The coastland times. [volume] (Mnateo [i.e. Manteo], N.C.) 1947-1959, 1953-10-09

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They are a pretty sight racing
each other across the flats or
along the beach.
There is not a Smith, Jones, or
Brown in Ocraooke, a situation
soon to be corrected by Sam
Jones, native of that part of
he State who went away poor
and came back a millionaire, so
1 was told, and is now building
a pa1atial home at the northwest
edge of the village. Like nothing
else at Ocracoke, it is said to be
costing about $150,000 to build.
Had I made my trip from
Chapel Hill to the coast by car
I would have had to return to
Atlantic on the Dolphin. AS it
was, I was free to follow the
Outer Banks northward. The first
lap in that direction had to be
made aboard the mail truck
driven up the island daily by
Charlie McWilliams, a stalwart
son of Ocracoke who knows how
to operate a vehicle in the deep
sand. We went up the ocean
beach, making about Is miles an
hour and with the hard-pressed
engine roaring so loud I couldn't
hear what Charlie said when he
tried to tell me about the skele-
tons of wrecked ships we saw
along the way.
The trip to the northern end
of the island took about an hour
and a half. Except for Ocracoke
village at its southern tip, Ocra
coke Island is nothing but sand.
Charlie told me that the middle
of the island was traversed by a
road firmer than the beach trail
but that is was too rough for him
pres gu ..'qleep o. u1eql 9Heqs
to use that morning on account of
his passengers, who included a
woman and two small children
in the back of the truck. 'Td
At the northern end of the is
land we reached the Hatteras In
let Coast Guard station, which
seemed to me the loneliest hui
man outpost I ever saw. The
young Coast Guardsmen there
looked strong, fearless, and tough,
and I could easily imagine them
navigating the inlet in a gale to
aid stricken ship and write a
new chapter in the North Caro-
lima Coast Guards saga of hero
ic rescues.
The automobile ferry that plies
across Hatteras Inlet is a small
crude affair powered by twin
diesel engines and operated by
rough, jovial giant who looked
as if he'd as lief face the devil as
anybody else. The inlet itself
was a wild place. Huge waves
struck us almost head-on from
the sound and flung spray all
over the boat, while to starboard
we could see great ocean combers
surging in from the Atlantic. In
the middle of the stormy inlet
was a sand bar covered with pei
cans and cormorants.
The ferry trip, after an inau-
spicious beginning, took about
As minutes from the south side
of Hatteras Inlet to the village
of Hatteras near the southern
end of Hatteras Island. The start
was unpromising because the re-
cent hurricane Barbara had
washed sand into the ferry docks
channel, choking it, and the
truck had to be driven aboard
directly from low bank, a tick
lish job for Charlie McWilliams.
After I had disembarked at
Hatteras Village I fell into con-
versation with a family from
Newport News, Va, who were
thinking of going to Ocracoke to
see if they could find out some
thing about some of their ances-
tors named Howard. I assured
them there were plenty of How
ards in Ocracoke and they made
up their minds at once to take
passage on the mail truck when
it made its return trip to Ocra-
coke an hour or two later.
First, though, they gave me
ride up the islands new hard
surface road to Buxton, where
they had spent the previous night
in a tourist cabin at Jeanette's
restaurant at the northern edge
of the village. They spoke so
highly of the food and sleeping
Accommodations at Jeanette's that
I decided to stay there all night,
especially since the daily bus to
Mays Head didn't leave It'll 8
o'clock next morning. According
ly, l got settled in one of the
tourist cabins, had fine blue
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