Category Archives: Sea

Sandy Waves

Yesterday the hurricane surged sound tide, flooded our town and streets. We waited it out with our vehicles stowed on higher ground, unable to drive anywhere. My vehicle of choice became a pair of chest waders. I walked to the ocean front to take in the spectacle of hurricane surf. The center of the storm was passing to our northeast, and the winds were howling from a westerly direction.

The beach was strewn with debris. There were pieces of houses and decks.

And there were pieces of Rodanthe Pier. This is the end, complete with rod holders. Lumber is a precious commodity, and I wish I could take it home with me.

After seeing powerful storms for most of my life, I’m still in awe with the experience.

Under the Influence

It’s been exactly a year since hurricane Irene churned through Pamlico Sound. In the aftermath, things are generally back to normal, but I have to admit I’m more apprehensive than I used to be. The subtle reminders are all around us. I don’t want to deal with it again any time soon.

The bridge at the inlet forged by Irene, is the hallmark reminder of the storm.

A first time visitor from the midwest recently asked me about living here, surrounded by so much water. How do we deal with storms? Yet he noted the stunning beauty of these barrier islands. That’s what makes it so special.

Hatteras Island exists because of the elements, and is being transformed every day. I told him that it’s a tradeoff. One has to come with the other. That’s the price we pay to live here on the ocean.

I love this time of year. The high tourist season is coming to an end, and this is a time of tropical influence.

Clouds and sky dominate the scenery.

A cumulonimbus shelf cloud rolls in as the ice cream truck drives on.

Torrential downpours have been common during July and August.

Sea Oats in full bloom are turning to gold.

Wispy cirrus clouds reflect the setting sun.

Cumulous clouds over the horizon mark the tepid Gulf Stream waters.

Rainbows come and go quickly.

Nightfall in the town of Waves. Cumulonimbus perhaps?

Every day is a gift.

Up, Up and Away

My dad, a professional meteorologist, would sometimes bring a weather balloon home for us to play with. I was captivated at how, being lighter than air, it could rise to the ceiling above me. I remember watching him release a weather balloon into the atmosphere. It was a pleasurable, even emotional experience as it rose higher and higher, then disappeared from sight.

Nowadays balloons are launched in other ways. They are used in a celebratory manner, at weddings, birthdays, and memorials. Several years ago as I watched the news, helium filled balloons were let go to honor each man killed in a West Virginia coal mining accident. Once out of sight, I wondered where those balloons might end up. One thing for sure, eventually they would come down to earth.

Derelict balloons often end up as litter on our beaches.

In January 2004, I saw a big leatherback turtle that had washed in at Oregon Inlet. The thousand pound reptile was just barely alive. On the scene were National Park Service personnel, two sea turtle biologists from the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, and a local volunteer veterinarian.

It was determined that the animal could not be saved, and that the best approach was to euthanize the creature. It was a solemn moment, as the lethal injection of sodium pentathol was administered to the turtle. In a few minutes, the leatherback lay lifeless on the sand.

State biologists Wendy Cluse and Matthew Godfrey wait as the leatherback, with syringe in its neck, is euthanized.

A necropsy revealed the sea turtle had ingested something resembling its natural food of jellyfish. The culprit was a once helium-filled balloon that had fallen back to earth. The errant balloon lodged in the digestive tract, making it impossible for the turtle to feed and stay alive.

I keep this image hanging on my studio wall, and it gets a lot of reaction from visitors. I try to educate folks that those soaring balloons descend to earth, always become litter and sometimes killers.

Irene, the New Benchmark

Despite our well intentioned preparations, hurricane Irene took everyone in our villages by surprise. I knew we were going to have a significant storm surge from the Pamlico Sound, as in storms of the past, but not to the extent that we got. In 2003, Isabel brought in 18 inches of water on my property. Floyd in 1999 was 24 inches. Bonnie in 1998 had 26 inches. The March storm of 1993 flooded with 50 inches of tide, and Irene came in with a whopping 66 inches. According to some of the old timers, the storm of 1944 was a benchmark by which other storms were compared. Flooding back then was apparently somewhere between the March storm and Irene. Hurricane Irene brought in more storm surge from the sound than any storm for the last 75 years. It is now the new benchmark for soundside flooding in our villages on this part of Hatteras Island.

Boarded up, an all too familiar sight.

Pamlico Sound tide blown out upon Irene’s approach.

Tide coming in ahead of the wind shift.

Smoke on the water as the shifted southwest wind picks up, blowing 50 to 60.

During a lull, I ventured to the beach for a shot at the ocean.

It was pure chaos, and I had trouble making it back to the house.

Good thing I wore my chest waders. 3 feet of water had already entered my yard, and I had 5 cats to rescue from the rising water. The barometer had dipped to 964 millibars and in the end dumped 6 feet of sound tide around my house. The water had risen to within a fraction of an inch from coming inside. We were extremely lucky.

I took this screen shot of my computer, using a battery backup, right after the power went off.

The next morning after the storm, the yard was a mess with debris.

The tide had gone right up to my heat pumps, and then some.

This is highway 12 in front of my house after the storm. It was eerily quiet, warm and damp. I would soon find out that many residents did not fare as well as I did. The road down the island had also been washed out.

There were many homes damaged or lost.

And of course, the electricity was cut off.

Also as a result, the cottage Tailwinds eventually fell into the sea.

The road at Mirlo Beach was destroyed.

A leaner at Mirlo Beach.

Highway 12 at the S-Curve.

A new inlet had been cut at the S-Curve, exposing cypress stumps of a forest nearly a thousand years old.

The inlet is actually an outlet caused from the sound rushing into the sea.

Another outlet was carved through North Beach Campground in Rodanthe.

A motor home at North Beach.

Gerald O’Neal surveys the mess at his family-run campground.

The campground’s general store was inundated with sound tide.

Lance Midgett’s house is over 100 years old. This is the first time a tide from Pamlico Sound has gone inside. His cleanup and rebuilding will take a long time.

As residents take on the daunting effort of rebuilding, debris is piling up along highway 12.

Since the day after Irene left, the Salvation Army has been there to help those in need.

They are providing 3 hot meals every day,as well as lifting our spirits.

Now the ferry system is the only way on and off the island.

For days, trucks have been running around the clock to deliver sand from a borrow pit in Avon. NCDOT hopes to fill in the gap at S-Curve cut by the storm surge.

Pallets are moved into place to enable trucks to dump sand for a new roadway. In the meantime, huge swells from Hurricane Katia threaten the shoreline.

Do you think this is really going to work? This is a classic “man against nature” scenario.

Meanwhile the debris continues to pile up along highway 12. This is far from over.







Beach Rendezvous

About this time in 2004, the first tropical system of the season developed in the Atlantic off of northern Florida. As the depression moved northeast paralleling the coast, it was not expected to hit land. In fact, there was no call for an evacuation. As the storm moved erratically, just off the east coast, it was eventually upgraded to Tropical Storm Alex. Still there was no evacuation order.

Then about 75 miles off of Cape Fear, with deep convection building due to the warm Gulf Stream, the storm intensified as Hurricane Alex. Approaching the Outer Banks, Alex quickly developed into a category 2 hurricane with winds in excess of 100 miles an hour. By then it was too late for an evacuation. The center of circulation came within 10 miles of Cape Hatteras, with the western eye wall sweeping along Ocracoke Island.

As a result, there was considerable flooding and high winds on Ocracoke and southern Hatteras Island. Hundreds of vehicles, mostly tourist-owned, were destroyed by salt water intrusion. So visitors were stranded without transportation to get home. Hyde and Dare counties got caught looking on this one, and the damage could have been so much worse. Fortunately, Alex took a more eastward turn and did no further damage as it moved away, speeding off as a category 3 hurricane.

That was another close call.

In my hometown of Waves, the rain and tide combined to choke our streets with water, a minor inconvenience. Winds never reached hurricane force either. I ventured out to the beach and saw an unusual sight of thrill seeking tourists riding out the storm. I’ve lived here a long time, and have never seen anything like it before or since.

The scenery was an interesting juxtaposition, and I photographed from an elevated perch.

The waves were beautiful, and so were the people.

Everyone was having a good time.

And then something special began to happen.

A young couple in front of me were caught in a moment of bliss.

And I could only watch through my camera. It happened so quickly.

If I didn’t know any better, I would swear he had just proposed.

Nevertheless, I suddenly felt that I had witnessed something very genuine.

As another couple strolled by, I continued to photograph. The overall scene had been intriguing, and not something that would typify my beachscape photography.

By late afternoon I was on the beach again, experiencing more of what Alex had left behind.

Other than Hurricane Earl missing us by 85 miles in 2010, Alex was about the last time there was any hurricane action around here. So far, so good.