and needed to make money in real estate after abandoning his art career. Still, his later developments, especially Southern Shores, did achieve some of the balance he sought.

Frank proposed that the government should acquire up to 100 miles – or most of the Banks – via philanthropic gifts, condemnation, and outright purchases. The Outer Banks, he wrote, were “unique among all lands on the earth,” enjoyed a mild year-round climate, and rarely experienced hurricanes. Contrary to popular narratives, he added, meteorological records showed that the Outer Banks were no windier than the New Jersey coast where he had lived for more than a decade. It was a bold claim and likely made to boost his park plan. In private correspondence, Frank often complained about the relentless wind on the Outer Banks. Indeed, only months after writing his proposal, a hurricane struck the Banks, leveling Frank’s pavilion on Kitty Hawk Bay.

At the time, there was only a small section of paved road on the Banks, paralleling the ocean from Kitty Hawk to Whalebone Junction. Frank envisioned constructing a highway the length of the Banks. With his usual confidence, he explained to readers: “This roadway is no fantastic dream; no expansively enthusiastic scheme to attract public or political favor, but a sensible, well thought out project that would prove inestimable economic and esthetic value …”

Frank calculated that a seashore park would attract 50 visitors for every one visitor to an inland mountain, lake or forest. He wasn’t wrong; a seashore park would draw large crowds. But his numbers were wildly exaggerated. In recent years, even with up to 3 million visitors annually, Cape Hatteras National Seashore ranks well behind the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, with its nearly 13 million visitors. Indeed, none of the National Park Service’s 10 national seashores crack the top 10 in attendance for its many parks.

Frank ended his proposal by suggesting that a seashore park could be dedicated to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the newly elected president. It was a savvy political move but probably unnecessary. The administration was already looking for projects for its New Deal relief programs and had embraced legislation calling for the development of recreational areas and public parks. Within a year or two, the Work Progress Administration (WPA) and Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) would employ thousands of jobless and homeless Americans, using them to clear and maintain forests, build camps, repair wildlife refuges, and scores of other jobs. The men would provide a ready source of cheap labor for a seashore park.

The idea of a seashore appealed to National Park Service officials, who, like Stick, worried that the nation’s coasts were being bought up by wealthy Americans, shutting out everyone else. “When we look up and down the ocean fronts of America, we find that everywhere they are passing behind the fence of private ownership,” wrote Harold Ickes, Secretary of The Department of Interior, which includes the National Park Service.

The Park Service sent Marion Shuffler, a researcher, to study the possibility of using the Outer Banks as America’s first national seashore. Shuffler reported back that the economy of the Outer Banks was in serious decline “and tied to a way of life that no longer exists.” He then argued that the future of the Banks depended on tourism, tied to a park. A subsequent study identified a dozen possible locations for federal seashores but settled on the Outer Banks as the best choice.

The momentum was now behind Frank’s proposal. All he needed was for the politics to align.

~

Frank Stick didn’t think of himself as a political person. He called himself “a lefty” but that appeared to be a joke. He complained about some of the New Deal programs and criticized government bureaucrats who never acted quickly enough for his mercurial tastes. If anything, his politics veered more Republican than Democratic.

In a strange twist, in 1940, the FBI office in Charlotte opened an investigation of Frank after they received information that “Frank Stick is an individual who is in favor of dictatorships and opposed to the democratic form of government in this country,” records show. Edward Scheidt, the Special Agent in Charge, asked Victor Meekins, the Dare County Sheriff, to investigate. A few days later, Meekins wrote the agent that Frank had originally been a Republican but was now trying to “adjust himself … to Democratic sentiment.” Meekins added that Frank appeared to be loyal to his country but perhaps became confused at times. “With a world gone hay-wire, he probably is perplexed himself, and scatters remarks without discreetly remembering who is listening.” The Bureau dropped its probe.

After being appointed to a state commission established to promote an Outer Banks park, Frank bristled at the slow pace of those working with him and sometimes took matters into his own hands, traveling to Washington and Raleigh to push his proposal. Over the next few years, Frank worked tirelessly on his vision and was a relentless letter-writer to politicians and key government officials, urging them to move more quickly.

In Frank’s mind, the window for a park was limited. Residents of the Outer Banks had responded favorably to his proposal. But Frank knew there were limits to their enthusiasm. Like him, they had a tenuous relationship with the government. They liked when the government built them roads and bridges. But they worried that the park might be a land grab and restrict their ability to move about freely, hunting and fishing. Their concerns – as well as missteps by the government, and the coming war – would delay the seashore for years.

Park Service officials admired Frank’s energy and dedication, especially Conrad L. Wirth, a Washington, D.C.-based administrator who helped to plan the National Seashore and eventually would be named NPS director. Publicly, Wirth praised Frank. But privately he worried that Frank had “ulterior motives” and might be pushing the park to boost the value of his remaining real estate. It was a classic case of supply and demand. If the government controlled large swaths of the Banks, the remaining land in private hands would go up in price. In a letter to Maud, Frank once noted that if the park were approved, it would be good for them and might help to turn around the family’s fortunes. Of course, Frank wouldn’t have been the only one to benefit. In any event, the two ideas, pushing for a large swath of the Outer Banks to be preserved and encouraging a vibrant tourist economy, weren’t mutually exclusive in Frank’s mind.     

Throughout this period, Frank worked closely with Lindsay C. Warren, the congressman from nearby Washington, in Beaufort County, who represented the Outer Banks. Like Stick and others, Warren saw the future of the isolated barrier islands as tied to tourism. Warren was young, 36, ambitious and eager for headlines. In 1937, he introduced legislation in the House to create the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, and also played an instrumental role in directing millions of New Deal dollars to Eastern North Carolina and the Banks.

When FDR unveiled the WPA and CCC, Warren saw an opportunity and began lobbying the administration. In May 1935, FDR invited Warren to spend a weekend on his yacht, Potomac, along with Harry Hopkins, the President’s right-hand man on the New Deal. Two weeks later, Warren announced that the WPA was setting aside over $1 million dollars to fight erosion and help “stabilize” the Outer Banks.

Like most barrier islands, which are constantly shifting, the Outer Banks suffered from chronic erosion. The problem was especially acute near the historic Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, which was being undermined and was at risk of collapsing into the Atlantic Ocean. Following publication of Frank’s proposal, a cadre of state foresters and geologists visited the Banks to study the issue. They concluded that the Outer Banks (let alone a park) would not survive without human intervention. They proposed a towering artificial sand dune to prevent sand from washing across the islands in storms. The barrier would extend from the Virginia border to Ocracoke Island.

Frank never mentioned erosion or the supposedly ragged condition of the Banks’ sand dunes in his proposal. Nevertheless, he quickly endorsed the idea as his own, contending that a stable dune was needed to protect the asphalt road he envisioned running the length of the Banks. Later, he directed a crew at one of the eight government camps on the Banks that housed thousands of itinerant workers building the dunes.

Years later, in 1973, the NPS would abandon its dune-building activities. Erosion was a natural part of barrier island migration, scientists said, and blocking sand from washing across the islands and elevating the interiors was a mistake. The artificial dune also provided a false sense of security, the scientists wrote, encouraging development in areas prone to flooding and storms. By then, the Service had spent millions of dollars moving around sand. State engineers had spent millions more.  

America’s first national seashore didn’t officially open until 1953. By then, Frank Stick had moved on to new ideas and interests, including new real estate deals. His son David would assume the family lead in helping the seashore into existence, working closely with state and federal officials, writing articles, and giving talks.

Next in the series: Southern Shores

Frank Stick was in search of two things when he arrived on the Outer Banks in the 1920s: adventure and money. He found enough adventure to fill a lifetime but like many Bankers on the isolated barrier islands, he scrambled to pay the bills. Once one of the largest landowners, with property from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras, the artist turned developer lost many of his holdings during the Great Depression. Stick eventually recovered and developed the much-admired Southern Shores community with his son David and other partners. A complex man of shifting interests and unwavering opinions, Stick was both a conservationist who played an instrumental role in the formation of Cape Hatteras National Seashore and an avid land speculator who wrote of turning the Banks into a playground for tourists.

This is his story.

Chapter Three: Setbacks to A Dream

Read the ongoing series

The Elizabeth City Independent’s publisher W.O. Saunders liked Frank Stick. He thought he was a dreamer and an artist with a worthy plan to transform the isolated Outer Banks into a national destination for tourists and create thousands of jobs and unprecedented wealth.

The curmudgeonly editor filled his newspaper with story after story touting Stick and his partners, helping to promote their Virginia Dare Shores project near Kitty Hawk. THRONGS EXPECTED AT VIRGINIA DARE SHORES, a June 3^rd headline enthused. Frank Stick was “selling America’s most beautiful coastal playground to Americans,” Saunders wrote in another story.

But W.O. Saunders was no one’s toady. When he felt he was being misled by Stick and his partners, the laudatory stories vanished and he turned on the New Jersey developers.   

“THE TRUTH ABOUT THAT VIRGINIA SHORES,” a November 1927 headline thundered. “HOW A PAIR OF ENTHUSIASTIC AMATEURS AND A PAIR OF INDIFFERENT BUSINESS ASSOCIATES PULLED A FLIVVER” (Selling a car in bad condition).

“In the spring of this year it started out with a great flourish of trumpets, proclaiming a fifty-million-dollar development on the North Carolina Coast in the vicinity of Kill Devil Hills,” Saunders wrote. “It was going to build cement streets on the sand, build hotels, run a great resort and sell lots on Virginia Dare shores faster than deeds could be recorded. AND IT ALL ENDED IN A FIASCO. The lots didn’t sell and the company didn’t pay its bills around town.”

Saunders accused Stick’s longtime associate Allen Hueth of over-promising. He wrote that Elmer Geran, the former congressman, “was losing money and needed to make money.” He called Frank Stick a dreamer who lacked business experience. Capt. Frank Winch, the former publicist, “made a great noise,” Saunders wrote. “But he did not sell lots. He did make a lot of bills … and then he woke up and there wasn’t any more money to pay their bills. NOW THAT WAS A PRETTY HOW DO YOU DO.”

The Saunders story was only the beginning of the troubles at Virginia Dare Shores. The partners were also squabbling. Hueth accused Winch of wasting thousands of dollars on expenses while failing to set up sales offices along the East Coast.

“We do not see how we can go along with [future] financial assistance unless you are willing to follow out our idea,” Hueth wrote in a letter stamped “Confidential.” “As it is now, your company, Shore Properties has had a great deal of money advanced, which we believe should have been spent to much better advantage.” In another letter, Hueth called Winch’s efforts “an absolute failure.”

Winch angrily defended himself, accusing Hueth and Stick of failing to build any actual cottages, let alone a bridge linking the resort to the mainland. “Because of lack of organization and support, because of uncompleted development of the properties itself, because of nasty rumors, because we have permitted our credit to be shattered … these are some of the causes and NONE of them are up to me,” he declared.

There are no records of what happened next, but presumably Winch was fired or quit. For months, Stick and his partners struggled to recover. But progress was slow and they fell behind on payments on their properties. In December 1928, they hosted a gala at their Virginia Dare Shores pavilion celebrating the 25^th anniversary of the Wright Brothers’ talismanic first flight. Thousands of politicians, government officials and celebrities arrived by ferry for the festivities. Amelia Earhart rode in the bucket seat of a sedan with Frank Stick’s son, David.

For the moment, all seemed upbeat. But the expected flurry of sales never materialized. Then, following the celebration, tragedy struck. On the ferry ride across Kitty Hawk Bay, Allen Hueth suffered a massive heart attack and died. He had been talking with the region’s young congressman, Lindsay Warren, at the time. Apparently, they had been discussing how to save Virginia Dare Shores.

~

Frank Stick didn’t just lose a fishing buddy and close friend when Hueth died, he lost an important business partner as well. Hueth provided decades of experience in real estate and finance. He was also a critical source of capital. In the succeeding years, Frank struggled to cover options on thousands of acres of Outer Banks property their various companies owned. Some of the lenders began to call the loans and, in some cases, Frank’s shares were offered at tax sales at the county courthouse in Manteo.

According to David Stick, his father emerged from the Great Depression owning a fraction of his original holdings. He lost a half-interest in a large ocean-to-sound tract in Nags Head; a one-third interest in his Colington Island property, and scattered interests along the Lower Banks. I couldn’t confirm this but did stumble across one instance in which Frank arranged for an Elizabeth City businessman to bid on his Kitty Hawk property at tax sale and then transfer the property back to Frank’s Hatteras Holding Corp., in return for an interest in the land. In any case, even as the market for coastal land collapsed, Frank kept enough property to not entirely give up his dream, and continued to advise some of his fellow Asbury Park investors on other land deals.   

For years, Frank had been splitting his time between Interlaken and the Outer Banks, where he stayed in hotels. In 1929, he agreed to lease an old lodge called Skyco on Roanoke Island. Frank, Charlotte and David lived there much of the time. Maud commuted back and forth and spent a fair amount of time looking after their parents. Later, Frank built a family home in Kill Devil Hills.

As the Depression deepened, Frank spent most of his time scrambling to keep the family afloat. In the 1930s, he switched from selling lots to building homes. But instead of building traditional Nags Head cottages with wrap-around porches and slanted, overhanging roofs, Frank designed colorful Cape Cod-style beach houses. A row of these cottages along the oceanfront in Kill Devil Hills became known as “Millionaire’s Row.” Later, Frank formed a company, Community Housing Inc., to build low-cost housing in the Tidewater, Virginia, area; lead a work crew clearing a right-of-way for utility lines near Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point; undertook a government-funded restoration of Fort Raleigh on Roanoke Island; and served as executive director of a government commission promoting a seashore park on the Outer Banks – anything to pay the bills.

In public settings, Frank remained calm and confident. However, in Depression-era correspondence with Maud, he let down his guard and allowed his inner doubts to surface. Writing in December 1934, Frank apologized for the family’s financial struggles, blaming himself for his real estate failures and observing that the children shouldn’t have to “suffer” because of his mistakes.” However, Frank rarely ended his letters on a dark note. Hope was always just around the corner, and he often expressed confidence that a big deal he was working on would pan out soon.

In what today feels like a desperate plea, Frank even placed an advertisement in The Independent, declaring: “With faith in the Future — FRANK STICK.”

Next in the series: Inventing the Seashore

Frank Stick was in search of two things when he arrived on the Outer Banks in the 1920s: adventure and money. He found enough adventure to fill a lifetime but like many Bankers on the isolated barrier islands, he scrambled to pay the bills. Once one of the largest landowners, with property from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras, the artist turned developer lost many of his holdings during the Great Depression. Stick eventually recovered and developed the much-admired Southern Shores community with his son David and other partners. A complex man of shifting interests and unwavering opinions, Stick was both a conservationist who played an instrumental role in the formation of Cape Hatteras National Seashore and an avid land speculator who wrote of turning the Banks into a playground for tourists.

This is his story.

Chapter Two: The Nature Lover Turns Speculator

Read Chapter One: The Outdoorsman

In the summer of 1926, Frank Stick put aside his paint brushes and made the long journey from Asbury Park to the Outer Banks. Details about the August trip are scarce. It appears that Frank and a friend drove from New Jersey. But where they stayed or for how long is unclear. Years later, family members would say Frank came to go fishing, fell in love with the spare beauty of the Banks, and decided he wanted to live there. It is a good story and in keeping with the narrative that Frank and others crafted of the artist as a tireless adventurer who often made decisions from the gut. And for nearly a century it has gone unquestioned, repeated in numerous books and articles.

But the story is incomplete. Frank Stick was looking to land more than a few bluefish when he visited the Banks. His career as an illustrator whose paintings appeared on the covers of such diverse national magazines as Field & Stream, Redbook and Ladies Home Journal was beginning to unravel. Frank was restless and looking for a new, lucrative career. He had identified the Outer Banks as one of the most promising shorelines on the East Coast. His partner on the trip, Allen R. Hueth, was a wealthy main street real estate agent who owned or managed hundreds of properties around Asbury Park. True, they were fishing buddies. However, they brought along more than rods and reels on this trip. They also brought a plan, and cash, plenty of cash.

Hueth and Stick saw the Outer Banks as an opportunity, maybe even a way to get rich. Other than seven or eight small villages scattered here and there from Kitty Hawk to Cape Hatteras, there were miles and miles of empty oceanfront, rolling sand dunes, and maritime forests fronting the Pamlico and Albemarle Sounds. Unlike Asbury Park and other booming resorts along the northern New Jersey coast, where oceanfront lots sold for thousands of dollars, land on the Banks was cheap, costing only a few dollars. Many sales were on installment. All investors had to do was put down something and take an option on the rest, paying off as they went. With restless Americans looking to escape the summer heat, and an exuberant stock market refreshing pocketbooks, the moment felt ideal for a land boom at the beach.

Stick and Hueth arranged a meeting with Capt. Daniel Webster Hayman, a native of Kitty Hawk who piloted steamboats and yachts from Norfolk to Key West, and somehow had managed to come into possession of 30,000 acres on the Banks. Wanderlust caught Capt. Dan early in life and at the age of nine he had shipped on a three-mast schooner as a mess boy. In more recent years, he had piloted a millionaire’s yacht up and down the Florida coast, where a land boom was transforming mangrove forests and sawgrass into rivers of gold. Recognizing the possibilities, Capt. Dan had returned to North Carolina and begun investing in real estate.

All told, it is said Capt. Dan sold his 30,000 acres for about $200,000 – or about $7 an acre. That doesn’t sound like much today but it is worth recalling that some Bankers were giving away oceanfront lots for pennies at the time. Stick and Hueth bought a 2,300-acre tract near Kill Devil Hills that included the site where Orville and Wilbur Wright made the first heavier than air flights. They then added 6,000 acres near Nags Head, 8,000 acres between Oregon Inlet and Hatteras and a smaller tract running from the Atlantic Ocean to the Kitty Hawk Bay near the border of Kill Devil Hills and Kitty Hawk.

Almost immediately, Stick and his New Jersey partners began advertising in local newspapers. For example:

“MILLIONS”

HAVE BEEN MADE IN

BEACH FRONT PROPERTY

… shouted an advertisement in the Thursday, Oct. 21, 1926, edition of The Asbury Park Press.

North Carolina the coming playground of America today offers the same opportunity that was found in New Jersey and Florida ten years ago. Accessable (sic); an ideal year-round climate; destructive storms are unknown and North Carolina is conceded to be the most progressive and prosperous State in the Union. Lots as low as $100.00.

Upon returning home, Frank Stick began to recruit friends and business associates from Asbury Park to invest in his Outer Banks’ ventures. Frank’s Interlaken neighbor and fellow illustrator, Bill Koerner, purchased land near Kill Devil Hills. Elmer H. Geran, an attorney, banker, and former one-term congressman, joined Stick and Hueth in their recently formed North Carolina Coast Development Co. T.H. Beringer, an Asbury Park councilman, invested in 500 acres of Colington Island, a prized tract in the Albemarle Sound. Charles Baker and Susan Sutton, owners of the largest department store in Asbury Park, acquired the sand dunes that would eventually become the site of the Wright Brothers Memorial. Meanwhile, Stick formed a separate company, Hatteras Holding Corp., to buy coastal land and build lodges and hunting clubs for wealthy industrialists from the North. He brokered deals for the Phipps brothers, John and Henry, scions of a Pittsburgh steel fortune, and helped design and build hunting lodges for the brothers near Cape Hatteras and Buxton. In turn, the Phipps family provided Stick with a $12,000 loan to help him cover some of his debts, correspondence shows.

Stick and his fellow investors now owned thousands of acres of the Outer Banks. How many exactly? That’s hard to know. Hueth told The Asbury Park Press that they controlled 40 miles of oceanfront and bay in Dare County, which included the barrier islands from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras. Another story put the figure at 75 miles. Neither figure is credible. Frank’s son, David, the late, local historian, used a more believable 14 miles.

In any case, it was a lot. W.O. Saunders, editor and publisher of The Elizabeth City Independent, took notice. “A revolution has come to Dare County,” he wrote. “It is a bloodless revolution … but a revolution nevertheless. Wealthy Northerners … are slowly but surely acquiring mile after mile of beach and marsh lands.”        

David Stick put it more simply. He called it “The Jersey Shore Invasion.”

~

In 1927, Frank and his partners announced plans for a resort north of Kill Devil Hills, stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to Kitty Hawk Bay. It would be called Virginia Dare Shores, named for the first English child born in the Americas, near Manteo. As with most of Frank’s visions, it was eye-catching and creative. The design included a wide center boulevard named for Capt. Dan Hayman, with blocks of cottages running north and south. There was to be a pavilion for community events, a dock for the ferry shuttling vacationers from the mainland to the resort. A cement block cottage offered a place for Frank and his family to stay until he moved them permanently to the Banks. Frank also announced plans for two hotels – one a 200-room oceanfront structure near the site of the Wright Brothers’ flight and the other a 30-room hotel on Kitty Hawk Bay. The latter would be built immediately, he promised The Independent.

It was a heady time for Frank and his partners and the locals eagerly cheered their every move. The days of isolation and poverty were finally giving way to a new age. “It is impossible to stem the beginnings of a rush of visitors who are anxious to see the new region for themselves,” W.O. Saunders wrote.

Excitement and enthusiasm are one thing, actual development another. Frank and his partners struggled to find buyers. That wasn’t surprising considering the absence of roads or bridges connecting their planned resort to the mainland. For help selling his dream, Stick turned to Frank Winch, a former publicist for the circus who had recently directed a farewell tour for the showman Buffalo Bill Cody. Ordinary adjectives don’t quite do Winch justice. He was big, loud, excessively confident, and prone to exaggeration. Like Stick, he was a sharpshooter, big game hunter and a naturalist, which likely explains how Frank knew him. Prior to promoting Virginia Dare Shores, Winch had set up shop in Miami, selling the land boom there. “WANT TO MAKE MONEY?” one of his advertisements blared. “I HAVE MADE MONEY.” As the press agent for Coney Island, Winch once got into a row with local media for using the term “hot dog.” That was too “low brow for a summer resort,” he insisted. The proper term was “frankfurter.”

Frank met Winch at a Norfolk hotel and the pair agreed on a plan. Winch would operate out of Washington, D.C., and set up satellite offices in the big cities from Norfolk to New York. That May, the new partners held a get-to-know-us meeting with members of the Elizabeth City Chamber of Commerce and handed out courtesy cards for free ferry rides to their new pavilion on Kitty Hawk Bay. Winch grandly told the crowd that sales had already reached $100,000, and that construction of 15 to 20 cottages would begin in two weeks.

Prior to the gathering, Winch visited W.O. Saunders at his home to celebrate Saunders’s birthday. According to a story in The Independent. Winch presented the publisher with “a handsome silver service … and a beautiful 24 carat virgin gold ruby ring.” The newspaper described the offerings as birthday presents.

Following the meeting, Saunders’s newspaper published a glowing report on the Virginia Dare Shores project, referring to Stick and his partners as “splendid fellows” who were transforming the Outer Banks. He also informed readers that his newspaper had printed “a beautiful supplement” for the developers. Written by Winch, the glossy, 16-page report was filled with bluster and exaggerations. It repeated earlier claims that the partners controlled most of the Outer Banks; that there were “smooth hard roads,” and that Virginia Dare Shores was “ready for immediate occupancy.”

It was fantasy and Frank Stick knew it. There were no paved roads. No cottages ready for immediate occupancy. While they were moving forward, progress was slow and money was tight. Little could Frank know, but his vision of turning the Banks into a summer playground was about to implode.

Next in the series: Setbacks to a Dream

Frank Stick was in search of two things when he arrived on the Outer Banks in the 1920s: adventure and money. He found enough adventure to fill a lifetime but like many Bankers on the isolated barrier islands, he scrambled to pay the bills. Once one of the largest landowners, with property from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras, the artist turned developer lost many of his holdings during the Great Depression. Stick eventually recovered and developed the much-admired Southern Shores community with his son David and other partners. A complex man of shifting interests and unwavering opinions, Stick was both a conservationist who played an instrumental role in the formation of Cape Hatteras National Seashore and an avid land speculator who wrote of turning the Banks into a playground for tourists. This is his story.

Chapter One: The Outdoorsman

After finishing a new book, “The Geography of Risk,” in 2018, I began rooting around for my next project. I thought I might write about the Outer Banks. I had been coming to Currituck for over three decades at that point and had watched it grow from a modest seashore retreat to a modern-day coastal playground with ever larger and more luxurious “cottages” and amenities. I was both intrigued and, I suppose, alarmed by these changes. I didn’t want the Banks to morph into another coastal suburb with big-box stores, chain restaurants, and row after row of grid-style houses. I wanted the old unpretentious Banks, with their rough edges, rogue charms, and breathtaking views. I thought there might be a story and wanted to know more. 

Discovering things is how I work. I rarely begin with an outline. I prefer to get dirty, prowling around in archives and spending countless hours online reading old newspaper stories. In public settings, writers assume a pose of confidence and control. But don’t believe it. A week didn’t pass in which I wasn’t hounded by the thought all my research might be for naught. The Outer Banks, really? Who wants to read a modern history of the Banks? And then one coffee-deprived morning, I stumbled upon Frank Stick.

Of course, I had no idea who Frank Stick was, why he mattered, or what he had to do with the Outer Banks. But there he was, lurking in a yellowed 90-year-old newspaper clipping about a grand new resort he planned to build near the border of Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills. Frank talked about building beach cottages and hotels, and how his plan marked a new beginning for the long-ignored Outer Banks, then one of the poorest places in North Carolina. Local newspaper editors ate it up. Change was at hand, they proclaimed, and not a moment too soon. It was the 1920s, after all, and the markets were roaring, jazz was in the air, optimism rampant.

“Look at Florida,” roared W.O. Saunders, the irascible editor and publisher of The Elizabeth City Independent. “Why can’t the Outer Banks with all of its natural assets be the next Florida? We can fashion a national playground for Americans of all ages, who will come here and spend their money, creating jobs for anyone who wants one. It will be a new golden age, perhaps even a Paradise.”

For reasons I can’t explain, I became obsessed with Frank Stick. Every day I learned a little more of his improbable story – artist, outdoorsman, gadfly, dreamer, developer, speculator — and how he had landed on the Banks in mystery and shadows. What I couldn’t decide was whether Frank (he was now just Frank to me) was a hero or merely posing as one? His motivations were complicated. He was a naturalist who filled miles of beaches with vacation houses. A conservationist who eagerly speculated in land and promised investors big profits. An artist, coveted for his illustrations, who abandoned his art to be a real estate man.

Just when I would think I knew him, some other facet of his personality would reveal itself and I would find myself fumbling for purchase again.

“Stick was a unique individual, characterized by his extreme versatility,” wrote Michael F. Mordell, author of an early biography of Stick, the artist.

That sounded about right. Frank painted, drew, and sculpted. He designed homes and landscapes. And he wrote feverishly, if often baroquely, about a wide range of subjects. At times, he exaggerated, claiming to be a native of the Banks, or took credit for projects he didn’t lead. I imagine it had to do with his competitive personality and solitary upbringing. Frank was uniquely self-possessed and rarely short of confidence. It brimmed in his art and cast a long arc over his family. And over the course of four decades, it had a powerful impact on the Outer Banks.

~

Frank Leonard Stick was born in the railroad town of Huron, South Dakota, in February 1884, but at an early age moved to Sioux City, Iowa, then to Oglesby, Illinois. As a young boy, he vanished into the woods to hunt, fish, and explore. Initially, these forays lasted hours. Then days. Then weeks. Smart but bored with formal schooling, he headed to the woods of northern Wisconsin, where he worked as a camp cook. By the time he was a teenager, he was expert at camping and guiding. In time, he moved deeper into the forests and mountains of the West, traveling as far as Yellowstone in Montana. Grainy photos show Frank dressed in a buckskin shirt and hat, with an ever-present neckerchief and pipe – oh, and an elk strapped across his back.

“I am not able to remember back to a period when I was not engaged in one way or another in getting my full measure of happiness from the out-of-doors,” Stick wrote in the journal Outdoor America, published by the Izaak Walton League of America.

In the early 1900s, Frank found a way to marry his passion for nature and wildlife with a future profession. He began drawing, sketching, and painting landscapes and hunting scenes. In 1904 he sold his first painting of a fisherman landing a bass to Sports Afield magazine for $10. Over the next two years, he contributed 75 illustrations to the magazine, according to Mordell. An expert angler, Frank also wrote stories about his fishing exploits for national publications and later in life would co-author a book on surfcasting.

Around the age of 22, Frank was invited to join Howard Pyle’s Brandywine School of Art in Wilmington, Delaware. Pyle was arguably the nation’s best-known illustrator. Instruction was free, informal, and lasted as long as the instructor and budding artist deemed necessary. Frank stayed three years and was surrounded by an array of talent, including N.C. Wyeth, Maxfield Parrish and W. H. D. Koerner, who would become a great friend. It was at Wilmington that Frank also met a petite and exuberant model, 18-year-old Ada Maud Hayes, who would become his partner in both business and life.

Frank and his new bride returned to the woods of northern Wisconsin, where they lived in a simple, Thoreau-style cabin on Squirrel Lake. Frank continued to hunt, fish and paint. His illustrations graced the covers of Field & Stream and other magazines. Others highlighted popular calendars, then a lucrative source of money for illustrators. Frank was a commercial and financial success, with as much work as he wished. Yet, as would become a familiar pattern throughout his life, Frank grew restless. Perhaps tired of solitary life, he decided to move the family east, closer to the big cities with their magazines and publishing houses.

In 1917, Frank, Maud, and their young daughter Charlotte moved to the tiny borough of Interlaken, near the seashore resort of Asbury Park, in Monmouth County, New Jersey. Named after the exclusive resort in Switzerland, Interlaken was approximately midway between New York and Philadelphia, centers of the publishing industry. Importantly, it also bordered Lake Deal, a magnet for migratory waterfowl, and was only a short hike to the Atlantic Ocean and Barnegat Bay, for fishing. Known as an artist’s colony, the small borough attracted painters, poets and actors. Frank built a large Georgian-style mansion and art studio on the banks of Lake Deal and called it Pine Cove.

Today, the Asbury Park many people know is the one Bruce Springsteen sang about in his seminal first album, “Greetings from Asbury Park,” a gritty, down-on-its-luck, fading seashore resort. But at the turn of the last century Asbury Park was very much alive and thriving. A popular destination for actors, politicians, and wealthy industrialists. Frank seemed to know all of them. Some he met through his art. Others through his adventures hunting and fishing. He also gave talks to any group that asked and frequently wrote about his exploits for the local papers.

One of his closest friends was Van Campen Heilner, a silver spoon scion of an anthracite coal fortune, who lived in nearby Spring Lake. Heilner often appeared in the newspapers in a pith helmet and was a well-known explorer, writer, and filmmaker associated with The Museum of Natural History in New York City. Ernest Hemingway considered Heilner one of the finest anglers in the world and named one of the characters in “A Farewell to Arms” Nurse Van Campen, an inside joke. In 1920, Stick and Heilner co-authored a pioneering work on surfcasting, “The Call of the Surf.”

Along with G. Albert Lyon, an inventor who made millions patenting bumpers and wheel covers for the nascent automobile trade, Stick and Heilner traveled from Maine to Florida hunting and fishing. In one memorable incident, Stick was fishing on Lyon’s yacht, Alberta, near Barnegat Inlet, when the yacht suddenly exploded and burned to the waterline. Lyon, reported The Asbury Park Press, “made a picturesque figure, garbed in a suit of pajamas and hip boots” as he launched himself into the inlet’s notoriously dangerous currents. Stick escaped by dinghy, telling a reporter that he didn’t mind losing his fishing tackle but greatly regretted he was unable to recover a “fine string of big bluefish.”

Frank also befriended Zane Grey, the popular author of “Riders of the Purple Sage”and other Western novels. Grey edited articles Stick wrote for Outdoor America. In turn, Frank illustrated some of Grey’s books and magazine stories. Grey was an avid angler and kept a camp in the Florida Keys, the Long Key Fishing Club. Frank became a frequent guest, sometimes staying for weeks at a time. He landed so many bonefish Grey included him as a character in his 1922 story, “The Bonefish Brigade,” which recounted one of their many fishing adventures.   

By the mid-1920s, sales of Grey’s books topped $1 million, making him America’s first millionaire author. Meanwhile, in one year alone, Stick reportedly sold over 150 illustrations. Even so, Frank complained that his art was beginning to feel cookie-cutter; editors were asking him to produce the same scenes over and over. He also worried that his illustrations of hunters glorified slaughtering the very waterfowl and animals he intended to celebrate. “Of course the main reason I quit art,” he told Maud, “was that I was fed up on that hunting stuff.”

Something had to change.

Next in the series: The nature lover turns speculator

BUXTON — Probably never before would “Aloha, y’all!” be such a culturally apt greeting for a vessel pulling up to an Outer Banks dock.

But that changed this month when a sleek six-paddler, ocean-blue, outrigger canoe, notable for the long, skinny extension off its left side that looks somewhat like a floating sidecar, arrived at Swell Motel in Buxton on a late Saturday afternoon, making for a novel scene even for boat-centric Hatteras Island.

The traditional oceangoing Polynesian canoe, widely used in Hawaii, Tahiti and Samoa, turned out to be a perfect vessel to bring attention to the goals of We the Water, a collaborative clean water awareness campaign.

“It’s the first time an outrigger canoe has been out here,” Bernadette Burton, president of the Wrightsville Beach Outrigger Canoe Club, said in an interview after paddlers completed a three-day, 125-mile journey from Swansboro to Cape Hatteras on Sept. 16.

“We felt so lucky and so blessed, we almost forgot how tired we were.”

Twenty-four paddlers in the 92-member club, the first of its kind in North Carolina, joined the second leg of the three-year plan to paddle up the entire 325-mile coast to talk with coastal folks about water quality issues. Last year, the club’s We the Water team paddled 120 miles from Sunset Beach to Ocean in Carteret County.

We the Water evolved during club brainstorming sessions, when member Kerri Allen, who works as the North Carolina Coastal Federation’s coastal advocate at its Wrightsville Beach office, realized the natural link between the two nonprofits.

Allen, who joined the canoe club in 2019, suggested that the paddling community’s culture of “mālama” — a Hawaiian word that means “to take care” — was a perfect fit with the Coastal Federation’s clean water advocacy and coastal stewardship.

The Coastal Federation publishes the Coastal Review, an editorially independent online newspaper.

In the interest of taking a positive approach to coastal water quality, Allen said, the We the Water initiative was born to foster connecting with the people who actually live and work along those waters, while at the same time raising funds to support the Coastal Federation’s work.

It was decided that a contingent of club members would paddle up the entire North Carolina coast, divided in three parts over three years. By stopping along the way and meeting with folks for some friendly conversation, the hope was that the paddlers could raise awareness about risks to clean water and empower communities to protect water quality.

“It can be doom and gloom, frequently, so we wanted to focus more on the good,” Allen told Coastal Review. With its striking appearance, the canoe served as a human magnet, drawing curious folks over to docks and shorelines.

“People were fantastic,” she said. “They were very surprised. Most of them, this is the first time they’d ever seen an outrigger canoe. Most people didn’t know what it was.”

Even those who did recognize the vessel had only seen them in Hawaii, or on the closing credits of the old TV crime drama series “Hawaii Five-O.” People would come up to chat with the paddlers, Allen said; sometimes they’d sit in the boat.

“We had some really great conversations, everyone from commercial fishermen, oyster farmers, local businesses hoteliers, and just folks out enjoying the water,” Allen said.

Long popular on the mainland West Coast, where there are about 70 clubs, outrigger canoes started showing up more on the U.S. East Coast after the founding in 1997 of the East Coast Outrigger Racing Association, which includes clubs in Canada and about 16 in the U.S.

The lighter version of the canoe, known as a va’a, was employed for We the Water. Typically described with Hawaiian words, the vessel is 44 feet long and 16.5 inches wide with two arms known as iakos attached to the outrigger, or ama, which provides stability in the ocean surf.

The carbon fiber Unlimited Class six-person outrigger canoe weighs just 145 pounds, versus some models that weigh about 400 pounds.

Compared to a regular canoe, which has a flat hull for navigating shallow waters, the outrigger canoe’s hull is narrow and aerodynamic, although it can still manage in shallow waters.

“It can take on a lot of swell,” Burton said. “This vessel 100% has its origins in the ocean.”

Originally from Winston-Salem, Burton has participated in numerous outrigger races in Hawaii and California, where she began paddling in 2007 with the Dana Point Outrigger Canoe Club.

After returning in 2013 to North Carolina, she became one of the co-founders of the Wrightsville club in 2016. At the time, Reggie Barnes, the owner of Eastern Skateboard Supply in Wilmington, had purchased two outrigger canoes.

“From there, he kind of put the word out, and a group of us — about 15 — came together,” she said about the club.

Members regard the club as their family on the water, or their ohana. Each leg of the We the Water paddles provided opportunities to meet so many coastal residents, she said, reinforced the shared love of the water and appreciation for the need to keep it clean.

“Blood is not family,” Burton, who serves as the club’s long-distance coach, wrote in an email response to Coastal Review. “Ohana is built from those who come into your life and make it more fulfilling … We may have started out with the purpose to bring awareness, but I believe in the end we now have become more aware, more fulfilled, and more in tune with those who truly need the water as a way of life.”

In addition to mahalo — gratitude — for the warmth and kindness extended by the folks they met, the team also delighted in educating them about the outrigger sport and culture, Burton added, as well as being together for a worthy adventure.

“We spent five days together ‘talking story,’” Burton said. “That’s pretty important in the Hawaiian culture.”

Videos of the outrigger underway show it zipping through the sound at a surprising speed, with six paddlers using synchronized, powerful strokes, as if they’re shoving the water away. Each position has a specific role, with the stroker at the front setting the pace, the steersman in the back in charge of navigating, the mid seats calling when to change sides: “hut” for switch, “hoe” to paddle.

“Remember, we have no motor,” Burton said. “We have to rely on human power, ocean power and wind power.”

With Hurricane Lee churning miles offshore, the conditions were rough, but the tide worked in their favor, at one point propelling the boat to about 11 mph.

“The swell was amazing,” Burton said. “When we hit that tide, it helped us along — it’s like an invisible paddler.”

Things really amped up on Day 2, after leaving Harkers Island that morning in the dark, Burton recounted. By the time they hit Drum Inlet, the wind was “brutal,” with a crosswind blowing steady at around 18 mph, with 25 to 30 mph gusts. But the team toughed it out, countering the wind by zigzagging across. The last day was easier, with none of the “crazy” wind or swell, she said.

Teams of six paddlers traded off in the morning and afternoon, which each run covering about 20 to 25 miles, depending on conditions. They were joined by a North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission boat for the 24-mile leg in Drum Inlet, and Cedar Island hunting and fishing guide Buddy Goodwin served as their escort vessel for the remainder of the trip, sharing his local insights.

Crew changes between those on the escort boat and the canoe were done in the water so paddlers could switch in and out of the canoe without it having to stop.

To Allen, it was especially rewarding to be together with her teammates in a different environment, with the vast openness of the Pamlico Sound, and seemingly endless estuarine marshes. At one point, they saw many hundreds of stingrays while paddling through seagrass beds behind Ocracoke.

The adventure was also rewarding for the Coastal Federation, which between a silent auction, sponsorships and donations for the event, she said, raised about $10,000.

Allen said she looks forward to the final leg of We the Water next year, when the Wrightsville Beach team will paddle from Buxton to Carova and once again “use the outrigger to tell the story of that coast and highlight all the good work that’s being done coastwise.”

By then, maybe Outer Bankers will be working to establish their own outrigger canoe club.

“An outrigger is truly a connection to the water like no other,” Allen said. You might start out looking for a fun way to exercise, she added, but it’s easy to get hooked.

“Because it is a culture, it’s a community, it’s a sport, it’s an activity,” she said. “It’s been in and on the ocean. And conditions that you don’t get to experience otherwise. So, it truly is extraordinary. And something that I think everyone should try to get the chance to do in their life.”

Tonya Sanders had had enough of the online trolls.

She simply wanted to share her fishing feats on social media, her capabilities as a recreational angler, and exchange fishing tips with others who enjoy casting a line as much as she does.

But as anyone on social media knows, there are plenty of keyboard warriors itching to pounce at the opportunity to belittle, discourage and insult.

As she ramped up her online presence earlier this summer so too did the negative comments.

Sanders was called a “prop” by a poster who accused her of not catching the fish she was holding in one photograph. Another commenter mocked a different photograph, telling her she looked like she was posing for a glamour shot.

The online harassment took a particularly unnerving turn when one man commented about female breasts.

“I just didn’t realize it would be like that and maybe that was my fault because I was just being happy-go-lucky and not really diving too much into the social media aspect of putting myself out there as like, ‘Hey, I caught this and I’m proud of it. Does anybody else want help learning how to do this?’ Or, maybe someone else would give me pointers,” Sanders said.

So what if she’s wearing makeup, she thought.

“I guess maybe it doesn’t look like I’ve been fighting a fish,” she said. “I have no clue.”

But Sanders firmly believes she would not be reading the same derogatory comments on her posts if she were a man.

“So, I decided that I was going to make my own group,” Sanders said.

The Facebook group would be open to all anglers, regardless of gender or experience level.

“But it’s specifically a safe haven for women to be able to post their catches or to connect with other anglers,” Sanders said.

Within the first four weeks of creating Female Fishing Fanatics earlier this summer, Sanders’ Facebook group had grown to more than 320 members and counting from across the country and as far away as Thailand.

She’s garnered the support of local businesses who’ve joined her group, donated prizes to be handed out to the winners of raffles she’s hosted — just a way to keep things fun — and been welcomed by owners of businesses she and her fiancé, Rob Lissor, feature in what they plan to turn into a traveling-angler-type series they’ll share on the group.

“I knew I was going to have to put in a lot of work and sharing, but I did not expect it to take off like it did,” she said.

This is not where the 37-year-old Wilmington native ever thought she’d find herself.

She’s been fishing throughout the area since the time she was a toddler being toted around by her father, a man who, after learning he had a baby girl said, “That’s OK. I’ll take her fishing anyway.”

Sanders doesn’t claim to be an expert angler. She does not own a boat.

That doesn’t hamper her desire to fish. On her days off she can be found fishing in Wrightsville Beach for sheepshead or in Fort Fisher for drum, depending on the season.

She was fishing in Town Creek, a blackwater river meandering through Brunswick County, during a telephone interview with Coastal Review.

She stopped mid-sentence, the conversation going silent, before apologizing and explaining, “I heard drag screaming and that’s my favorite sound.”

Sanders and Lissor were in the midst of featuring The Gator Hole Country Store and Tackle, a convenient store in Winnabow that proudly advertises the sale of cold beverages, cigarettes, live bait and tackle.

It was Aug. 30, the day before the remnants of Hurricane Idalia would blow in from the southwest after making landfall Aug. 29 in Florida’s Big Bend region as a Category 3 storm.

“We got a hurricane on our doorstep and we’re out here and, you know what, this is what this is all about,” Lissor said. “I’ve had a rekindle of love of fishing since we started this.

“Speaking as a male in an administrative position in a female group, the amount of support that we give our members and that our members give each other is something that I’ve never seen before in any Facebook group. We are uplifting and caring and we encourage everybody to post and we celebrate those posts. There’s no negativity whatsoever and that’s what’s drawn people to us. It’s been a heck of a ride so far and we’re loving it.”

Jaime Short, who co-owns The Gator Hole with his fiancé Nicole Pruitt, said he teamed up with Sanders and Lissor for the love of fishing.

“We just like to see people have fun and go out fishing,” Short said. “We just want everyone to enjoy the water. It’s fishing. It’s supposed to be something that everyone goes out and enjoys. I get out-fished by Nicole, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

HATTERAS – Researcher and island resident Kate Sutherland’s work studying the chemical isotopes of the feathers from black-capped petrels may lead to better understanding of the foraging habits — if not the varied physical appearance — of this difficult-to-study, endangered Gulf Stream bird species.

Sutherland is set to present her findings in October at a joint Waterbird Society and Atlantic Marine Bird Cooperative conference in Florida.

“That’s exciting,” she said. “It’ll be my first time to get to go to a conference and present something that I’ve done.”

Black-capped petrels, or Pterodroma hasitata, are pelagic birds, a species that lives most of its life in the open waters of the oceans — the pelagic zone — returning to land only long enough to reproduce.

There are numerous challenges in studying black-capped petrels. The open ocean that is their habitat is part of the difficulty in field research. Equally daunting is the mountainous terrain of the island of Hispaniola where they are known to nest. Compounding the challenge, they are burrowing nesters, and their nests can be difficult to find or identify.

They are one species of a wide variety of pelagic birds, and are one of the most endangered. At one time they were numerous throughout the Caribbean, but extensive hunting in the 18th and 19th centuries and, more recently, loss of habitat have diminished the population. At one time it was thought the species was extinct.

In 1961, ornithologist David Wingate found nesting sites in Haiti. To date, the only known nesting sites for black-capped petrels is on Hispaniola, although there may be other sites in mountainous regions of the Caribbean islands. There are an estimated 600 to 2,000 breeding pairs remaining, according to the Center for Biological Diversity.

Sutherland has made black-capped petrels her focus, but pelagic birds in general have caught her imagination.

“They are like little superheroes. They live in this environment that is so foreign to us. You go out there on a boat. People are seasick and holding on and it’s really rough. And they’re just totally at home,” Sutherland said.

The black-capped petrel, though, is special to her.

“From the beginning I have been interested in all of the seabirds we see offshore, but the black-capped petrel is specific to this area, the Gulf Stream, and our offshore environment, so they are our signature species,” she said.

As a species, black-capped petrels have characteristics that set them apart.

“It’s the order Procellariiformes, the tube-nose seabirds,” Sutherland explained. “They have these tubular structures on top of their bill (that are) their own little desalinization plants. They need fresh water, they drink saltwater, they excrete this briny thick solution from those structures on their bill.”

The tube nose has another function as well.

“They also focus the scent molecules on their olfactory bulb, which is quite large. They have a highly developed sense of smell. It’s pretty amazing. That’s how a lot of times they find their food,” she said.

The first trip to the Gulf Stream was more than 20 years ago, and it was not a meticulously planned adventure. She and a friend from birding class at the western Virginia community college where she earned her associate’s degree in wildlife management were looking for something different to do and a pelagic birding trip was recommended.

“We came down here in 2000 for a winter trip, and it was weathered out,” Sutherland recalled. “So we went the next day, and she (the friend) was sick all day. And I was in the wheelhouse all day. They were keeping the numbers and the data and transect information, identifying all these birds and I was hooked.”

That was with charter boat Capt. Brian Patteson, who is now the captain of the Stormy Petrel II. At 61 feet long, it is a large, powerful craft. Sutherland still works with Patteson and is still keeping records.

She commuted that first year from Virginia to Hatteras Village, the Stormy Petrel’s homeport. A year later she moved to Hatteras Island.

It took her a while, but in 2015 she enrolled at University of North Carolina Wilmington, graduating in 2019 with her bachelor’s in marine biology, but as COVID-19 took hold, Sutherland reassessed what she was going to do with her degree.

“I had a bunch of work lined up on research vessels, which is kind of what I thought I wanted to do at the time. And then COVID happened. Everything was canceled,” she said.

Instead, she enrolled as a graduate student at the UNCW Department of Biology and Marine Biology, working with Dr. Steven Emslie as her adviser. The project she proposed was to analyze black-capped petrel feathers of specimens housed at the North Carolina State Museum of Natural History. The samples had been gathered by the late David Lee, who had been curator of birds at the museum.

Lee died in 2014.

Sutherland proposed analyzing isotopes of nitrogen, sulfur and carbon found in the specimens that could be used to profile the birds’ diets to see if what they were eating could account for color differences in the species.

A characteristic of black-capped petrels is the color variations among different birds.

“Two variations of Black-capped Petrel occur, a light form and a dark form, with some individuals displaying intermediate characteristics between the two,” she wrote in the introduction to her master’s thesis.

Where or why the variations occur is not understood. At present, the few nesting burrows that have been identified are exclusively dark or intermediate-colored birds.

“Burrows hosting light-form birds have yet to be discovered,” she wrote.

Sutherland had proposed that an analysis of the bird’s diet might explain the color differences, but that was not supported by the data.

“This study did not show any statistical differences … among the color forms in Black-capped Petrels,” she wrote in her conclusion.

But the study did suggest that male and female black-capped petrels forage for food in different parts of the Gulf Stream, and that the chemical analysis of the samples “… enhances our interpretation of foraging areas with females feeding in areas with prey having generally higher (sulphur) values, but lower (carbon) values, possibly due to using areas farther offshore than the males.”

Although she did not find the differentiation in diet she had suggested might exist between light and dark black-capped petrels, her work is nonetheless significant, Emslie, Sutherland’s adviser, noted.

“Overall, Kate has provided important baseline data that can help direct future studies of this and other seabird species for which we know little about their diet and foraging behavior,” he wrote in an email.

KILL DEVIL HILLS — Murray Bridges, the visionary Outer Banks fisherman who remade tiny Colington Island into a behemoth of the soft-shell crab industry in North Carolina, died Tuesday morning after being infected by the Vibrio bacteria two days earlier while tending his crab shedders.

Bridges, who owned and operated Endurance Seafood Co. off Colington Road since 1976, was 89.

“One week ago, he was setting peeler pots and fishing them,” Willy Phillips, a close friend and a fellow crabber, told Coastal Review Wednesday. “So, he fished to the end. That was Murray — his work ethic was incredible.”

A native of Wanchese, Bridges was instrumental in establishing soft-shell crab as a profitable shellfish product in North Carolina, while also insisting on the highest standards.

“There’s people that come along and transform the industry, and he was one of them,” Phillips said. “He was really kindhearted and hardworking. His example should be a guiding star because of the dedication to his work, his family and his industry.”

Bridges had woken up at about 2 a.m. Aug. 20 with a scratch that he had assumed was from a spider bite, his granddaughter Heather Bridges told Coastal Review by phone.

At about 3:30 a.m., he went out to check the crab shedders, she said, which were filled with water pumped from the nearby sound, and his family noticed the scratch on his arm.

“It was a little swollen place on his wrist,” Bridges said. “We didn’t think much of it.”

But by noon, when his daughter checked on him, he was delirious, and she immediately took him to the health clinic, Bridges said. He was then taken to Outer Banks Hospital and quickly transferred to Norfolk General Hospital. But by evening Aug. 21, the infection had spread to his elbow, then to his shoulder. It was too much for his heart, and Murray Bridges died the next morning.

“It really was amazing how quickly it progressed,” his granddaughter said.

The bacteria, Vibrio vulnificus, is naturally occurring in warm, brackish waters, but people with liver disease, diabetes, or compromised immune systems, or who are older than age 60 or men over age 40, are more at risk of getting infected. It is known as one of the fastest-growing bacteria in the world.

Bridges’ case is the second confirmed Vibrio death in Dare County since July.

According to the North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services, prior to Bridges, a total of three people in the state had died of Vibrio infections in July. Dare County health officials reported a total of nine confirmed and two probable cases of Vibrio in Dare County since 2018, not including Bridges. Of them, three cases were reported in July, one of them a confirmed fatality of a Nags Head man who was cut by a crab pot in Buzzard’s Bay in Colington.

Heather Bridges said that the doctors had told the family that by all indications, her grandfather had a Vibrio infection, but she said she was not aware whether it had been confirmed.

Phillips, 73, former owner of Full Circle Crab Co. in Columbia, in Tyrrell County, said that Bridges was proud of his service in his younger years as a merchant marine and then as a chief engineer on tugboats, when he “sailed,” as he called it, before he moved back home to his native Wanchese and started commercial fishing.

But his major contribution was how he built the lucrative soft-crab industry from the ground up in Colington, seizing on the opportunity after learning about peelers from a North Carolina Sea Grant program, and seeing how Virginia and Maryland fishermen were making money with soft-shell crabs.

Then through dint of his energy, innovative intelligence, and strict quality control, Bridges and Endurance Seafood Co. had birthed an economically viable industry during the traditional fishing off-season on the Outer Banks.

“The mark of a good fisherman is to be aware, to be able to move when you get that gut feeling that there’s something afoot,” Phillips said.

At the time, there was a small soft-shell crab industry on Core Sound, but on the Outer Banks, the peelers were only sold to a few local eateries. But Bridges recognized an untapped source of income, and eventually developed the techniques to produce a high-quality product, scale up the volume and create demand for it at the largest fish market in the U.S., earning a reputation along the way as a sharp businessman.

“The soft-shell crab industry is relatively new, within the last generation,” Phillips said. “Murray was able to hook into the markets in New York. He began shipping to New York as soon as he had the volume to do it.”

Buyers would show up every year at Ensurance Seafood, and start wrangling with Murray, and later also with his daughter Kristina, better known as Kissy. Whether or not Murray Bridge’s folksy Outer Banks brogue caught them off guard, New York buyers soon learned that Bridges was a steely, albeit honest, negotiator.

“You didn’t cross him,” Phillips said. “He had a long memory.”

But dealers appreciated that Bridges could be counted on to provide a quality product.

“It was still the case that they’d come down and pay homage to Murray,” Phillips said.

Initially, Bridges would ship live crabs packed in seaweed gathered locally, Phillips said. But he took the time to learn from other fishermen in Virginia, and, through trial and error, how to pack, how to set up shedders, how to sort the crabs by size and sex.

Soft-shell operations are intensive, seasonal operations that require around-the-clock work when the crabs start molting their shells. But done well, they can be quite profitable. Also, when there’s a bumper season, peeler crabs can be fresh frozen and shipped later.

“The crabbers really jumped on it because it provided an additional source of income early in the year,” Phillips said. Even such a short season could produce 25% or so of a fisherman’s annual income. But the workload is like a nightmare version of finals week, requiring the crabs be checked every three hours for about 10 days straight during the molting period. They then have to be packed alive and shipped.

“It’s incredibly intense,” said Phillips, who had run his own shedding operations for more than 40 years.

“There’s many a relationship that’s been busted apart because of the soft-crab industry.” But for Murray Bridges, his family operation has maintained the pace for 45 years and stayed together.

Over time, Bridges perfected the shedding operations, changing shedding tanks from the water to the land, and setting up elaborate systems with lights and pumps, according to “The Crabfather of Colington,” published in 2018 by Southern Cultures, a product of the University of North Carolina Press Center for the Study of the American South. He learned how to pack the live crabs in waxed cardboard cartons, between layers of parchment paper and covered in ice to keep them as fresh as possible when they’re shipped, the article said.

As the business grew, Bridges started buying peelers from other crabbers in Dare County, but he continued to set his own crab pots. The crabs are put in the tanks until they molt. And at the height of the season in the spring, six members of his family worked on the operation, according to the article, keeping an eagle eye on water temperature and the condition of each crab, waiting for the brief time it sheds its shell, handling up to 5,000 dozen crabs a day.

Heather Bridges, who is the daughter of Otto Bridges, Murray’s son who died in 1987, said she always will remember her grandfather constantly working or busy doing one task or another. No one should be surprised that when he died, he still had pots in the water — he fished pots every day. Whatever vacations he took, she said, “they were few and far between.”

“I’m 37,” she said. “It was hard to keep up with him.”

Phillips said that Murray’s family provided his “ace backup team” that kept his business humming. Bridges was a generous man, who shared information he’d learned with other fishermen without hesitation, Phillips said.

Today, thanks largely to Murray Bridges, soft-shell crabs, whether fried or sautéed, are one of the most popular offerings at Outer Banks restaurants, and Outer Banks peelers are renown along the East Coast for their quality.

“He had a great life,” Phillips said. “He did what he wanted. He left a trail of good will and happy folks.”

Since beginning the Coins for Conservation program at Inlet Inn in Beaufort a little over a year ago, owners Jay Tervo and Barbara McKenzie have raised more than $12,000 to benefit the coastal environment.

McKenzie said she and her husband became owners of the inn in May 2019. A professional pianist, she said in an interview that her husband pitched the idea of buying the inn to her, and they went for it. She said it was something new and that she was ready to take a break from the pressures of performing.

In August 2022, they began Coins for Conservation, a voluntary giving program that “creates fundraising partnerships between community businesses and trusted nonprofit eco-partners serving our Eastern NC community.” The platform was officially launched in May with a kick-off event in Beaufort.

McKenzie explained that the idea was inspired by a similar program she learned about while visiting St. Simons, Georgia. They were staying in a historic downtown inn there and noticed a small charge on the bill for Pennies for Preservation.

After learning more about the voluntary giving program during her visit, “I was really inspired by what they were doing in that community,” she said. “I knew that we could do something like that here, and that it would be really important to do something like that here.”

McKenzie said they designed the program “to showcase major environmental partners in the area,” which for them, she said is the North Carolina Coastal Federation, Coastal Carolina Riverwatch, Friends of the Reserve, and Atlantic Beach Sea Turtle Project.

The way the program works is any kind of business based anywhere visits the coins4conservation.com website and chooses one, two, three or all four nonprofit eco-partners listed. The business representative is to then contact the leadership of the nonprofits they want to support and together develop a strategy to raise funds. The business then works with that nonprofit to execute their plan.

The program is not a nonprofit, she said. Rather, Coins for Conservation is “Saving Nature’s Treasures” by funneling donations directly to the environmental organizations “that actually do the work in securing the environmental protection that we need here.”

When they launched Coins for Conservation last summer, McKenzie said they began adding $4 to each reservation. Guests were made aware that the donation is completely voluntary and that guests could easily opt out by speaking to the front desk.

Not many have though: McKenzie said they have “97-plus-percent participation rate.”

Looking back, she said, most of the people who choose to opt out are those traveling for business. But, there are others who donate extra.

Guest reception “has been really great,” she said, adding that most Beaufort visitors want to be able to protect what’s there, and they see that it’s really precious. “If we don’t do something to educate and promote environmental good practices, then it won’t be here.”

She reiterated that the entire program is voluntary. “The donations are voluntary. The business participation is voluntary, and who we choose to give the donations to from our guests, it’s voluntary.”

The Inlet Inn’s eco-partners are the Friends of the Reserve and the Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review.

Coastal Federation Business Engagement Director Catherine Snead said that the organization is extremely grateful to the Inlet Inn for this initiative and their proactive approach to local conservation.

“They recognized the need for safeguarding our coastal ecosystems, and implemented a plan to raise awareness and make a positive difference in our community by giving back. The funds generated by Coins for Conservation will undoubtedly leave a lasting impact on our shared coastal environment,” Snead said. “The Coins for Conservation model represents a perfect synergy of commerce and compassion, and the Coastal Federation wholeheartedly thanks Barbara and Jay for their invaluable support. Together we will ensure the continued health and resiliency of our coastal habitats for generations to come.”

The Beaufort Hotel joined the program in May. Their voluntary fee goes to the Friends of the Reserve. “And that is just going to be a huge contribution,” McKenzie said.

Beaufort Hotel General Manager Peter Grills told Coastal Review that in the two months they have been participating, June and July, fewer than 5% of their guests have chosen not to donate the $3 per stay.

“Many guests comment and thank us for giving them the opportunity to help keep the area as it is,” he said.

“We are always looking for ways to give back to the community we operate in. We chose the Friends of Rachel Carson Reserve as our recipient for this year, as we have always done work with them,” Grills said. “We have a community service day with our company, Concord Hospitality, where we go into the community to do volunteer work.”

Since opening, the Beaufort Hotel has taken a team to the island and assisted by clearing walking trails. “We do this every November, and it’s fun for our associates to participate. The choice to give to the Friends that support the reserve was a natural fit for us.”

Volunteers with the Atlantic Beach Sea Turtle Project connected the group’s president, Michele Lamping, with Coins for Conservation. Lamping is an aquarist and sea turtle specialist at the North Carolina Aquarium at Pine Knoll Shores.

Lamping founded the nonprofit in 2021 to support the volunteer organization that protects nesting sea turtles, nests and hatchings in Atlantic Beach during nesting season May 1 through Sept. 30. She established the nonprofit to be a way to receive donations for the project.

Lamping said any donations they receive through Coins for Conservation will go to operating costs that the volunteers have been funding out-of-pocket since starting the volunteer AB Sea Turtle Project began 15 years ago.

The funds will help buy materials to create shade cloths that are put around a nest to block light pollution from streets and houses, equipment like shovels and sand buckets, and maintenance for the utility vehicle they use to get between nests.

“Now, our big conservation impact that we’re trying to deal with is our biggest killer of turtles in Atlantic Beach, light pollution,” she said, and any funds they receive will go to educational materials to get that message out, especially on their website.

The stereotypical image of the fly angler may be that of an older man with a faded-out vest and a well-worn, long-brimmed cap, stalking a trout stream somewhere in the hills.

In saltwater fly fishing, you might think of a leather-skinned gentleman, who squints all the time due to a lifetime spent in bright sunshine looking for fish.

Kristi Irvin of Kitty Hawk is here to break all your stereotypes.

She’s young, doesn’t have leathery skin, and rarely — if ever — squints.

In the past few years, she’s gotten into fly fishing in a big way and has cashed the receipts to prove it. Her fly fishing journey has taken her to some pretty special spots and aided her with some personal healing, as well.

Like so many who grew to be accomplished anglers, Irvin grew up in a family that fished together.

“I’m from central Pennsylvania, and I grew up in a large family of avid fishermen,” Irvin told Coastal Review.

It was her father, Scott Pecht, however, whom she credited with really getting her going.

“My father would take us on several trips a year to fish in Canada. I remember the excitement of being allowed to go out in the boat with my dad,” she said.

Back home in Pennsylvania, she was almost always in or near the water.

“I spent my entire childhood swimming, tubing and fishing in the Juniata River,” she explained, adding that her desire to be around the water directly contributed to her passion for fishing. “My love of fishing really is a byproduct of my love and need to be in the water. Looking back now, my life has always involved being near water.”

That included water-themed sports.

“I swam for years at the local swim club and was on the crew team,” she said.

Call it destiny? Her career path steered that way for a time.

“I even worked for a few years at a lake, running the bait and tackle shop,” she said of the lure.

Fly fishing was something she was interested in early in life, but she thought it seemed too difficult. Still, the allure of handmade flies was fascinating.

“My fly fishing interest started when I was a teenager. I was always very crafty, and I remember being fascinated with flies.”

But even with all the fishing they did, nobody in her family fly fished, so she was not able to really get started.

“I thought it would be too difficult to master the art of casting without any help. So, it was another 20 years before I picked up a fly rod,” she said. But she got there eventually.

Nowadays, Irvin fly fishes exclusively.

“I am the only one in my family that would call themselves a fly fisher. To my knowledge, I don’t think my father ever touched a fly rod,” she said, adding that once she got into it, fly fishing gave her focus through difficult times. “I have faced significant loss and some very hard days, and fly fishing has brought me back to life.”

The joy she gets from fly fishing is real.

“I literally feel giddy every time I go out,” she said, expressing what is true for many of us.

Irvin said she feels lucky to have met fine guides and instructors who have helped her.

“I credit every one of the guides that I’ve fished with for my growth and knowledge. Many have become friends and mentors, and I call on them often for advice and guidance,” Irvin said.

And Irvin said she respects the knowledge they have gained through their time on the water and their ability to pass some of that wisdom along to others.

“I respect their skill, knowledge and willingness to teach me. I love that I can learn from guys that have been fishing longer than I’ve been alive,” she said.

As we all know, the best way to get good at something is to get out there and do it.

“It’s a privilege to hear about their memories and watch them fish with a skill that is only earned through a lifetime of experience. It’s humbling,” Irvin said, noting that she prefers saltwater. “Although I learned to fly fish in freshwater for trout and smallmouth bass, I have become a saltwater gal.”

She likes being right in their element as the fish feed and hopefully grab her fly.

“I prefer wading in big water, hunting fish and experiencing the huge tug and run of a big saltwater gamefish,” Irvin said.

Fishing has led Irvin to destination around the world, as shown by her trips to Germany and Nicaragua just in the past year. “I love to travel. I love to fish. Life is short. I will travel and fish and make memories.”

Irvin’s family includes two grown kids who also enjoy getting out on the water, son Wyatt and daughter Brinley go out with her quite often.

“They prefer offshore fishing, and I have taken them on many trips,” she said, adding that these varied experiences helps them become better people themselves. “I want my children to know from my example that doing what makes you happy has a ripple effect on the entire world. I want them to see me actively pursuing an activity that requires effort, learning, humility, respect for the environment, and patience.”

Irvin said she tries to embody those traits by creating and learning to create more, including her love for tying flies, which she said goes along with knitting socks and hats that she wears on her winter fishing outings. It’s the same passion and challenge of learning that keeps her intrigued, she said.

“The end result of catching a fish is an indicator of how well you have prepared and educated yourself for that moment.”

During the North Carolina Coastal Federation’s Pelican Awards ceremony Saturday, conservation partners, environmental educators, outstanding volunteers, oyster farmers, businesses and state environmental quality leaders will be recognized for their above-and-beyond efforts to protect the state’s coast. 

This is the 20^th year the volunteer-supported nonprofit organization has honored individuals and organizations that have made significant conservation efforts.

“Each of these award winners found meaningful ways to make the North Carolina coast an even better place to live, visit, work and play. Their accomplishments are impressive, and we want to tell their stories to inspire many more people to also become champions for our coast,” Coastal Federation Executive Director Todd Miller told Coastal Review. 

In years past, the organization’s Taste of the Coast celebration has followed the Pelican Awards ceremony. This year, organizers have made the ceremony and the celebration separate events.

While there are no seats left to attend the ceremony in Joslyn Hall at Carteret Community College, there are a limited number of tickets for purchase at the door for the Taste of the Coast celebration. Beginning at 7 p.m. in the Crystal Coast Civic Center, tickets are $50 for Coastal Federation members or $60 for nonmembers. 

There will be wine and food pairings, live music by the duo Relay Relay, a live and silent auction, and fresh North Carolina oysters at the coastal casual fête. 

The Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review, provided the following information about award recipients and comments from the staff who nominated them:

Coastwide Winners

Kenneth S. Chestnut Sr. is being recognized for a “Lifetime of Dedicated Leadership and Community Service.”

Chestnut is the retired president and chief executive officer of IBG Construction Services LLC based in Atlanta, Georgia, which he founded in 1998. 

As the vice president of the Coastal Federation, Chestnut has assisted with the preconstruction process for the new Center for Coastal Protection and Restoration. 

“With his wealth of knowledge and experience, he has provided invaluable guidance during the architect and general contractor selection process, ensuring that we made informed decisions and secured solid contracts. His meticulous attention to detail has enabled us to act as responsible stewards for the Federation and the coast as we embark on this ambitious endeavor,” staff said.

A Vietnam War veteran, he is active in his church, several nonprofits, and the Ocean City community that his family helped establish in 1949 as the first residential beach community with Black homeownership in the state. Chestnut was recently honored as a Distinguished Alumni of the Duke University Engineering Council. He grew up in Wilmington and is a graduate of Williston Senior High School.

“I have been involved in many organizations over my long career and lifetime and I have to say, without any hesitation, that the North Carolina Coastal Federation is the best that I have ever experienced.  This includes the leadership, the staff, and the Board.  The importance and impact of the work speaks for itself.  So, this recognition from the Coastal Federation means more to me than I can adequately express,” Chestnut told Coastal Review.

John Griffin and Bill Husted are being recognized “For Outstanding Volunteer Efforts to Advance the NC Oyster Trail.”

Griffin and Husted have been dedicated leaders in promoting the NC Oyster Trail since it launched in 2020. The two helped develop the trail, an effort of the Coastal Federation and N.C. Sea Grant, recruit businesses to join, coordinate a dozen volunteers to keep it running, and host informational booths and educational displays.

“John and Bill are dynamic volunteers who have helped shape the success of the NC Oyster Trail leading to statewide recognition of all things oysters,” staff members said.

Griffin told Coastal Review that helping establish and grow the oyster trail “was an opportunity to work with some really, really bright people committed to the project.”

He said he moved to North Carolina around 2006, getting involved with fishing issues around 2008. Six or seven years ago, he attended a presentation about the Virginia oyster trail and the notion to establish a North Carolina trail was born. Initially, it was going to be a pilot project and Griffin would serve as Hatteras Island liaison. “But the project grew very quickly, became statewide, and I became one of the people involved in putting it together.”

He had no idea that anyone would think he deserved an award, he added.

Husted said that it is a pleasure working on the NC Oyster Trail. “We have a great committee that guides the trail and dedicated volunteers that work with our members. Our members grow, sell, or provide education about the best oysters in the world. It is an honor to receive the Pelican Award from the N.C. Coastal Federation,” he added.

Jimmy Johnson and Anne Deaton are being recognized “For Being Enduring Champions of Coastal Habitat Protection and Restoration.”

Johnson served as chair of the North Carolina Marine Fisheries Commission from 1998 to 2005 when the Fisheries Reform Act was enacted and first implemented. Deaton joined the state in 2000 soon after the act became law, when she did much of the initial staff work to draft the first Coastal Habitat Protection Plan, or CHPP.

Johnson, after stepping down from the commission and selling his Washington-based seafood business, was hired by the state Department of Environmental Quality. He supports the work of the Albemarle-Pamlico National Estuary Partnership. He and Deaton, the habitat assessment program supervisor for the Department of Environmental Quality’s Division of Marine Fisheries, have been working together since 2006 on implementing the Coastal Habitat Protection Plan. 

“Their sincere personal commitments to protect and restore fish habitats is truly inspirational. Jimmy and Anne are model public servants that make us proud of our state government,” staff members said.

Deaton told Coastal Review that she was very surprised to be selected for a Pelican Award. 

“I am appreciative of the recognition, and I enjoy collaborating with the Coastal Federation because they are very innovative and effective at protecting and restoring coastal North Carolina, a shared goal with DEQ. Together, it’s a complementary partnership.”

Deaton explained that while working for the division’s shellfish sanitation section right out of college, she saw how a small change in land use can close waters to shellfish harvest.

“That made me more concerned about protecting habitat and water quality, before it gets too bad,” Deaton said. 

She decided to go back to school, and worked in Florida doing wetlands and seagrass restoration, and monitoring projects, where she saw that one can make a positive difference. She later came home to North Carolina to do what she could to protect the coast.

Johnson, who began working with the state in January 2006, said the Coastal Federation has always been a wonderful partner, explaining that the organization has been engaged since the first Coastal Habitat Protection Plan. 

For the most recent amendment, Johnson said the Coastal Federation “came to the table and asked us if we would consider a public-private partnership to include that in the recommendations, and see if there would be some benefit to that. And quite frankly, there was more public awareness and public participation in the 2021 amendment than we have had ever before. It’s really gratifying after all these years to see something really come to fruition like you had really hoped it would some to 18 or 19 years ago.”

Johnson said he never envisioned being recognized. “I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to know that the work that you’ve done really is appreciated. We’ve had some wonderful people that we have worked with that really get an awful lot of that credit,” he said. DEQ staff “put in innumerable hours implementing it and helping us to write the documents and rewrite them, and we wouldn’t be able to receive this recognition if it wasn’t for them.”

Richard Cecelski is being recognized “For Providing Decades of Impactful Coastal Educational Experiences for Students and Teachers

Richard Cecelski has been at the helm for 30 years of the Carolina Beach-based Carolina Ocean Studies.

His environmental education nonprofit has introduced more than a half-million school children who reflect the ethnic and racial diversity of the state’s population, and hundreds of environmental educators. Carolina Ocean Studies has provided hands-on work to train hundreds of marine science graduates as they launch their professional careers. He grew up in Harlowe in Carteret County where at an early age the coast shaped his environmental interests and ethics. 

“The Federation is very pleased to recognize Richard and his hard-working staff for engaging and enlightening everyone who has had the pleasure of participating in his programs,” staff members said.

Richard Cecelski told Coastal Review that he’s been a proud supporter of the Coastal Federation for over 30 years. 

“I cannot imagine our coast without the good works of the Federation.  I think that we would all agree that the Coastal Federation is more essential now than ever,” he said. 

“I am very grateful to have a career where I’m around children who are thrilled to be exploring our magnificent coast. It lifts up my heart to work with teachers from across North Carolina who dedicate their lives to children and to making for a better tomorrow.  It is a very special experience to be with children when they are catching crabs and fish for the first time in their lives, to witness the wonder they have when they first see our great waters,” he continued. “It always makes me feel good to be part of what the Federation does, knowing that the (Coastal Federation) is making a better future for us all.  And when I see a child catch their first fish, I am confident that the achievements of the Federation helped to make that incredible experience possible.”

David Cecelski is being recognized for “Inspired Community Service Guided by a Lifetime of Sharing Our Coast’s History and Traditions.”

David Cecelski was the Coastal Federation’s first volunteer. In 1983 when the organization objected to a project to strip mine nearly 120,000 acres of peat lands in northeastern North Carolina, he spent weeks in Hyde County reaching out to area fishers, residents and leaders about objecting to the proposed project that would have been financed with $500,000 in federal subsidies. 

His community outreach generated public support and traction to eventually stop the massive wetland drainage and land-clearing project, and set the stage for the creation of the Alligator River and Pocosin Lakes National wildlife refuges. He is a distinguished coastal historian, who has written several award-winning books and hundreds of articles about the coast’s history, culture, and politics. His work frequently appears in Coastal Review. 

“His quiet and persistent manner, perhaps shaped by growing up in the rural community of Harlowe in Carteret County, has significantly propelled the work of the Federation forward since day one of our existence,” staff said.

David Cecelski, said in an interview that there aren’t “many people who have been involved in the Coastal Federation longer than I have.”

He and Miller “conspired together” in the early 1980s to reach the residents of northeastern North Carolina about the proposed strip-mine project. 

He said he spent about 10 months in the Swan Quarter area spreading the word in mostly fishing communities about the consequences of the proposed strip-mining project that was going to be in Dare Beaufort Hyde Tyrrell and Washington counties. He served on the Coastal Federation Board of Directors in the mid-1980s, as well.

“To me, that activism around the coast helped me see communities and histories that I was not aware of. My first book was about the Civil Rights Movement in Hyde County,” he said, which he learned about while speaking to locals about the proposed strip-mine project. 

While he was staying in Swan Quarter, his neighbor invited him and his roommate to an African American school reunion. There were thousands of people there, he said, coming in by bus from places like New York, Philadelphia and Delaware.

“Not only did it show how proud they were of African American schools there, which was not really the story that I was familiar with, but they talked about a yearlong civil rights protest,” he said, adding he had never heard of the protest, though it was an important national event. 

About being selected for a Pelican Award, he said he is deeply honored to be recognized “because I do have such a long history and such deep respect for the North Carolina Coastal Federation. I don’t think anybody’s doing more important work. And for me, it’s doubly special because my brother has been recognized as well.” Adding, “Richard and I are very close, and it makes it really special for me to be able to share the day with him.”

Chris Matteo is being recognized for “Unwavering Dedication to Growing NC’s Mariculture Industry.”

Matteo relocated from Connecticut to Chapel Hill in 2008, and then decided to move to the coast in 2013, when he established his first oyster aquaculture farm.

Over the past decade, Matteo has helped promote shellfish aquaculture, including significant contributions to the development of the North Carolina Shellfish Mariculture Strategic Plan.

Matteo now serves as president of the N.C. Shellfish Growers Association, and helped forge a partnership between the Coastal Federation and local shellfish growers.

“Through his tireless efforts and dedication, Chris has become an inspiring force driving the advancement of North Carolina’s mariculture industry, earning him the well-deserved honor of this award,” staff said.

Matteo told Coastal Review in an email that he is honored that the Coastal Federation has recognized him with a Coastwide Pelican Award.

“I’ve enjoyed working alongside the Coastal Federation for the past ten years. The shellfish mariculture industry in North Carolina is committed to improving the water quality of our estuaries, and the Coastal Federation is a wonderful partner in this critical effort,” he said.

“Water quality doesn’t just impact marine life. It impacts important industries that sustain coastal living including commercial and recreational fishing, tourism, mariculture, and real estate. Currently, shellfish growers in North Carolina filter over 1 billion gallons of estuarine water a day for free. We are eager to expand this effort to over 5 billion gallons a day,” he continued. “I am happy to do my part by supplying oyster seed to North Carolina’s oyster growers, by growing oysters in Pamlico, Carteret, and Hyde counties, and to represent and advocate for shellfish growers on the state and federal level.”

Brian Rubino is being recognized for “Leadership in Living Shoreline Design, Permitting and Implementation.”

The first living shorelines project for Rubino and his team at Quible & Associates was for the town of Manteo’s waterfront.

Since then, they have promoted, researched, designed, permitted, and built an ever-expanding number of living shorelines along the coast.

Recently, Rubino has worked with the Coastal Federation to implement living shoreline projects at the field office in Wanchese, Jockey’s Ridge State Park, Whittaker Pointe in Oriental, Sugarloaf Island, and Fort Macon State Park. 

“Partnering with Brian is a pleasure, and he is committed to providing outstanding environmental consulting and engineering services along our coast,” staff said.

Northeast Winners

Blue Water Grill & Raw Bar is being recognized for “Dedicated Partnership to Recycle Oyster Shells for Coastal Restoration.”

Blue Water in Manteo is the first restaurant partner in the northeast to host a 5-foot by 8-foot trailer to collect oyster shells for recycling as part of the Coastal Federation’s Restaurant to Reef program. The restaurant has recycled about 300 bushels of shell since the trailer was parked last September. 

The restaurant also is being recognized for its collaboration with the Coastal Federation’s fall 2022 and spring 2023 oyster farm tours. Participants toured the Federation’s demonstration oyster lease in Wanchese, then sampled a half-dozen North Carolina oysters and their signature oyster shooter.

“We are very excited to continue this partnership with Blue Water Grill & Raw Bar to help raise awareness of the important role that oysters play in maintaining a healthy and sustainable coast, while also inspiring more people to support oyster restoration efforts,” staff said.

Mary Helen Goodloe-Murphy is being recognized “For Decades of Reliable and In-Depth Press Coverage on Coastal Environmental Issues.”

Goodloe-Murphy, a staff writer for The Coastland Times, serves as director of the Outer Banks National Scenic Byway Advisory Committee.

In this role, she assembled a team to address stormwater runoff, increase green areas, and improve water quality in the seven villages of Hatteras Island. 

She is a founding board member of Outer Banks Forever and serves on the Rodanthe-Waves-Salvo Civic Association Board of Directors. She has partnered with the Coastal Federation on numerous cleanups and helped secure grants to establish multi-use pathways on Hatteras Island.  She received the Order of the Long Leaf Pine in 2012 and was named Outer Banks Citizen of the Year in 2013.

“Mary Helen Goodloe-Murphy has demonstrated an incredible commitment to the Outer Banks community and works tirelessly to keep the villages on Hatteras Island informed and pristine,” staff said.

Central Winners

Todd Kelly is being recognized “For Promoting and Advancing the Use of Living Shorelines in Carteret County.”

As Carteret County Soil and Water Conservation District technician, Kelly has partnered for 16 years with the Coastal Federation to implement 28 marsh sill projects through the state’s Community Conservation Assistance Program.

He worked to install several stormwater best management practices including cisterns, rain gardens, and wetlands. These projects are working to reduce shoreline erosion, provide habitat, and are helping to improve the water quality of our coast. 

“We are truly thankful for our long-term and valued partnership with our friend Todd Kelly,” staff said.

Kelly said he is honored to receive the Coastal Federation Pelican Award. 

“It’s been an honor to serve the citizens of Carteret County for 36 years. I’ve provided technical assistance to individuals and groups to help to prevent soil erosion and protect our water resources as well as educate the public on conservation practices. I appreciate this recognition for the community and being a part of making the county a wonderful place to live and vacation,” he said.

Dr. Caresse Gerald is being recognized “For Impactful Leadership that Inspires the Next Generation of Coastal Environmental Professionals.”

A professor at North Carolina Central University in the Department of Environmental, Earth and Geospatial Sciences, Gerald has been instrumental in connecting her students to coastal environmental issues, resources, and opportunities.

Gerald is leading an effort to help build the restoration pipeline amongst historically underrepresented students in coastal science, technology, engineering, and math, or STEM, and restoration fields.

“Partnering together, we’ve witnessed how loved she is as a professor, and how she effortlessly serves as a role model for her students to pursue a STEM career,” staff said.

Janice Allen is being recognized “For Decades of Effective Leadership to Protect Our Coast’s Natural Heritage and Environmental Quality.”

Allen led protection efforts for the North Carolina Coastal Land Trust for more than 26 years, helping protect almost 100,000 acres of coastal land.

She has partnered with the Coastal Federation, most recently with an effort to conserve forest along the Newport River that is instrumental in protecting oysters there.

Through her work, the Coastal Federation is to take ownership of 1,400 acres of property near Mill Creek to restore its natural hydrology and forest cover, part of a larger plan to protect the river and safeguards flight paths from development for Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point.

“Her role as a conservation leader on the coast has her designing and implementing complex, multi-million-dollar conservation real estate transactions to preserve vital habitats and open space for fish, wildlife, and people,” staff said.

Allen told Coastal Review that she is “passionate about the work they do at the Coastal Land Trust to conserve special places on the coast.

“It is always a pleasure to partner with the good folks at the Coastal Federation to combine our strengths and enhance the impact of our conservation projects. Our work at the coast matters,” she continued. “I am humbled to receive a Pelican Award and am so thankful to the Coastal Federation for this recognition.  My appreciation also goes to the Coastal Land Trust for being such an awesome team. ”      

Southeast Winners 

Joe Suleyman is being recognized “For Support of and Dedication to Oyster Shell Recycling.”

As director of the New Hanover County Environmental Management Department, Suleyman and his team have provided a 10-yard dumpster dedicated to oyster shell recycling in Wrightsville Beach.

He also implemented programs for composting, hazardous waste pickup, and a treatment system to remove PFAS from the landfill-produced leachate, which is when rain water filters through solid landfill waste. 

“Joe’s remarkable dedication, leadership, and expertise in environmental management have significantly contributed to the well-being of the residents and businesses of New Hanover County and serve as an inspiration to all,” staff said.

Suleyman told Coastal Review that he was really surprised to receive the Pelican Award.

“It’s truly an honor for me and my department because all of our work is a team effort that doesn’t get much appreciation, but it is important, crucial actually,” he said. “We all live, work and play here and I think it’s important to support the foundational elements of the Coastal Federation. The federation has a lot of great programs and it all comes down to water quality and I believe everything we do either supports that mission or enhances it.”

Cody and Rachel Faison are being recognized “For Advancing Community Oyster Shell Recycling and Coastal Restoration.” 

As owners of the Ghost Fleet Oyster Co., the Faisons promote community oyster shell recycling and coastal restoration efforts. They have pioneered an innovative and inclusive approach to oyster shell recycling.

By collaborating with restaurants, seafood markets, and organizations, they have established a strong shell recycling program that encourages the responsible disposal and reuse of oyster shells. 

“Ghost Fleet Oyster Company is an exemplary leader in environmental conservation and coastal resilience helping shape a sustainable future for North Carolina’s coastal ecosystem and communities,” staff said.

Nancy Faye Craig is being recognized “For Exceptional Volunteer Contributions to Our Coast.”

When the Federation’s Stanback Coastal Education Center was moved by barge in 2013 to its location at Wrightsville Beach Historic Square, Craig knocked on the door and asked if she could lend a hand in the house’s restoration efforts.

Ever since, she has been painting, cleaning, weeding and mulching, as well as taking care of the native plants and rain gardens that help soak in stormwater runoff, providing thriving grounds that serve as a model and living classroom. 

“Nancy Faye’s exceptional contributions to our coast serve as a testament to the power of volunteerism and its capacity to create lasting change. Nancy’s passion, selflessness, and leadership inspire us all to take action and protect the natural treasures that grace our shores,” staff said.

Craig told Coastal Review that she was “just thrilled” to be selected for a Pelican Award. “I was most surprised.” 

A retired teacher, she is a Wilmington native who moved to Wrightsville Beach in 1984. 

She said she was on a run that day when she knocked on the door of the newly relocated historic cottage, and was tasked with painting right then. 

“I just live across the street, basically, and so, I did some work and went back, and have been there ever since,” she said. 

Also a volunteer at Cape Fear Community College, the Wilson Center and other organizations, Craig said she helps in the community as much as she can. These days you can find her on most Wednesdays at the Wrightsville Beach office tending to the native plants.

If you’ve ever wondered about who the people are who make the fishing regulations, what they are like, and if they actually like fishing, then you should know that Chris Batsavage has been working his way up the North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries’ ladder for 25 years.

And he loves fishing.

“I started working for NCDMF in 1998 as a field technician in the Wanchese Field Office. I was also a fisheries biologist there and later in Morehead City where I moved in 2005,” Batsavage recently explained to Coastal Review.

Many who know him probably remember his work as the lead on the division’s flounder team, but that may not reflect the depth of his work and the breadth of his expertise.

“I served as the lead biologist for southern flounder and represented NCDMF on multistate technical committees for summer flounder, scup, black sea bass, and spiny dogfish,” he said.

He is currently the special assistant to councils with the division, working with the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission and the Mid-Atlantic Fishery Management Council.

Batsavage has been fishing his whole life and has developed a passion for the marine environment that has become his life’s work.

Growing up inland in Virginia, his first fishing was freshwater-oriented.

“I grew up in Leesburg, Virginia, which is about 40 miles northwest of Washington, D.C. Most of my fishing was in area farm ponds, creeks and the upper Potomac River, targeting bass, sunfish, crappie and catfish.”

Batsavage credits two childhood buddies with getting him going.

“My biggest influences in fishing were a couple of my friends that loved fishing. We fished as often as we could and learned a lot from each other, despite the relatively limited fishing options,” Batsavage recalled.

And as is the case for so many, the lure of saltwater fishing was difficult to resist.

“Our family would vacation at the Outer Banks and Chincoteague, Virginia, which is where I learned to fish in saltwater,” he said.

Later on, Batsavage’s career allowed him to get deeper into the saltier side of the sport. Eventually, his freshwater pursuits were supplanted.

“I moved to Greenville, North Carolina, to attend graduate school at East Carolina University, and then moved to coastal NC for work, so I’ve done much more saltwater fishing than freshwater fishing over the last 25 years,” said Batsavage, who is now 50.

Batsavage now lives in Morehead City with his wife Tina and son Sheldon, who is just a couple of months shy of 14.

“They both enjoy fishing and spending time on the water.”

Apparently, similar to his counterpart Dr. Cooper on the TV show, “Big Bang Theory,” young Sheldon demonstrates genius, but his genius relates mainly to catching big fish.

“Fishing is by far my son’s favorite hobby, and he’s an excellent angler. He’s already caught several southern flounder over 5 pounds and a 41-inch red drum. I learn as much from him as he learns from me,” Sheldon’s father remarked.

As for dad, he enjoys fishing the shallows.

“I mostly fish in the estuaries and nearshore ocean from boat and shore. I have a 21-foot skiff, which is pretty versatile for fishing these areas,” he said.

And Batsavage pursues any and all fish species that can be caught in coastal North Carolina waters.

“I target a variety of species including speckled trout, flounder, red drum, weakfish, sea mullet, Spanish mackerel, and sheepshead. Striped bass was one of my favorites when I lived on the Outer Banks during the late 1990s and early 2000s. I also try to go shad fishing in the coastal rivers in the late winter and spring,” he said.

And his preference is fishing with lures rather than bait.

“My favorite way to fish is casting — jigs, spoons, plugs, etcetera — to the variety of species found close to my home. The number of species to fish for was limited where I grew up, so I don’t take the variety of available species around here for granted.”

Most likely, as a consequence of his recordkeeping for the division, Batsavage has a specific method of tracking his fishing trips, a database of sorts. A trove of data that would probably help us all.

“I wish I was more consistent with my fishing success, but the key to helping me with fishing is keeping a logbook,” he said. “Recording the times of year, weather, tides, water conditions, fish caught, and gear used from past fishing trips has really helped me learn the patterns for different species over the years.”

His data spans decades.

“I started keeping logbooks in the late 1990s, so it’s also interesting to look back to see how things change annually and over time,” he said, noting there are also other advantages that give him an inside track on the fish. “Another thing that has helped me with fishing is what I’ve learned about fish as a fisheries biologist and manager. Knowing the life history and habitat preferences of fish has made me a better angler.”

It goes the other way too.

“Conversely, recreational fishing for most of my lifetime has helped me as a fisheries biologist and manager by gaining a better understanding of the recreational fishery,” he said.

Batsavage’s logbook helps in myriad ways, but most especially in preparation.

“Having a plan with fallback options before I go fishing has worked well for me, that’s where the logbook is a great asset,” he said.

But initial plans don’t always work out, though they often lead to educational opportunities.

“Time and weather windows are often narrow, so fishing options can be limited. You can’t fish for everything on a single trip,” he said. “Of course, the plans don’t always work out, but if I had fun and learned something, then it was a good trip.”

As for the long term, Batsavage sees himself fishing and having fun with his son Sheldon through the years.

“I hope to be retired and still fishing with my son 20 years from now and to have more time to travel.”

In 1860, Edmund Ruffin described the Corolla wild horses, the Banker horses, in his book, “Sketches of Lower North Carolina, and the Similar Adjacent Lands,” in unflattering language.

“These horses are all of small size, with rough and shaggy coats, and long manes. They are generally ugly,” he wrote.

Ruffin’s description is apt: The Corolla horses are small, and they tend to have rough, shaggy coats and long manes. Beautiful and ugly are in the eyes of the beholder, but even Meg Puckett, herd manager for the Corolla Wild Horse Fund, agrees they are not show animals.

“Some of them are, we call them marshy, swampy ones. But those are the ones that survive, and they look like that way for a reason,” she said.

The Corolla Wild Horse Fund is the horses’ protector.

The Corolla wild horses are feral animals, a species that has been introduced into an environment and is not native to it. They are certainly horses, but their behavior has little in common with domestic horses, something Puckett knows from experience.

“I’ve had domestic horses my whole life,” she said. “And they’re so different. The way they think, the way they behave, just everything. Nothing is the same.”

How or when they first came to coastal North Carolina is unknown. Genetic testing has shown a direct link between the Corolla herd and the mustangs of the Conquistadors, although there are other genetic influences in their makeup.

Whatever their origins may have been, the Banker horses long thrived. Writing for the National Geographic in 1926, Melville Charter estimated that, “Between 5,000 and 6,000 of these wild horses roam the sandy banks of the North Carolina coast …”

After the 1920s, however, the population plummeted. The U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, which was worried that the herd would compete with migratory waterfowl for resources when it established the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge in 1938, placed a bounty on the horses.

Other factors, including a change in North Carolina open range laws that required the once free ranging horses to be penned, also contributed to a steep decline in the population.

The last remnants of that herd now live on the Shackelford Banks on Onslow Bay or Carova, the area that stretches 11 miles north of Corolla to the Virginia state line. Carova is an area with no paved roads, although large vacation homes dot the landscape.

A landrace breed

Banker horses have adapted to their environment. More than 160 years ago, Ruffin noted that the herd could survive where other breeds would die.

“To introduce horses of more noble race … if turned loose here, would scarcely live through either the plague of blood-sucking insects of the first summer, or the severe privations of the first winter,” he wrote.

The ability of the horses to survive in an environment that would most likely kill other breeds differentiates the Banker horses.

“They are considered a landrace breed, which means that they are a breed that has developed in a specific region and has developed adaptations, physical and behavioral adaptations, based on where they live,” Puckett said. “That sets them apart, regardless of anything else. And that’s what makes them Banker horses and culturally significant.”

It’s a hot and humid day on the Carova beach north of Corolla. On the dunes lining the beach, there is a small harem, a stallion, two mares, and a colt grazing on the sea oats.

The sea oats and other grasses that grow in the dunes are part of their adaptation. Puckett points out that what grows in the sandy soil of Carova would not sustain a domestic horse.

“They couldn’t process it and it also wouldn’t be enough calories,” she said. “That’s the big thing with these horses, they just do not need the calories.”

The reverse is also true — the Corolla horse cannot process the nutrient-rich grass that most horses eat. As development continues in the Carova area, some homeowners have planted grass. For the horse, it’s another place to graze, but Puckett notes, “that green grass is not that great for them.”

There are times a horse must be removed from the herd, usually to save its life, and after recovery from an injury or illness, the animal cannot go back to the wild. The Corolla Wild Horse Fund has a 10-acre farm where rescued horses are placed.

“You can’t put them out in the pasture at first because it’s just too much. They go out in the dirt paddock … because the grass will kill them,” Puckett said.

Managing the herd

Because a significant portion of the land where the horses roam is in the Currituck National Wildlife Refuge, the size of the herd is limited to 130 horses by a management agreement with U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Puckett said the current population is 101, although there could be some uncounted animals in the marsh islands on the north end of Currituck Sound.

Recently a mare and her foal were added to the herd, and Puckett, who has named well over half the herd and knows them all by sight, is certain the pair had not been seen in the past.

“The mother of this foal has a very distinctive marking on her face, so I am positive that she’s not in our file,” she said.

That illustrates how difficult it is to get an accurate count of the herd.

“From what we’ve seen, there were five total out on that island. But you know, the horses go back and forth between those islands all the time,” she said.

Difficult decisions

The Corolla Wild Horse Fund has two goals with the herd, and Puckett said the two objectives can be at odds with each other at times.

“Managing a population of wild animals and also managing breed conservation do not always go hand in hand,” she said. “Not only are we trying to allow a wild population of animals to stay here and remain wild, but we have to make sure that they can do that. We have such a small population that every individual is critically so important that we can’t afford to lose them. So, at what point do you step in? And at what point do you let nature take its course? And it can be tricky.”

Puckett said the horses can survive injuries that a domestic horse does not encounter, such as after a fight between stallions.

“They can survive injuries and issues that a domestic horse would just lay down and die. You’ll have a stallion with a neck bite or something like that, but they’re tough. It’s very, very rare that you need to intervene when it comes to natural injuries. My general rule of thumb is, if something happened to it naturally, I’m not messing with it. It doesn’t need me giving antibiotics. That’s a part of life for these horses,” Puckett said.

There are injuries and diseases in which a horse must be treated, and sometimes difficult decisions must be made.

Equine pythiosis is almost always fatal to a horse if untreated. Sometimes called swamp cancer, the pathogen that causes it is Pythium insidiosum.

The Louisiana State University Ag Center website describes the disease as, “traditionally thought of as an aquatic fungi or water mold and typically occurs in wetland conditions.”

It begins at a small cut. The wound does not heal and develops into tumor-like lesions. Over time, the pathogen will infect the animal’s entire system, eventually killing it.

Since 2020, there have been four cases of the disease among the Corolla herd …

“… that we know of,” Puckett stressed.

The first case that was detected illustrates the often-difficult decisions that must be made balancing herd management and breed conservation.

“The first mare that got it, she had just had a foal. So we said, ‘Alright, this is fatal, but it’s not immediately fatal.’ The quality of life really doesn’t begin to deteriorate right away,” she said.

The options were to take the mare in for treatment immediately at the North Carolina State University College for Veterinary Medicine or allow her to raise her colt.

Although quality of life for the mare was not yet affected, Puckett and the vets who were aware of the situation decided the disease was too far advanced for a successful outcome. But, if they pulled the mare from herd before the colt was weaned, the colt would also have to be taken from the herd and raised at the farm.

“The chances of us being able to save her at this point were pretty slim,” Puckett explained. “We’ve now lost her and the foal from the herd, or we can leave her here, let her raise him and then next year when he’s old enough, we’ll take her and see what we can do about treating her. That’s what we decided to do. She unfortunately did not survive.”

“But the colt is still here. He has a harem of his own now,” she added.

Human interaction

Many of the people who encounter the Banker horses do so when the animals come out of the dunes and wade into the surf.

“Especially when it’s really buggy and hot,” Puckett said.

The beach is a crowded place, with four-wheel-drive vehicles lined up for miles. On this recent day, a stallion and two mares can be seen walking along the wet sand. A Currituck County ordinance mandates a 50-foot separation between people and the horses, and on this day, the beachgoers are doing a good job of keeping their distance.

The horses don’t seem to be bothered by the families and all the cars.

“They don’t care about people,” Puckett said. “They’re going to go where they’re most comfortable. But, do I think that it does change their behavior? Some. If it’s really, really crowded, that could certainly deter them from wanting to go out there. But at the same time, they’re used to it.”

The Corolla Wild Horse Fund is a mostly volunteer operation, and Puckett noted that in the summer there are almost always two volunteers on the beach trying to let people know about how to avoid interacting with the horses.

“I think that people don’t understand how lucky they are that these horses are so generally good-natured. There could be a lot more pain and suffering that could happen if they were more reactive,” she said, adding, “It can happen in a heartbeat. They are very wild. Last Sunday we had a group of stallions that were fighting, and they ran over the dunes and ran right through people on the beach.”

She looked over at a harem grazing on sea oats and the sparse grasses. The colt stayed close to his mother and Puckett smiled.

“It never gets old,” she said. “Never, never gets old.”

Remember when you were in high school and there was that young male coach who was always quick with a smile, a joke, and a kind word for everybody?

Josh Helms is that guy at Havelock High School.

In between his work as a P.E. teacher, coaching soccer and spending time with his wife Heidi and their dog Beacon, Helms will often be found someplace near the water with a fishing rod.

After spending most of his life bouncing around the country as his father, Dave Helms, was transferred from one Marine Corps duty station to the next, he’s settled down at Havelock, bought a house in New Bern and is fishing every conceivable spot between Beaufort and Johnson City, Tennessee.

Like so many of us, Helms got his start in fishing when his father would take him.

“I started fishing probably when I was about 7 years old. My father got me going and taught me the basics on how to fish for catfish, blue gill, and other typical pond fish.”

A little later on he had a revelation.

“Saltwater fishing didn’t surface for me until I was 11. My dad first took me to the beach fishing for red drum in the surf, and that’s where the addiction for saltwater fishing came from.”

He couldn’t get enough.

“After that, I would be asking him every weekend if we could go,” Helms said.

But day to day, after school and whenever he could, “Most of my fishing done as a kid was pond fishing.”

When Helms was younger, he did the typical odd jobs teenagers take.

“I worked as a busboy during high school summers. While attending college and playing soccer at Methodist University, I worked as a camp counselor for Morehead City Parks and Rec,” he said.

Helms sees his family as frequently as he can.

“My parents live in Maysville, and we get together often. I go fishing with them as much as I can but they’re pretty busy,” he said.

While his father continues to be his biggest influence, Helms had made some great friends along the way who help. That includes friends from college, among them a former colleague at Morehead City Parks and Recreation.

“Are you ever really done growing? Because as I’ve grown over the years, my buddy Kirk Peterson has really helped open the realm of saltwater fishing to me,” he said, referring to the department’s former program supervisor who now resides in Kinston.

Helms is learning to fly fish too with guidance from another longtime friend.

“Logan Klarzuk (of Boone) has recently gotten me into fly fishing. But we won’t talk about that because it’s still a work in progress … There’s just an art to it that I can’t explain,” Helms said.

Helms does a lot of traveling to satisfy this new artistic passion.

“Some weekends I’ll go see my buddy Logan up in Boone and go fly fishing around there, and in Tennessee or Virginia,” he said.

When you talk to old salts, they will tell you that there is no substitute for time on the water when it comes to achieving consistent results in fishing, and so it is with Helms. He said it’s the key to success, “Because It’s never going to be the same lure or the same perfect weather.”

He’s learned a few things, he said.

“You have to think about how fish will act in certain conditions or which lures to use or even spots to try out as the seasons change. Paying attention to fish patterns over the years and what they like or don’t like is very important.”

And you can’t be afraid to try new things.

“You have to be always evolving, thinking about different ways to even approach a fish. And just be open minded,” he advised.

However the real key to being successful with your time on the water is just having a good time, he said, because you’re not going to catch fish every time.

“Whether it’s with your buddies or by yourself, just enjoy the scenery and kind of get lost in it,” he said.

These days, Helms is delving more into fly fishing. He’s fishing some ponds near his house, really getting into it, and he’s looking forward to getting his fist saltwater fish on fly. He loves to spend time with his wife and dog in the home they recently purchased, and as for the future:

“I’ll keep doing what I’m doing as a health and physical education teacher and a coach for the men’s and women’s soccer teams, enjoy what I have and spend as much time as I can with my family, on the water,” Helms said

WILMINGTON – Hopping from duty station to duty station as a military child, Mariko Polk was accustomed to a routine of moving to different houses, communities and schools.

That’s the pattern that cuts the life fabric for most kids in the military. Consistent inconsistency.

Her tried-and-trues were her family, one that unknowingly would craft what has become a passion for the natural sciences and, call it fate, growing up by what has become her life’s work.

“I’ve been very fortunate to live by the water my entire life,” Polk said before noting she lived a short time in Arizona.

Now, 36, with a newly earned doctorate in marine biology, she will work with others who live near the water and assist them in adapting to a landscape being altered by climate change and sea level rise.

Polk is the latest hire to North Carolina Sea Grant, moving into a position long held by Spencer Rogers, who retired in February 2022 after 40 years as the organization’s coastal erosion and construction specialist.

She officially started June 5, settling into Rogers’ former office at the University of North Carolina Wilmington’s Center for Marine Science campus.

Same windowless office. Different title.

Polk is the new coastal processes specialist for Sea Grant, a research and education nonprofit that focuses on coastal issues.

This is her dream job, where she will be able to utilize her years of research and offer them as tools to coastal communities dealing with the effects of a changing climate.

“I didn’t expect this position specifically,” Polk said during an interview after attending Cape Fear River Watch’s annual State of the River forum June 1 in downtown Wilmington.

“I knew that I really wanted a position where I was doing some level of service, which is so great because this position is all about community-based service,” she said. “But also, I think every PhD has this in mind that you think you’re going to go academia. To be honest, I’m really excited about the fact that this is academia-adjacent – what I’ve been calling it – where I’m still part of it, but I’m also part of the application aspect for the community.”

Let’s rewind for a moment and get back to her childhood.

When her father, a Marine, was stationed in Japan he fell in love with a local girl. They married and had four children. Mariko was their firstborn, followed by two boys and a girl.

Polk’s childhood is full of memories exploring outdoors with her parents, swimming with her siblings and tapping into a self-described nerdy, science-y curiosity about natural sciences.

Her pursuit of higher education somewhat mimics her hopscotching lifestyle as a child.

She earned an associate degree at San Diego Miramar College in 2009, a certificate of geographic information systems from the University of West Florida and a bachelor’s in environmental resource management from California State University Bakersfield in 2012.

During those years she married a Marine and the two moved from San Diego to Okinawa then Okinawa to North Carolina, where they’ve remained since 2014.

That move afforded Polk the opportunity to set her sights on graduate school at UNCW.

In 2014, during what was the start of a two-year internship with the North Carolina Coastal Federation, which publishes Coastal Review, she received recognition for her research comparing more than a dozen living shoreline projects and eight controlled site locations along the North Carolina coast.

In 2015, she earned a master’s degree in — get ready for this mouthful — science and environmental studies with a concentration in coastal management. She completed that degree in one year after overloading on credits to ensure she put herself through college debt-free.

Her research was first published in summer 2015 on erosion control and living shorelines.

Going back to school to earn a doctorate was, at that time, out of the question.

“Absolutely not,” Polk said. “I was like, ‘no, I’m done. Thank you, ma’am.’”

She was content working as a geospatial consultant with the Coastal Federation and coastal municipalities including Swansboro, Pine Knoll Shores, New Hanover County Soil & Water Conservation District and Beaufort to create watershed management plans.

But, she said, “the science drew me back.”

“Being surrounded by inspirational people, it was just so exciting so I took the plunge again, glutton for punishment that I am I guess,” she said. “But it provided me an opportunity to really delve into salt marsh ecology and living shorelines, which was a really big interest of mine, so I couldn’t pass up the offer. I really couldn’t.”

She’s passionate about her dissertation, “Implications of estuarine shoreline stabilization decisions in North Carolina on human and natural dimensions.”

May was an especially celebratory time in the Polk home. UNCW graduated her with a doctorate and her husband with a double bachelor’s — the first in his family to do so — in information technology and cyber security.

Shortly after she was offered the job with North Carolina Sea Grant, he accepted a job at Corning Credit Union.

“This is home. This is home and I want to see us thrive. I want to see our people be OK and for devastating storms like (Hurricane) Florence not to have the life-changing impacts it had. If getting research out there and being able to help communities apply it, that’s one small thing I think I can do. I’m really optimistic about what can be accomplished in our communities. I really am hopeful that I can empower communities in that sense. Very dreamy, I know,” she said with a smile.

People have activities they pursue for a variety of reasons. The ones that tend to get the most enjoyment out of it are not the ones who do it to be better than somebody, or to always win — these people do it for the nature of the activity itself.

It may be no surprise that these people are often highly skilled at whatever the endeavor they have chosen and usually experience success. And so it goes with fishing. Approach it for the intrinsic values and don’t worry about “winning,” the success will follow.

Chris Ellis goes fishing for the pure joy of it, the opportunity to experience things he could not otherwise and share those experiences with his friends and family. It’s not an accident that he also happens to be quite good at it and is one of the people who will be catching fish when others might not. By focusing on the why and the how instead of how much, he gets more joy and hence more success. Fishing is a journey, not a destination. The fish will follow.

A native North Carolinian, Ellis  was born at Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune and he lived out his formative years in Carrboro. The lakes and ponds of central North Carolina proved to be his training ground.

“I’d do any kind of fishing I could — bass, bluegill, and crappie in local farm ponds, creeks, ditches, or lakes like University Lake or Jordan,” Ellis told Coastal Review.

Ellis credits his family members for getting him started.

“My father Wayne Ellis and grandfather Robert Ellis were my main influences and they took me everywhere. My whole family fished, from my grandparents to my mom.”

Even when he was young, Ellis knew the saltwater would be calling him.

“We’d take weekend trips to Atlantic Beach and Pine Knoll Shores to fish the piers and I loved it,” he said.

Catching spots and blues would have to suffice for a few years though. Like so many, he moved away from home as a young adult.

“After college, I headed to the Midwest, living in the Indianapolis and St. Louis areas for work,” he explained.

In 2000 Ellis started working for Auto Zone as regional loss-prevention manager for 100 auto parts stores in the St. Louis region. He said his philosophy then and now has been all about training and taking care of people.

“Coworkers need to understand the why behind the what of their jobs. If there is no understanding of the end result, it’s just another task,” he said.

That includes treating the people who work for him well, with the understanding that they will then do well. He said that family-style communication led him to becoming the loss-prevention manager for more than 1,000 stores and leading a whole division in the largest auto parts retailer in the nation.

For the past five years, Ellis and his wife Rachel, son Emerson, and daughter Lelaina have been surrounded by water in Sneads Ferry. Ellis takes his family with him to the beach that’s less than 10 minutes away, often to fish, but also many times just to eat ice cream and enjoy the view. Emerson loves to fish the ponds on the golf course where they live.

“My wife and kids enjoy being around the water and love to fish. My son is a lot like I was growing up and spends his free time fishing, if he’s not playing baseball or golf,” said Ellis.

He also has a brother who loves to fish, “Scott and his family enjoy fishing as well.  They mainly fish in Atlantic Beach area where they have a house,” He said. “My mom enjoys fishing when she can get away but not as often anymore.”

There really isn’t any kind of fishing Ellis won’t do but he has his preferences.

“Fly fishing for redfish has got to be my favorite, whether hunting for tailers and crawlers, or sight fishing in clear water,” he said.

And for Ellis, fishing is not just a loner’s endeavor. He said the aspect of time together with others has genuine appeal.

“It’s really a team effort with you getting your fellow angler in the right position to make the cast while poling the skiff,” he said.

The fall run is really where Ellis gets a lot of action, especially chasing false albacore and casting for speckled trout in the surf.  And although there is so much fishing possible nearly just outside his front door, he likes to travel, too.

“We take a few trips a year to West Virginia or the North Carolina mountains to trout fish,” Ellis said, adding that he’s caught some big rainbows out there. He is always attempting to fish beyond what he has already mastered, because he knows that is the only way to grow.

Ellis’ philosophy is reflected in his professional accomplishments. Auto Zone recently made him an offer of promotion, and he and his family are set to move to the company’s corporate offices in Memphis, Tennessee. But he said there is zero chance that he won’t find the best fishing near his new home.

“The key is being out on the water and fishing. Time on the water makes a better angler. Even when you aren’t catching fish you are still learning,” he said. “I think a successful day is being able to spend some quality time with friends or family. Regardless of if you catch fish or not.

“The true test to whether you enjoy someone’s company is if you are able to spend a whole day on the boat with them and want to do it again.”

Take a young man who is taught that the best things to do in life are in the outdoors, give him the smarts to excel at a major university such as Duke, a business acumen that would allow him to do well in any venture, and what do you end up with?

If you’re talking about Capt. Tom Roller, you get a highly successful fishing guide and award-winning conservationist.

Roller has been guiding anglers to catch everything that swims around the Carteret County area for 20 years. He has a unique outlook that has allowed him to follow his passion to protect and preserve our fisheries, and he has been involved with committees and meetings that have led him all the way to a seat on the North Carolina Marine Fisheries Commission.

First appointed to the commission by Gov. Roy Cooper in 2020, Roller, owner of WaterDog Guide Service of Beaufort, has been an avid fisher since he was little.

“My Dad says the best and worst thing he ever did was teach me to fish. I was absolutely obsessed since my very early childhood,” he told Coastal Review.

That obsession led him on countless quests to find the best fishing spots.

“When I was a kid, we moved around a lot. It drove me to fish every retention pond, creek, ditch and anywhere I could possibly get outside and explore,” he said.

The Roller family eventually settled in suburban Indianapolis, not exactly known as a fishing hot spot.

“I went to high school in Indiana and lived in the suburbs. When I was there, I bet I fished every single retention pond in a 20-mile radius,” said Roller.

Still, it was saltwater fishing that called to him during family vacations to the North Carolina coast, and it pulled him back.

“In the end, being away from the big water is what ultimately drove me to settle where I wanted to be, near the coast where I spent much of my childhood summers, so I could chase all those big fish I was always dreaming about,” he said. “I’ve lived here for more than 25 years, and I’ve been a full-time guide for 20.”

During that time, he’s developed a philosophy that drives him, and it’s based in sustainability.

“If I had a mission statement, it would simply be, ‘Healthy fisheries take care of their fishermen.’”

Most of Roller’s family share a similar outlook that’s reflected in how they choose to spend their free time.

“Most people in my life are outdoorsy, otherwise we’d never see each other!”

Roller also subscribes to Emerson’s notion of how to have a purposeful life in that he wants to be useful, honorable, compassionate, and to have made some difference. In that light, his passion for fish and fishing has led him to a second calling, that of being an activist and getting involved with preserving the very things that give him so much joy.

“I love our natural resources, and I love the North Carolina coast — and all outdoor places — so much that I have been hyperfocused on being involved in conservation and management, in an effort to hopefully conserve our fisheries and ecosystems for future generations,” Roller said.

That focus led Tom to serve on committees and get involved, where he’s not shy about his passion.

“I’ve served on federal advisory panels for bluefish, Spanish mackerel and king mackerel. In the state I’ve served on advisory committees for southern flounder and blue crab. Currently I am appointed to the main fisheries rule-making body in North Carolina, the North Carolina Marine Fisheries Commission,” Roller said.

He also serves on the South Atlantic Fishery Management Council. And he gets involved with nonprofit conservation groups and is a founding board member with the American Saltwater Guides Association.

His tireless work has not gone unnoticed. He was presented the North Carolina Wildlife Federation’s prestigious Governors Award for Marine Conservation in 2022.

“It was truly one of the great honors of my life,” he said.

With all the different types of fishing possible on the North Carolina coast, Roller said he can’t choose which one he likes best.

“My fishing is based on maximizing access to North Carolina’s super diverse inshore and nearshore fisheries,” he said, adding that there’s an amazing bag of different fish he can pursue on any given day. “I love fishing inshore for red drum, nearshore for false albacore and mackerel, and wreck and bottom fishing for flounder and grouper-snapper species.”

Roller has participated in tournaments from time to time as well.

“I have fished inshore tournaments for red drum but haven’t in a couple years. When I was fishing the local circuits, I did quite well, consistently placing pretty high and winning a couple,” he said.

And, as you might guess, he has a hard time pinning down where his favorite quarry is.

“If you had to ask me to pick something for late summer, I’d say flying to Alaska to fly fish for silver salmon and big rainbows or go offshore of North Carolina and deep drop for a swordfish,” he said, clarifying that it really just depends on the time of year. “If you ask me in the fall, I’ll probably tell you it’s fly fishing for false albacore off of Cape Lookout. In June, I’d tell you it was tossing topwaters for big trout.”

And with his characteristic sense of humor, he added, “Confused? Me too.”

There is lot that a longtime successful fishing captain can teach about having a good day on the water.

“It’s always important to note that the fish, unlike in a lake or river, are not always there. As they say in the Outer Banks, ‘Fish have tails and no homes.’”

How can we relate that to catching fish?

“Make sure your equipment is good, your knots and leaders are strong, your hooks are sharp and your boat and motor are in good working order,” he advised.

Finally, a thought for those who don’t get to fish as often as Roller: “If I was looking for a guide myself, I’d be looking for an older, more experienced professional or a young up-and-coming full-timer who is fishing their face off. Either one will likely give you a great experience,” he said. “Time and days spent, even in a smaller window of time, are invaluable to being a successful angler. In the long term, it’s experience. The accumulation of days simply makes you that much better.”

DUCK — Two women scientists, longtime remote co-workers, recently met on the Outer Banks to celebrate the new annex at the renowned U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ Field Research Facility, better known as the Duck Pier.

But their roles and rank among the nation’s premier military and civilian scientists is a notable achievement in their own right.

“We are now 50-50 men and women,” Katherine “Kate” Brodie, senior technical manager and senior research oceanographer at the facility’s Coastal and Hydraulics Laboratory, said during a tour of the annex in January, referring to the pier’s science and engineering staff. “Which I think is a really great accomplishment for women.”

The $4.3-million annex consists of laboratory and research administrative spaces in support of the organization’s expanded military research mission.

Standing alongside Brodie in the annex’s secure room, Mihan McKenna Taylor, senior scientist at the U.S. Army Engineer Research and Development Center in Vicksburg, Mississippi, noted pointedly that the nearby lactation room illustrates progress women have made in the workforce. “The closets are no fun,” she said, recalling the only quiet spaces once available for staff to nurse babies. 

As fellow scientists employed by ERDC, Brodie and McKenna Taylor’s careers exemplify not only how women can excel as engineers, software technicians and physicists, but also the importance of science, technology, engineering and mathematics, or STEM, role models for girls.

Only about 11% of teen girls plan to pursue STEM careers, compared with 35% of boys, according to the American Association of University Women. Although women make up about 28% of the STEM workforce, the gender gap is widest in the fastest-growing and most highly paid fields: 16.5% in engineering and architects and 25.2% in computer and math, according to the National Girls Collaborative Project.

Brodie, who graduated from Dartmouth College before earning her doctorate from William and Mary School of Marine Science at the Virginia Institute of Marine Science, focused on geological or geophysical oceanography. In her role today as technical manager at the Duck Pier, she helps develop and manage ongoing and future research, as well as mentor early career researchers.

A National Science Foundation fellowship in the summer before her senior year at Dartmouth changed her interest from Earth science to marine science. One of the projects involved working on a model that used current data from radar antenna in Chesapeake Bay to forecast where a person who fell in the water would be located, based on the currents. That was when she learned to code and to see the relationship between math and the dynamics of physics.

“I left that internship feeling really excited and saying, ‘I want to go to graduate school and do oceanography.’” Ultimately, Brodie learned the coding skills that gave her a big leg up in the field of marine sciences, which don’t typically require strong math and computer science or programming skill sets. 

“And I think they 100% should be because in the job that I do today, that is all I am doing,” she said. “You need to understand the physics, you need to understand the oceanography, but to do anything with that data, you need to be able to code and you need to understand the math.”

Early on, Brodie, whose expertise is in using remote-sensing observation equipment to collect real-time data in the surf zone, said she was inspired by McKenna Taylor.

“When I started at the FRF (Field Research Facility) itself, I was one of two women on the science and engineering staff, and the only other woman at the facility was our administrative support at the time,” Brodie said in a recent interview, recalling when she began her job right out of graduate school in June 2010. “I was the youngest by probably about 10 years. And so, I think, at that time, there was not a lot of equality.”

Brodie’s collaborative work often required her to visit ERDC’s main laboratories in Vicksburg.

“I would walk into many rooms where I was the only woman and I think the exception to that was probably the first time I met Mihan,” she recalled. Even back then, before McKenna Taylor was a senior scientist, Brodie said, she was presenting her research with “such a presence and with such personality.”

“I just thought it was so cool that there was this really accomplished woman scientist who was commanding the room — it was definitely male-dominated,” Brodie said. “That really, really struck me as a young woman scientist … particularly in the field of coastal science and engineering.”

Still, over the years, Brodie said, the number of women coastal scientists has grown, and she has met numerous accomplished women researchers, engineers and academics at numerous conferences and events where she has attended.

In time, Brodie, too, was considered one of those very accomplished female scientists. Slender, with blond hair and a casual style, Brodie could be mistaken for a college student. Although she’s not flashy about her brain power, her ease and clarity in explaining the technology and science at the Duck Pier makes it clear why she has a senior position.

Young women graduate students started approaching her at conferences, which led to those young women doing internships at the Duck Pier, and later being hired there. So before long, the pier’s technical staff was half women.

“You know, I didn’t actively have the goal of creating a science staff here at the FRF that was 50-50 split, women and men,” Brodie said. “And so, I think in some ways that’s also impressive that we ended up there without actively selecting for it.”

The 176-acre Duck Pier, which opened in 1977, is ERDC’s only coastal field observation facility. With its 1,840-foot steel and concrete pier and 140-foot-high observation tower, it is ERDC’s only location that conducts continuous observations and collects extensive and detailed data on coastal processes.

In collaboration with the Army’s Maneuver Center of Excellence, the new 4,008-square-foot annex is focused on research in developing methods to protect and inform military forces, especially operations in the littoral, or nearshore, coastal areas.

As Brodie put it during the Duck Pier tour: “I want to digitalize a surfer’s brain.”

Surfers are experts at reading real-time beach conditions and figuring out how to navigate them safely to achieve their goal, which is wave riding. For the military, the goal is getting personnel and vessels through the surf zone without tipping or other mishaps.

One of Brodie’s first assignments at the Field Research Facility was a more military-funded project that studied how remote-sensing technology could be used to assess a coastline. In other words, how can technology replicate in real time the information a surfer collects and interprets when looking at the waves and currents?

It turns out that the years of civil works research at the Duck Pier as well as its unique instrumentation and techniques developed for its observations and models, Brodie said, were assets to the evolving needs of the military.

“We were well-poised to transition those to help the warfighter with their recent focus and shift toward littoral environments,” she said in the later interview.

Starting with imagery collected from unmanned aerial systems and using Duck Pier instruments, over time Brodie and the ERDC team developed integrated sensing. The technology incorporated relevant data collected from LiDAR scans of a beach, satellites, buoys and towers that recorded information about waves, currents, winds and other factors that influenced the nearshore. Now the software is being readied to make the leap from the research and development pipeline to production.

With the success of the “surfers’ brain” software, funding for the research grew, and the Department of Defense mission expanded to support not only the Army but also Navy and Marine operations. 

“So I would say that that initial project, we’ve been able to grow that and show the value of the technology that we were developing,” Brodie elaborated. “I think if you think about the current sort of climate that we are in, in the world right now, and thinking about where some of the next future conflicts may be, a lot of those locations may involve needing to cross through the littorals or through coasts in some capacity. And so I think there’s been a shift DoD-wide to focus back on the littorals, away from desert environments where the Army has really been focused for the last 20 years.”

Over at ERDC headquarters in Vicksburg, McKenna Taylor oversees a scientific discipline called “near service phenomenology,” or the study of the interface of air, land and sea with the human domain, and a specialty in terrain assessment and manipulation. If it’s a tunnel, a bridge, a building or other things that humans manipulate within the Army’s research domain in the water, the air and the land, it’s probably part of Taylor’s expertise. That would include sensing technologies, most geophysically based, such as infrasound, hydroacoustics and seismology. 

“We’re considered long-term strategic thinkers. It takes 15 to 17 years to field any technology that started from embryonic conception, all the way out to warfighter usage in the way our acquisition and fielding works in the Army now,” she said in a later interview. “I’ve taken a wild and crazy idea from basic research in 2005, and it was fielded with engineers or fighters in 2021.”

Like Brodie, McKenna Taylor started at ERDC right out of graduate school, except she began as a research geophysicist in 2005. With an undergraduate degree from Georgetown University in Washington — a major in physics, a minor in chemistry and an unofficial minor in music — she earned her doctorate in geophysics from Southern Methodist University in Dallas.

Her visit to the Duck Pier was her first in a professional capacity, but she had often come with her family to the Outer Banks from Greensboro, where she grew up. 

McKenna Taylor said she was always good at math, but a seventh grade National Science Foundation physics camp had a big impact on her future career choice. At Georgetown, she said, there were typically “two women and 12 dudes.” But the year she studied physics, it was the opposite. Turns out that other women had also attended summer physics camp.

After earning her doctorate, she resisted the siren song of the oil and gas industry, a job many with her education were offered.

“It was super not for me,” she said. “I wanted to make a difference, not make money. And the bottom line in oil and gas is the bottom line.”

The Corps’ research and development branch, which is funded by sponsors and not by Congress, offered her a flexibility to be creative and have a family life, while still being part of a team focused on the national good. 

“And that kind of combination really appealed to me,” she said. “It’s fun. You know, you can change what you do five times a week or every five years. Depending on what you are investing your time in. And if you’re the sort of researcher that loves the challenge and likes to create your own vision, it’s phenomenal.”

If there is a stereotype of a woman scientist, McKenna Taylor is not it. She acknowledges being opinionated and assertive: “There’s a lot of blowback to it. I fundamentally don’t care.” When she attended the event at the Duck Pier, she was dressed in a full-length purple, pink and lime-green Scottish kilt, a gift from her husband. She talks exceptionally quickly, barely pausing while explaining complex science and head-spinning levels of government within ERDC and the DoD. At the same time, she is open, self-depreciating and funny.

She also plays viola, violin and string bass.

“Right now, I play in a band, I play in an orchestra, I play in a wedding quartet,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I like to think of it this way: Physics is just the music the universe makes. The music the universe makes that we can write down in a different language is the mathematics of physics, or geophysics, specifically. So to me, they’re not different. They’re just a different expression of the same language and feeling and perspective on the world.”

As a mother of two boys, McKenna Taylor has had to navigate the same stressors as other women around childcare and the demands of parenting, especially prior to when federal parental leave was provided. But as a team leader at ERDC, with her supervisors’ support, she deliberately approached work with the belief that fathers and mothers deserve a “whole life balance” that supports family life as well as work.

“It’s important to have a whole life,” she said. “And what that means to each person is very different. But if you have someone who feels satisfied with their whole life balance, they work their tails off. They feel invested.

“I firmly do not believe you can have it all,” she continued. “But you can make choices to have the parts of you that need to be satisfied to exist as a human. Those choices should be yours to make and they should be options.”

But there’s a lot more than that balance that will bring more women physicists and engineers into the workforce,” McKenna Taylor said. The education system needs to be more hands-on. It needs to allow girls to experience the adventure in research. It needs to empower students to have the freedom to fail — “It’s how we learn,” she said — and it needs to let students blow things up.

“I think we need a revitalization of the importance of good, solid, critical thinking and scientific education, from starting people in prekindergarten all the way up through advanced degrees, the respect that science needs to regain,” she said. “You get talking heads that denigrate expertise, and that handicaps us as a country, because if you can’t strive for excellence, what do you become?”

Dr. Carresse Gerald knew before she was in kindergarten that she wanted to be a veterinarian. 

“I love animals and loved to learn about them. I watched National Geographic and Animal Planet often,” the Winston-Salem native told Coastal Review. “I especially enjoyed learning about exotic animals like Komodo dragons. So, it made sense for me to want to become a vet. My grandfather also had horses and I figured I could come home and take care of them.”

Her love of animals led her to pursue a career in science, technology, engineering and mathematics, or STEM, and she is now an assistant professor in North Carolina Central University’s Department of Environmental, Earth and Geospatial Sciences.

Her love of STEM also led her to connect with an educator at North Carolina Coastal Federation to help her students learn more about their coastal environment. The Coastal Federation publishes Coastal Review.

Gerald is one of the growing number of females in STEM careers. 

Though women make up nearly half of U.S. workers, they are still “vastly underrepresented” in the STEM workforce, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. 

In 1970, 38% of U.S. workers were women, of those 8% were in STEM. By 2019, women made up 48% of all workers, of those, 27% were in STEM, “but men still dominated the field. Men made up 52% of all U.S. workers but 73% of all STEM workers,” the Census notes. 

In 2019, there were nearly 10.8 million workers in STEM occupations, which account for nearly 7% of all U.S. occupations, according to Census Bureau estimates.

Gerald earned her bachelor’s in animal science, when she studied large animals such as livestock and poultry, followed by her master’s, which built upon her undergraduate work focused on animal health, both at N.C. Agricultural and Technical State University.

“The research I conducted was to analyze hog barn dust effects on Porcine epithelium,” she said, or pig tissue. “My Ph.D. is in Energy and Environmental Systems and my dissertation included research characterizing hog barn dust and the effects of the dust human airway cells.” She earned her doctorate from N.C. A&T, as well. 

After a few years as a postdoctoral research associate at University of Nebraska Medical Center, in 2016 she joined N.C. Central. She and her husband reside in Graham with their four kids aged 16, 10, 2 and 9 months. 

As a female in STEM, Gerald said it can be challenging to balance work, personal and family responsibilities.

“I also try to make it a point to advocate for myself as much as possible,” she said. “One positive about being a female in STEM is encouraging other young females in STEM. I love working with students and increasing motivation of young students to pursue graduate degrees, internships and community service in STEM.”

Gerald said that she is using her role in front of the classroom to encourage other women to become leaders in STEM. 

“It is easy to reach the students in my classroom. I even have had students ask if their friends could attend field trips or listen to a lecture,” Gerald explained. “I also work with student organizations, and it helps me to motivate females to engage in STEM. Our student organizations are open to non-STEM majors, so it is always awesome to see history and criminal justice majors engaging in STEM activities.”

She said her research team is currently analyzing fecal coliform, bacteria that originates in the intestines of warm-blooded animals, and pharmaceutical compounds in surface water from an urban watershed, Third Fork Creek. She uses a nematode worm model, Caenorhabditis elegans, to determine if the collected water affects their growth and chemotaxis, or ability to find a food source. This type of worm is often used in research to study human diseases. 

One of her graduate students is analyzing air quality for volatile organic compounds, or VOCs, and particulate matter, PM, inside a nail salon and “we are collecting nail salon dust to expose to airway cells to see if the dusts will induce inflammation.”

She connected with the Coastal Federation a few summers ago through another nonprofit organization for which she volunteers.

“I am a board member for the nonprofit, The Institute of Landscape, Art and Sustainable Spaces,” she said. Each summer, the organization sponsors a free summer program called EnviroKIDs, and one of the stops happens to be sponsored by the Coastal Federation at Hammocks Beach State Park.

“The first time I went, I brought my two oldest kids and we had so much fun,” Gerald explained. “I also met the sweetest, extremely knowledgeable environmental educator, Rachel Bisesi. From then on, Rachel has been integral in making sure we increase students in STEM from speaking to my classes and planning trips, she is gem.”

Bisesi explained to Coastal Review that she was leading a teacher workshop session with another group the day she met Gerald.

She was explaining to the teachers that most of the state’s big universities have marine labs on the coast but after noticing one of the teacher’s bags had an N.C. Central logo on it, Bisesi said she realized that really wasn’t true, as not many of the historically Black colleges and universities have marine labs, although Elizabeth City State is on the coast. 

“Then I finally connected that Dr. Gerald teaches at Central, and reached out to see if she’d be interested in a partnership. It grew from there, and I’m so glad because she is such a joy to work with, and is doing really great work,” Bisesi said.

Gerald said that she brought her first group of N.C. Central students to Hammocks Beach State Park in April 2022. 

“It was a great time and the students enjoyed collecting organisms along the estuary.  We identified a few crabs, fish, snail and oyster species,” she said. “When I took the second group in fall 2022, I had several students tag along again because they enjoyed the first time so much! In the fall, we had a chance to see dolphins and jellyfish! I still have students talking about the previous trips and ready for another one.” 

When Gerald isn’t in the classroom, she said she enjoys working with her church congregation, Piedmont Church of Christ, spending time with her kids and exercising.  

“I also love reading books and listening to audiobooks. I am also a huge ‘Star Wars’ and Marvel fan and love watching the movies and the various series,” she added.

There’s a new trail to hike in North Carolina, appropriate for a state where legislation was passed making 2023 the Year of the Trail.

The 50-mile Jockey’s Trail does not (yet) have the panache or cachet of the more well-known Mountains-to-Sea Trail or perhaps the Appalachian National Scenic Trail. It is fashioned much like the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, with a combination of forest trails, roadways and some beach hiking, but this new trail is different.

It begins at the entrance of Jockey’s Ridge State Park, which is also the eastern terminus of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, and heads due north to a 19th-century boundary marker at the border of North Carolina and Virginia, the unincorporated community of Carova.

But perhaps what is most unique about this new trail is how it came to be. The Jockey’s Trail was not the work of a committee or group of like-minded hikers. It was just Luke Halton and his vision of a through-trail from Nags Head to Carova.

Halton grew up in a Marine Corps family stationed in North Carolina. He graduated from Catawba College in Salisbury in 2001 with a degree in information systems. It was at Catawba that a focus of the school’s program stuck with him.

“One of their their major efforts for all their students — they actively promoted lifelong learning,” he said. “That is something that has stayed with me.”

The idea for the trail originated from more than one experience Halton had over the past few years. The COVID-19 pandemic, he readily offered, played an important role, although, he also noted, he was just ready for a change – and to take a hike.

“For me with COVID, I just wanted to be outside. I didn’t want to be locked down. And I just started the Mountains-to-Sea Trail,” he recently told Coastal Review. “I was just going to do a week or two, but I just kept going.”

He found that, much like for other through-hikers, the trek was just one part of a larger experience.

“Somebody doing a through-hike, a lot of times, is looking for a change of lifestyle or an escape or a restart. And that was kind of the same thing for me,” he said.

Then he got a message from a friend who was getting married in Spain. Halton was still on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, but, “There was no way I was going to miss the wedding.”

In a twist of fate, pandemic travel restrictions created time for Halton to explore the trails of Europe.

“That was absolutely awesome,” he said.

When he left for his friend’s Madrid wedding, he could not fly directly to Spain. He could, however, fly to Ireland, spend a month there, and then continue on to the wedding. And there in Ireland, he encountered a remarkable trail system.

“In Ireland, there’s hundreds, if not thousands, of trails. They’re known for being hillwalkers,” he said.

His hiking took him across the Wicklow Mountains south of Dublin to trails that crossed the island to the Atlantic.

In Spain, there was the wedding and then more hiking, this time on the Camino de Santiago, a group of trails that radiates out like the spokes of a bike wheel, covering almost the entirety of the Iberian Peninsula.

What was particularly compelling, Halton said, was the communal nature of sharing the experience of the trail — having a place to stay every night and reflecting with other hikers what their day was like.

“Just meeting all these people staying at the same place every night. Maybe seeing some again, maybe not. That was an unbelievable experience,” he said.

When he returned from Europe he finished the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, got to Jockey’s Ridge State Park and decided to move to the Outer Banks because he felt there was unfinished business.

“I came out here (to the Outer Banks) because I was curious about why the Mountains-to-Sea Trail didn’t go all the way from Jockey’s Ridge to the Virginia border. That’s pretty much it,” he said.

There were some important lessons from the European experience that Halton brought back with him. One, that there is a communal feeling among long-distance hikers and through-hikers, Halton observed, something he described as, “a real hiker community.”

That community is on full display on a cold morning in early March as a dozen or so women of the OBX Women’s Adventure Club and Halton gather at one of the Nags Head Woods trails. They are there to support club member Stephanie Anderson who is doing a final warmup hike before taking on a through-hike of the Appalachian Trail.

“I can’t remember how or why we messaged each other,” Halton said. “But as soon as we started communicating, we automatically connected because she’s doing the Appalachian Trail.”

Some of what he learned in Europe, though, is difficult to apply to the Outer Banks. For example, the concept of a hostel or common meeting place at the end of each day’s hike does not exist along the Jockey’s Trail. Although, Halton pointed out in his discussions that there is still work to be done on lodging for the hike.

One important lesson he learned and has applied is to keep each day’s distance manageable.

“All the mileage is under 16 miles,” he said. “That 16-to-20-mile range, that’s when you start getting blisters and fatigue. You want to enjoy this; you want to take your time and be able to stop because there is going to be so much to see.”

An online aerial video of the trail uses Google Earth to show the route and some of the highlights, including some of the most iconic Outer Banks landmarks.

The trail includes a hike past the Wright Brothers National Memorial. The second day includes an easy trek through the Audubon Pine Island Sanctuary. The third day ends at the Currituck Beach Lighthouse in Corolla. And along the way, there is a scenic segment through Nags Head Woods.

The most difficult stretch is probably the 13 miles from the Currituck Beach Lighthouse to the state line boundary marker. That stretch also includes a considerable amount of beach hiking along the way to Carova. But that is also the realm of the Corolla wild horses, giving hikers a popular wildlife attraction to look forward to.

For Halton, who founded The OBX Way, a nonprofit that made it easier for him to place signs for the route and work with state and local governments, the Jockey’s Trail represents numerous ways to enjoy the coastal outdoors.

The trail can double as a bike route, although the last 11 miles on the Carova beach requires fat tires. It is also a trail that allows hiking at any pace.

Someone asked Halton early in the process of creating the trail about the record time for hiking it, and since to the best of his knowledge, he had been the only one to have completed it, he pointed out his four days were both the fastest and slowest times.

Most importantly, though, Halton sees the Jockey’s Trail as a way for hikers to experience some of the joys of being on a trail for few days without having to lug a 30- or 40-pound pack and everything that goes with it.

“If somebody has dreamed of doing a through-hike, but just never had a month or so to get away for days, (the Jockey’s Trail) gives you a real taste of what a through-hike is like without excessive logistic challenge,” he said.

I’ve often been surprised by the people I’ve met when I’ve been fishing and didn’t realize who they were until we started talking afterwards. TV stars, millionaires, fly fishing gurus — the list is long and interesting.

Noted shark biologist, writer and scuba pioneer Eugenie Clark once said, “Sharing the fun of fishing turns strangers into friends in a few hours.” If you’ve been surf fishing in the Wrightsville Beach area there’s a chance a future Hall of Fame high school lacrosse coach was standing right there.

Paul Gilbert has been coaching lacrosse at Cape Fear Academy for 29 years. In that time, he has sent many young men along to play college lacrosse and his current team has a few who are being recruited to play at the highest levels. He has impacted their lives forever with his family based coaching philosophy, and along the way winning two North Carolina Independent Schools Athletic Association Division 2 championships including, “… last season with a win over our arch-rival Forsyth Country Day School in Winston.”

Gilbert’s been teaching history at Cape Fear Academy the whole time. He, his wife, Rachel, and two daughters, Sarah, 28, and Molly, 21, live in Wilmington.

“I moved to Wilmington from Washington, D.C., in 1993 when my first daughter was on the way,” he said recently, adding that the lobbyist life wasn’t for him. He says he “escaped.”

Coach Gilbert loves to fish and has been fishing and involved with lacrosse his whole life. He credits his father and uncle with getting him started.

“I grew up in Armonk, New York. My first memory of fishing was walking through the woods with my father (Tom Gilbert), uncle (John Gilbert) and brother (Greg) to a lake they called Popes Pond in Wilton, Connecticut.”

It wasn’t any high-tech thing either, he explained. “We were using cane poles that they used to give away when you bought a rug.”

Vacations to North Carolina got him the saltwater fishing bug.

“We would go to the Outer Banks during spring vacation when I was little and throw squids (old-timey molded lead casting spoons) that my grandfather made,” Gilbert said.

Gilbert got serious about the sport of lacrosse soon after. He played at noted Long Island lacrosse powerhouse Byram Hills High School in Armonk, New York, where they captured the Section 1 Class B championship his senior year in 1986.

Gilbert has his coaching scheduled around fishing.

“Fall in Wilmington is fishing season. I used to coach fall sports, now fall is reserved for fishing,” he said.

His fall favorite is surf fishing for sea mullet.

“We hit the surf for Virginia mullet after the tourists leave and the holes start to form at the south end of Wrightsville Beach.”

But it’s not just fall. Gilbert stays away from basketball season too.

“In the winter, I mostly fish from the surf for speckled trout with Mirrolures.”

The big surf red drum also get him on the water.

“I will collect oysters and clams in the winter and will walk the surf, chasing the big schools of reds that often congregate,” he said.

Lacrosse season gets going in February, which ends his fishing for a while and marks the beginning of the winter doldrums. But the timing is perfect as the season winds down.

“Lacrosse ends around the third week of May, when the water is starting to warm. The bonito bite is usually on fire and the first Spanish mackerel are starting to show up,” the coach explained.

Gilbert doesn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. When I talked to him he was telling me about some big flounder he’d caught around somebody’s dock.

He also usually has a bass fishing tournament for his players one day near the end of lacrosse season. They will fish residential and golf course ponds for bass and send him mobile phone pictures. They’ve been doing it for six years. It’s called “Hoist The Harpoon,” and the winner gets to carry the harpoon that is the team symbol for the Cape Fear Academy Hurricanes.

The combination of fishing, family and lacrosse pulls it all together.

Summer will find him offshore.

“My brother-in-law, Steve Wright is my fishing partner. We go out to the 23-mile rock in the summer to do some trolling and bottom fishing.”

The duo does pretty well on deepwater bottom-dwellers.

“He’s the captain and puts us on the fish. I’m the mate and rig the baits,” Gilbert said.

Pier fishing is another bit of fun he indulges in, and he loves to throw Gotcha lures off Crystal Pier when the Spanish are around.

Gilbert also offers a pretty decent bit of coaching to all of us anglers: “Gotta fish where the fish are,” he advises.  “A full box is always good, but a nice day on the water with a friend or two is what it’s all about.”

That philosophy was formed through years of teaching and coaching, and Gilbert doesn’t see himself slowing down quite yet.

“I think I have a few more good years in the classroom and on the lacrosse field. Probably keep doing what I’m doing.”

ROCKY POINT – Perhaps no one can describe Sheba Shiver’s connection to her family’s land better than she can.

“I always feel like I’m closer to my father, his spirit and, of course, Mother Nature and God the Father.”

The land that has been in her family for more than 100 years is Shiver’s refuge, one flanked by fields and woodlands rising up from the banks of the Northeast Cape Fear River.

This is where she picked plums from trees and scooped up pecans as a child. The land her great-grandfather Herbert Moore purchased in 1919 with earnings he’d saved while serving his country as a soldier during World War I was handed down from one generation to the next.

Blacktop slicing through the property bears her family’s names.

There’s Moore Town Road off N.C. Highway 210 in Rocky Point, a Pender County community about 17 miles west of Wilmington. Thankful Road is named after her great-great-grandmother Thankful Moore. And, Rebecca Kennedy Road, which bears the name of Shiver’s great-great-aunt.

Offers to buy the land come in “all the time,” Shiver, 59, told Coastal Review last week.

Not a chance.

But what to do with 50 acres was a question weighing on Shiver’s mind when she moved from California in late 2019 — after her father’s death that September — to be close to her mother.

“I said, ‘Mom, we should be able to do something with this land besides cut grass,’” Shiver said.

She wanted to try her hand at farming, but she did not want to wait a year to qualify for in-state college tuition to take horticulture courses.

She planted a garden, experimenting with vegetables and herbs to determine what she could successfully grow. The thought of waking early every Saturday morning to sell her harvest at a farmer’s market did not appeal to her.

What about doing something for the land, she thought. Something to enhance it for animals like the white-tailed deer that roam its fields and woods. Something that will help it weather unforgiving floodwaters that swell from Northeast Cape Fear during rain-soaking hurricanes.

Her answer: Trees. Thousands of them.

‘Just me and the trees’

The sun warms us on a chilly March morning as Shiver periodically bends over young trees so small you’d easily step on them if not keeping a careful eye.

She pulls a white tag from a stack she holds in one hand and gingerly but securely loops one around the top of what appears to be no more than a sprig rising from the ground.

Shiver is dressed the part: Her knee-high rubber boots are dusted by yellowish-green pollen thanks to a particularly early season.

She’s sporting noticeably baggy clothes. The oversized, gray Dickies’ jacket she wears hangs past her hips. The blue jeans she’s wearing are almost tentlike on her thin frame. Black suspenders hugging her shoulders keep the jeans loosely around her waist.

These were her father’s clothes.

“I’m going to be out here a long time,” she says with an easy smile.

We’re standing in a 5-acre field nestled between woods and the large, manicured yard where hers and her mother’s houses rest high off the ground on stilts to keep them from floodwaters.

What’s left of the house where she grew up from about the age of 10 until she left for Howard University rests in a heap not far from where Shiver is tagging the tiny trees.

Floodwaters that rose from the river after Hurricane Floyd in 1999 overtook the brick ranch house. Shiver had all intentions to fix up the house, but flooding during Hurricane Florence in 2018 finished off the structure for good.

The rubble mound is a solemn reminder that the river, though unseen from the old homestead and surrounding land, is not far away.

Shiver figures she’s tagged about 600 trees so far — a slight dent considering that more than 10,000 were planted in this field last month (with her mother’s permission) by those who work for the contractor who ordered the trees and 10 volunteers with The Hobby Greenhouse Club in Wilmington.

In all 10,225 trees – chestnut oak, white oak, wax myrtle, elderberry, southern catalpa, silky dogwood, flowering dogwood and persimmon – were planted within an eight-hour span Feb. 22.

Shiver was frankly and pleasantly surprised at how quickly the trees were planted. She’d been waiting to get them on her land and in the ground since receiving word the grant she’d applied for in 2021 had been approved.

Shiver is the recipient of an environmental quality cost-share program that aids agricultural landowners in conserving natural resources on their property.

The Environmental Quality Incentives Program, or EQIP, is offered through the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Natural Resources Conservation Service and provides a 75-to-25% cost-share for grant recipients.

Shiver has not yet received the grant money. She didn’t want it up front. She wanted roots in the ground first. She said she’s unsure of the total cost she’s incurred, but the estimate hovers around $14,000.

The money will come. Now is the time to tag, a labor of love for a woman who left a profession as a clinical psychologist to return to the family land in which her heart is rooted.

“I felt like this was my time to be out here with the trees,” she said. “It’s just me and the trees.”

Maybe more trees will be planted on the land, she thinks. She’s interested in growing trees to help bees pollinate. She wants to do more with other areas of the land.

“There’s a lot of land here in North Carolina,” she said. “People can go elsewhere. It’s not that I’m trying to be greedy. It’s about keeping it in the family so that my nephew and other children that come along have a legacy rather than it being developed. I always think about what to do with this land.  I’m working on a land management plan. I’m thinking conservation. Maybe a conservation easement or historical landmark. I’m going to figure it out.”

JARVISBURG — Lewis Wescott was a Black man who was born in North Carolina just before the Civil War and died just before World War II. Little has been known about his life except that he was a surfman, a Coast Guard captain and a hero who participated in one of the most daring ocean rescues in Outer Banks history.

But thanks to the serendipitous discovery of his gravesite by a retired Coast Guard commander, we now know that Wescott, a member of the famed all-Black crew at Pea Island Life-Saving Station, lived two weeks short of 83 years, and he is buried next to his wife in Jarvisburg, a community on the Currituck County mainland.

“I didn’t really need to do much research,” Gavin Wente, the property owner, recently told Coastal Review. “I spent almost 30 years in the Coast Guard, so I was familiar with the lifesaving service on the Outer Banks, specifically the story behind Pea Island … and I was familiar with some of the names like Etheridge and Wescott.”

Richard Etheridge, the first Black appointed keeper in the U.S. Life-Saving Service, led his six all-Black crewmen — including Wescott — into a seething, stormy sea at night during an October 1896 hurricane to rescue terrified passengers and crew on the wrecked schooner E.S. Newman. With just a rope tying two surfmen together, the crew took turns plunging 10 times into the water, eventually rescuing every single person.

With the end of Reconstruction the next year, followed by decades of Jim Crow, the amazing feat — and the heroism of the Pea Island crew — soon faded from history.

When Wente and his wife Renee moved in April 2022 to their new home on 31 acres along the Currituck Sound, they were aware of two fenced-in cemeteries on the land.  But it wasn’t until around Thanksgiving, when the overgrowth of poison ivy and Virginia creeper had died off, that the couple and their children and grandchildren were able to investigate.

“We’re out there starting to clean off some of the gravestones, and they started in the back corner where Wescott’s grave was,” Gavin Wente said. “And there must have been a foot of pine straw and overgrowth on top of that crypt.”

But before long, Wente recalled, his daughter announced that she had found a gravestone engraved with the words “Capt. L.S. Wescott.” After looking at the grave, he went online, checked the records, and was thrilled to confirm what he suspected.

“Yeah it was him,” Wente said. “So, we think that was one of the signs that this is where we were supposed to be.”

Not only did the couple find it significant that Wente knew who Wescott was, his grave was also the first one the family cleared.

“We don’t know why they went back to that righthand corner and started there,” said Renee Wente. “They said they just felt something under their feet and there it was.”

The Wentes said that the county shows no record of Wescott being buried on their property, and she is not aware of any record of his life in Currituck.

Wescott’s grave, a large crypt with engravings on top of it, is within the larger cemetery at the rear of the property, which appears to contain about 15 to 20 graves, Gavin Wente said. Near Wescott’s grave are two gravestones, one marked William Wescott and the other, Henry Wescott.

There are also small gravestones with initials, ending in “W.”

Another small cemetery with about 10 graves is at the front of the property.

After Wente, 61 and a former Coast Guard commander, discovered Wescott’s burial site, he contacted Coast Guard Atlantic area historian Bill Thiesen about finding the grave.

“I think it’s extremely significant,” Thiesen told Coastal Review. “I would have assumed that all of the final resting places for the Pea Island lifesavers would have been known, if not recognized. And then I learned that actually, Wescott’s was kind of lost and forgotten.”

In general, he said, Coast Guard personnel burial sites don’t get the attention that those in other military branches do, partly because it was not an official military organization until 1915, when it also absorbed the lifesaving service. Also, the lifesaving service had been regarded as more of a federal humanitarian service.

All other members of the Pea Island crew have some sort of marker or monument, except for William Irving, who may be interred in a family cemetery that has been forgotten, which was likely the case with Wescott.

Thiesen said that records prior to 1915 are slim, especially for Black individuals and other minorities. Even the “tremendous and remarkable achievement” of the Pea Island crew in the E.S. Newman rescue was not honored, or even noted by the Coast Guard for 100 years, when members were posthumously awarded the Gold Lifesaving metal in 1996.

Before the Civil War, some of the Black members of the U.S. Lifesaving Service were enslaved, but there were also free men who served, Thiesen said.

“The military agencies were officially desegregated by Truman in 1948, but the Coast Guard had already integrated African Americans into the service during World War II,” Thiesen said.

Even earlier, some Black men served under the same rating system as white men, including at Pea Island. “Not very frequently,” he added,” but far earlier than other military organizations.”

Starting in 1880, Richard Etheridge was the first African American to command a base of operations in the U.S., as keeper of the Pea Island Life-Saving Station on Hatteras Island. After Etheridge’s death, Wescott was appointed keeper in September 1900 and served until 1916.

Significantly, he was the officer in charge of Pea Island when the U.S. Life Saving Service merged with the Revenue Cutter Service to form the modern-day Coast Guard.

The Coast Guard also had Black officers in charge of cutters — Coast Guard vessels longer than 65 feet —  one in 1928, Thiesen said, and there was also an all-Black cutter crew in 1920.

“And then the Coast Guard really was the trailblazer for desegregation, starting in 1942, when some Coast Guard cutters were used as kind of experiments for desegregation to see how it worked out before they introduced it to the Navy.”

Thiesen said that the Coast Guard plans to acknowledge the Wescott burial site with photographs and writings, but otherwise it is limited from doing anything more formal, especially on private property.

“The Coast Guard doesn’t have the funding to recognize all of the Coasties that have been interred over the years,” he said.

But the Wentes’ plan to try to get assistance in clearing and cleaning the cemeteries, and continue to investigate Wescott’s history, as well as the other graves.

“When we look at it, I just can’t help but think to myself ‘My word! This graveyard has been here when our nation was in its infancy,’” Renee Wente said. “It’s just remarkable.”

Wente added that the family feels so honored to have the burial site on their property and wants to make sure that the Pea Island hero gets the recognition he deserves.

Although the nonprofit Pea Island Preservation Society has not been directly involved in anything to do with the Wescott burial site, the group is pleased about the increased attention on the Pea Island story.

“I think this discovery is a great reminder to do the research of this ‘uncovered history,’” said Joan Collins, the group’s director of outreach and education. “Because this history hasn’t been told.”

Gavin Wente still can’t get over that such a historically important Coast Guardsman has his resting place on his land.

“It’s sad that Capt. Wescott’s legacy was lost from years of neglect in this grave yard,” Gavin Wente wrote on a Facebook post. “It will be this old, retired Coast Guardsman’s privilege to ensure this is corrected and I will maintain this grave yard as long as I’m able.”

You just never know what kind of work the people you meet on the coast are doing until you get to know them. Dave Bernstein is a highly regarded geospatial mapping specialist who uses high-tech tools to map underwater contours for updating nautical charts.

He also happens to live in Morehead City and is an outstanding angler.

“Through graduate school at NC State University, I had an opportunity to work at the coast in marine science with UNC and NC State,” he said recently, adding that it led to a life on the water. “Through working in the marine labs, I met Chris and Sloan Freeman, and a few years later Geodynamics was formed.”

They three have been working together a long time and it’s paid off. “20 years later, Geodynamics has grown to a leading name in the hydrographic research and mapping industry.”

The company does more than make seafloor maps.

“We also use advanced remote sensing techniques like LiDAR (light detection and ranging) and GNSS (global navigation satellite system) to map the coastal environment by ground, remote aerial platforms, airplanes and helicopters. These terrestrial surveys support coastal engineering, design and construction as well as coastal change and resiliency studies.”

It’s tremendous work and it’s happening right here. But there’s a lot more to Bernstein than his work. He loves his family, and his wife and daughter are extremely important to him.

“My wife of 20 years, Kathy, is a school counselor and career coordinator for Carteret County Schools. Our daughter, Josie, is into gymnastics, but will drop everything to go fishing.”

Josie has always loved fishing, said Bernstein. “I started her at around 4 years old and I think she was guided into it at the right pace.”

Bernstein also loves to get the whole crew out on the boat and enjoy the outdoors.

“We love getting on the water and learning together about our environment, fishing, boating and beaching. You can typically find us somewhere around Cape Lookout,” he said. 

Bernstein is known around here as a fine angler and has competed successfully in regional redfish tournaments.

“I got into fishing some tournaments and taking on some sponsors back in 2004. I never really thought of that as a professional adventure, but more of an extension of the competitive life of sports,” he said. “I did pretty good in tournaments with many top 10 finishes and even won some.”

He credits tournament fishing with making him a better angler all around.

“Redfish tournaments forced me to think more about how to catch fish and why fishing can be good or bad at times,” he said.

Nowadays, he doesn’t fish competitively too often, but he still gets out there from time to time.

“Josie and I enjoy doing benefit tournaments, like the Carteret Cancer Crew Fishing Tournament,” he said.

Originally from Richmond, Virginia, Bernstein said his love of fishing began as a kid on trips to the beaches between Virginia Beach and the North Carolina state line. Fishing brought together the men of the family.

“When I was growing up, we visited Sandbridge Beach. These trips with family were where I learned to surf, fish and grow a passion for the ocean and coastal environments,” He said. “My dad, Dr. Allen Bernstein, and my uncles, Steve and Harold taught me surf and pier fishing. I vividly remember fishing for bluefish, spots, and croaker at the Sandbridge Pier.”

He moved to the North Carolina coast in 2001, saying the area “was a great fit.” And as soon as he could, he got serious about his fishing.

“Once I got my first boat, I quickly built a passion for redfishing. Sight fishing, casting lures, and anything else; I enjoy it all and it’s always different.”

However, he does have his favorite methods.

“I love working the marsh banks and shallows with topwater plugs for redfish. You can hear, and often see, the fish coming in and out of the fringe grass to feed. When they crush your lure, it’s exhilarating!”

He’s learned a lot about it over the years and said the key to consistently finding fish is not to get stuck in your ways.

“Go out and explore. When you learn more about the areas you already know, and find new areas, you build a more comprehensive understanding of the whole system.”

The last part of the puzzle is getting them to bite, figuring out what will make those fish want to feed. 

“Determine what they are eating, and the bites will follow,” he advised.

Recently, Bernstein has been heeding his own advice and expanding his own horizons.

“I’ve enjoyed fishing the inshore waters, but now I’ve been exploring outside the inlets and fishing nearshore waters for cobia, king mackerel, Spanish mackerel, false albacore and Atlantic bonito. Wreck fishing is next, but I’ll need a bigger boat,” he said, adding that, “Sometimes my expectation is not to catch a lot of fish, but instead to try something new or just have quality time with my daughter. Then the fish are a bonus.”

Geodynamics, which has seen significant growth in the past decade, is becoming a much bigger operation. In 2021, Geodynamics was acquired and merged into NV5 Geospatial. The company announced in 2021 that the “combination brings together complementary, advanced technologies – Geodynamics’ full-ocean depth sonar-based hydrographic and geophysical surveying with NV5 Geospatial’s topographic and bathymetric capabilities – to deliver detailed insights for a variety of applications, including coastal management, flood monitoring, ecosystem protection, research and more.”

“We’re growing now with some great support from our NV5 team and our 20-person team has quickly jumped to 40.” Bernstein sees this continuing. “Our next 10 years is all about building the team, refining how we manage our work, maintaining the culture, and keeping innovation in the forefront of our work. We have a few new larger vessels coming online in 2023 that are designed to support offshore infrastructure development projects such as submarine cables, wind energy, and sediment resources.”

Bernstein’s family also looks forward to being together more.

“We want to travel, explore the Caribbean and the Mediterranean,” he said. “We’re hoping for more time on the boat and beach, and many family memories to be had.”

Dr. Andy Read’s first encounter with a whale was, in his words, “the most gross, disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

He was a college student who had just landed a job with the Ontario Science Centre in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, putting together the skeleton of a beached fin whale that couldn’t be saved.

The catch? The center’s team hadn’t been able to fully clean the skeleton before they brought it back from Nova Scotia, and it was buried somewhere in Toronto until they had the time to finish the process – that was Read’s job. “I almost quit the first day,” he said.

It’s a good thing he didn’t. Read’s close encounter with that whale skeleton fascinated him and was the beginning of a prolific career. Now the Stephen A. Toth Professor of marine biology at Duke University and director of the Duke University Marine Lab in Beaufort, Read studies the ecology and conservation of whales and other marine mammals.

Read’s move to North Carolina was a geographic stroke of luck. After completing his doctorate at the University of Guelph in Ontario, where he studied harbor porpoises in the Bay of Fundy, he took a postdoctoral position at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts.

During that time, he met his wife, Kim Urian, who was working at the Mote Marine Lab in Florida. The distance was a challenge, and the pair agreed to settle down somewhere in the middle. Read started at Duke in 1995.

North Carolina has been the perfect place for Read to pursue his research and conservation work. “It’s just a great place to do what I do. We have lots of access to marine mammals and sea turtles here,” he explained.

The diversity of animals he encounters in his research is a big perk, and another geographic stroke of luck: North Carolina sits at the confluence of the tropical Gulf Stream and the boreal Labrador Current. This brings a huge diversity of animals to our waters, which host 36 species of marine mammals and five of the six species of sea turtles found in the United States.

Navy sonar study

Read is currently leading U.S. Navy-funded research on one of these 36 marine mammal species, the Cuvier’s beaked whale, also known as the goose-beaked whale, off the coast of Cape Hatteras. His team is working to understand how and why the midfrequency active sonar the Navy uses to detect small submarines affects the behavior of these whales. Cape Hatteras is a great place for this study because it has a high density of beaked whales and a relatively low level of Navy training activity. 

Cuvier’s beaked whales are both the deepest-diving mammal in the world and the mammal capable of staying underwater the longest. They use their exceptional abilities for hunting — according to Read, they forage at an average depth of about 1,500 meters, or close to a mile, but they can descend to depths twice that.

In 2020, a team of researchers including Read recorded a Cuvier’s beaked whale dive that lasted 222 minutes – over three and a half hours. “It’s like running a 5K, taking a breath when the starting gun goes off, and you don’t take another breath until the end of the race,” said Read. “Which is just … How does a mammal do that? They shouldn’t be able to!”

Unfortunately, midfrequency active sonar alters these impressive diving behaviors. Cuvier’s beaked whales that hear the sonar tend to surface very quickly, interrupting their hunting and putting them in physiological danger from decompression sickness. Read and his team think this is because the sonar sounds like killer whale calls. Killer whales are the only natural predators of Cuvier’s beaked whales. They don’t usually dive very deep, which must make hearing their calls thousands of meters below the surface extra disconcerting for the Cuvier’s beaked whales.

“When they’re foraging … where they should be safe from killer whales, all of the sudden they hear the sounds of their predators, and they panic,” Read said. The team’s most recent experiment took place with the help of the USS Farragut, a Navy destroyer, in August 2022. They hope to continue their work until at least 2025.

Read and his students are also studying the ecology of short-fin pilot whales and bottlenose dolphins off Cape Hatteras. He’s also been involved in marine mammal studies all over the world, including a project on humpback whales in Antarctica. “But now that I’m director of the (Duke Marine) lab here, it’s hard to get away for a couple months every winter” to do that research, he said.

It’s not just the director’s job that keeps him busy. Read has also recently been appointed by President Biden as one of three commissioners of the federal Marine Mammal Commission.

The commission was established in 1972 as part of the Marine Mammal Protection Act. It is charged with oversight of all marine mammal research and conservation initiatives in the country, most of which are performed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or NOAA.

While Read had previously served on the commission’s committee of scientific advisers from 2003-2008, this is the first time he has been confirmed by the Senate as commissioner. He was also nominated by President Obama, but never confirmed.

One of the commission’s species of concern – and a personal one for Read as well – is the North Atlantic right whale. “The population is declining, we have fewer than 400 whales left, fewer than 70 adult female whales,” he said.

North Carolina is an important migratory corridor for the species. North Atlantic right whales travel yearly between their feeding grounds in New England and Canada and their breeding grounds off the coast of Georgia and eastern Florida.

One major threat to right whales is entanglement in fishing gear. Ship strikes are another, and are particularly relevant in North Carolina. There are already seasonal restrictions on large ships coming into North Carolina ports in Morehead City and Wilmington. Those restrictions may soon affect smaller ships as well, if changes proposed by NOAA Fisheries to the existing right whale vessel speed rule go through.

“It’s seasonal, so it’s only from November through April. But we have a big bluefin tuna fishery here in some years … We’re very interested to see what NOAA Fisheries decides to do with that rule. That’ll have an impact here locally,” Read explained.

A necessary challenge

Balancing conservation and industry is a necessary challenge, and one Read readily takes on.

Early in his career he helped develop and test small pinging alarms to warn dolphins and porpoises away from gillnets. These pingers are now used by fishers around the world, and when used properly they can reduce bycatch of porpoises by about 90%.

“I think that’s the thing, probably, I’m most proud of, and working directly with fishermen has been challenging, but it can also be very rewarding,” Read, who speaks admirably about the ingenuity of the fishers he has worked with throughout the years. said.

Fisheries and coastal management can be a complex but critical undertaking, particularly when there are endangered species like right whales plying the waters. After decades in the field, Read remains hopeful that society can figure out some of these pressing conservation issues.

“We are industrializing the coastal ocean. But we have so many resources in this country and such good legislative frameworks through the Marine Mammal Protection Act and the Endangered Species Act,” he explained. However, simply having those frameworks is not enough – we also need the political will to find a way to coexist with marine mammals, he stressed.

So how can the average North Carolinian help on a daily basis? According to Read, figure out where the shrimp, tuna and other seafood you eat comes from, and seek out seafood that’s harvested in a way that has a “gentle, light touch on the environment.”

Despite our state’s abundant marine resources, much of the seafood we eat still isn’t locally or sustainably harvested. Consumers’ small changes could make a big difference for marine ecosystems and local fishers alike. “It’s worth a little investment. We should all think about where our food comes from,” said Read.

Next time you drive across the Oregon Inlet Bridge, take a look down and toward the sound. Is anybody kayak fishing with a fly rod? If so, chances are Capt. Harry Meraklis is nearby, directing them and showing them where and how to cast.

Meraklis is a 100% fly fisherman and has been guiding fellow fly anglers on the Outer Banks for 11 years.

He grew up in the Pittsburgh area. “I actually tied flies at about 12 years old in our basement in Pittsburgh, PA. My dad Sam would wake me up at 4 a.m. on weekends and we were off. Mostly we’d be fishing from his johnboat mounted on the top of his painting van.”

Mr. Sam has been gone for a long time, “… but if he knew — and I hope he does — that I was a fly-fishing guide at Oregon Inlet he would light up in a smile.”

Later on, Meraklis met another friend who influenced him quite a bit.

“My friend Don Beideman reignited my passion for fly fishing streams in central PA later in life, and I have not picked up a spinning rod in quite a while,” Meraklis said.

Even though he grew up in western Pennsylvania, saltwater fishing has been Meraklis’ passion for a very long time.

“My dad started bringing our family to the Outer Banks in 1960. We would wade fish Oregon inlet and surf fish,” said Meraklis.

He couldn’t stay away and later bought a home in Kitty Hawk, where he would eventually move full time.

“I’ve been a homeowner and frequent visitor of the Outer Banks for most of my life and have lived in Kitty Hawk for well over a decade,” said Meraklis, who added that he’d been guiding ever since. “I work for OBX On The Fly, a fly shop and outfitter located in Manteo, and am a fly guide and instructor. I primarily wade fish from kayaks.”

Meraklis will usually launch from the Oregon Inlet Fishing Center and uses motorized kayaks to hit a shopping list of spots that are within easy reach.

“Electric motors extend our range and get us from point to point swiftly,” he noted.

Meraklis’ target species are the usual suspects for inshore fishing in North Carolina: redfish, speckled trout, flounder, striped bass, sheepshead and bluefish.

“I love to hunt the flats with a fly rod,” he said.

Meraklis offered a couple of tips for those wishing to try fly fishing from a kayak.

“A stripping basket can be the ticket when drift fishing in a kayak. We frequently have stiff winds that can wreak havoc with your line management by blowing it out into the water and tangling it,” he said.

As anyone who has done it can tell you, having a knot in your fly line when you finally see your prize swimming in front of you can make you say things that would render your grandma very disappointed. He added that if you don’t have a stripping basket, “A wet towel draped over the floor of the kayak at your feet can also be quite effective in reducing tangles.”

The windy conditions on the Outer Banks can be a challenge for those used to fly fishing in small streams, but there are tricks to help a caster unused to the windy conditions.

“A water load cast is when you lay the fly line onto the water and use that tension to flex your rod. This keeps the wind from blowing your line all over and can be a quick and effective way to deliver your fly.”

Keeping your line tight to the fly is imperative in detecting strikes and setting the hook.

“It is really important to keep your rod tip down and point in the direction of the fly to increase your chances of a good hook set and catch more fish,” advised Meraklis.

Another tip from Meraklis for those who have never saltwater fly-fished before: “Practice your cast before you get out here! The longer you can cast, the more water you can cover, which means more time your fly is in the water.”

Meraklis has even devised his own fly. “I created the Dirty Harry about a decade ago and have not used anything but that fly since. It imitates any of the local bait merely by varying the color and how it’s fished,” he said. 

Crawl it along the bottom to imitate a crab, move it quickly through the water when minnows are on the menu, and when shrimp are around, a twitch-twitch-pause retrieve will do the job. These flies are sold at the fly shop in Manteo and Harry donates $1 from every sale to the North Carolina Coastal Federation’s Adopt an Oyster program.

Meraklis offers one last tip for light tackle anglers in his exceptionally busy area.

“At Oregon Inlet, avoiding boat and kayak pressure is key. It does no good to find fish, only to have them shut down by inexperienced or inconsiderate anglers,” he advised.

And one bit of advice that can help to consider no matter where or how you fish: “Picking the right time on any particular day, in conjunction with a tide that has good current flow is key. As a wade fisherman, hunting the flats in a stealthy manner, and committing to a good flat can pay off in a big way.”

Sharing these nuggets of wisdom is a family tradition. As Meraklis’ father did, he has passed that love down to his sons and grandson. When you teach them right, they will get the love themselves.

“My grandson cannot wait for me to visit so he can go fishing with ‘PaPou,’” Meraklis said proudly of Sammy, who lives near Philadelphia. “The kid’s got mad skills for a 5-year-old. He has his own Trout Unlimited tackle bag full of goodies and loves to select his next lure or fly.”

Second of two parts. Read part 1.

Reading a history book as an undergraduate student, a northeastern North Carolina woman paused, surprised — “Well, there’s my grandfather.”

Ramona Brown, now 61, was in a history class at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, working toward her degree in journalism, a field in which she’s worked for 40 years.

She was learning about the turbulent school integrations in Charlotte during the Civil Rights era.

“And that’s when I discovered this story out of Hyde County,” Brown said. “I shared it with my mom and she said, ‘Oh yeah, I was a part of that, along with your granddaddy.’”

Her grandfather, Golden Mackey, was quoted in David S. Cecelski’s 1994 book, “Along Freedom Road.” He was an alumnus of one of Hyde County’s two Black schools, both of which officials planned to permanently close in the process of integration.

Brown was 7 and 8 during the 1968-69 school year, when Black and Native American parents in Hyde County carried out one of the longest and most successful Civil Rights protests in the country, spurred by their disagreement with this school desegregation plan. They didn’t send their children to school that year, held nonviolent protests daily for months, marched on Raleigh twice and rid the county of the Ku Klux Klan with a gunfight, as Cecelski details in the book.

Seeing her grandfather’s name in print prompted Brown’s interest in genealogy and a desire to seek more information out about that time, which she remembered, but hadn’t fully understood as a child.

She recalled her grandfather hosting community meetings along with other ministers, sometimes in homes but “principally at the quote-unquote ‘Black’ churches at the time,” where they discussed strategies for approaching the school board and government officials “to integrate the schools in a way that was not racially infused.”

Her mother, Ethel Mackey Brown, served as a secretary for the meetings.

Throughout the South, whites persistently fought against school desegregation, sometimes violently. “The depth of white resistance to sending their children to historically black schools was also reflected in the flames of the dozens of these schools that were put to the torch as desegregation approached,” Cecelski wrote.

And when it happened, desegregation was a one-way street: Surviving former Black schools were almost always shuttered; Black and Native American teachers and principals were fired en masse; Black and Native American students were sent to white schools; and only white teaching styles and school cultures were preserved.

An entire generation of Black principals were “eliminated,” Cecelski wrote. And North Carolina was second only to Texas in the number of Black teachers who lost their jobs.

“By 1966 and 1967, few black communities failed to raise objections to school closings and teacher displacement,” he wrote. But while other communities in the state had protested, “one of the strongest and most successful protests, the first to draw national attention to the problem, occurred in one of the South’s most remote and least populated counties.”

Hyde County’s community of people of color didn’t want to sacrifice everything for integration. They organized and they committed fully for the long haul.

The meetings centered on “how to successfully integrate the schools so that the people of color don’t feel like they’ve lost all of their traditions and their cultures … and how Caucasians don’t feel this is a bad thing and that they’re losing as well,” Brown explained.

Brown prefers the term “people of color” because, as she learned from her grandfather, her family has not only African descent but deep Indigenous roots as well.

Golden Mackey’s children were all adults at the time, “but he was such a proponent of education, he got involved in it,” Brown said. He took part at the marches at the state legislature, but she didn’t know of any involvement in the gunfight.

Mackey was involved with the “Star of Zion Church of Christ, Disciples of Christ,” which his father had helped found. As Cecelski’s book notes, the church community was intimately involved in not only the organizing and sustaining the peaceful protests, but also in supporting the children’s education while they were out of school.

That echoed earlier school history in the county.

“Before there was public education for all children in Hyde County, there were parochial schools there,” Brown said. “This particular church — my great-grandfather Benjamin Mackey was the superintendent and founder of that school there for children of Native American descent and African descent.”

The protesters prevailed despite enormous challenges.

North Carolina’s government officials would prove to be the best in the South at subverting the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education ruling.

“White politicians in North Carolina opposed school integration with the same conviction as their counterparts in other southern states, and with more acumen,” Cecelski wrote. “In the spring of 1955, the General Assembly resolved that ‘the mixing of the races in the public schools … cannot be accomplished and should not be attempted.’”

To that end, state politicians “engineered a series of legal and administrative barriers to school integration that, although very effective, did not appear openly to defy the Supreme Court.”

The Pupil Assignment Act and the Pearsall Plan were two such measures. They shielded the local education boards from potential lawsuits, allowing North Carolina to avoid school desegregation for more than a decade after Brown v. Board of Education — “longer than many school districts in the Deep South and Virginia where militant resistance to school desegregation had occurred,” Cecelski wrote.

And by fall 1967, Hyde County was an outlier in the state, with just three Black students attending classes with white students — the lowest biracial school enrollment in the state.

Not only was white resistance to integration constant, but Black students felt uncomfortable in the white schools. They missed their Black teachers and principals who had served as “their most important role models and counselors,” and they missed the high expectations and family-like school atmosphere they were used to, Cecelski wrote.

Students encountered racism from classmates, teachers and administrators, and their parents experienced harassment that included death threats and intimidating messages from the KKK, as Cecelski detailed.

After years of protests, negotiations and federal pressure, as Cecelski wrote, by the end of the 1969-70 school year, Hyde County officials agreed to keep both the Black schools, O.A. Peay and Davis, open.

That alone was a remarkable victory in the South, but there were more. Among other agreements, officials decided to keep both the Black schools’ principals; preserve the teachers’ jobs; hire a Black assistant principal at the historically white Mattamuskeet School; start an African American history class; keep former educator and principal O.A. Peay’s name on that school; and allow use of all three of those schools for the Founder’s Day and the Homecoming celebrations that had played a big role in Black school and community culture for years.

“These were, in the end, the ultimate successes of the Hyde County school boycott,” Cecelski concluded.

The North Carolina Highway Historical Marker Program cast a marker in 2018 to denote the historical significance of the event. The marker was formally dedicated in May 2019, with Alice Spencer Mackey, a student during the time of the protest, in attendance, according to the Ocracoke Observer.

To read more about the marker, visit http://www.ncmarkers.com/Markers.aspx?MarkerId=B-76.