Sister 

 Beaches 

 Have 

 Little in 

 Common 



By C.R. Edgerton 



A subtropical wind coming off the 

 ocean grabs sand and hurls it against 

 elaborate beach cottages and expensive 

 cars. 



Fashionably dressed beachgoers 

 search for shells among rusty pipes 

 called into service every winter to 

 resupply the sand-starved beach. 



Sunbathers recline on lounge 

 chairs and blankets, seemingly unaware 

 of surfers just beyond the breakers and 

 fishermen on the pier above. 



A tern soars behind the island's 

 now non-existent dune line. He finds 

 little landing space, for the last lot on 

 Wrightsville Beach has been sold. 



Farther south, at Carolina Beach, a 

 young couple — honeymooners 

 perhaps — drift into the Seven Seas 

 deli and grill. He orders a sub, she a 

 hot dog. At the bar, a man in tattered 

 clothes finishes a sandwich, gulps beer 

 and grabs a hot dog to go. 



"See you tomorrow," he tells the 

 woman behind the counter. 



About a hundred feet beyond the 

 deli, a woman squints as she walks 

 from the Carolina Beach bingo parlor 

 into the full light of the sun. Her hair is 

 curled and pinned tightly to her head. 

 A cigarette dangles from her bottom lip. 

 She checks her huge leather pocket- 

 book and turns south down the 

 boardwalk. 



At the Kure Beach fishing pier, just 

 south of Carolina Beach, life goes on as 

 it has for decades: folks from all over 

 the southeast sling their lines into the 

 swelling surf, hoping for the big one 

 that always eludes them. 



When the fishing's bad, some 

 wander off the pier and into Bud and 

 Joe's Tavern on the north side of the 

 parking lot, or the small restaurants on 

 the southside. 



Sandwiched between the popular 

 beach resorts, Masonboro Island stands 

 totally undeveloped, a monument to 

 nature, a stretch of unspoiled coastline 

 amid overdeveloped shores. 



These, with the exclusive Figure 

 Eight Island to the north and Fort Fisher 

 to the south, are the beaches of New 



Hanover County. They exhibit a curious 

 contrast of the wealthy and the not-so- 

 rich; the white-collar condo and the 

 blue-collar boardwalk; the tall-masted 

 yacht and the fiberglass skiff. 



Unlike most North Carolina coastal 

 communities, change is slow here. But 

 it hasn't always been this way. 



A century and a half ago, New 

 Hanover's beaches were as barren and 

 uninhabited as Masonboro Island is 

 today. They were sought as places of 

 refuge and recreation, yet their inacces- 

 sibility left them undeveloped and 

 pristine. 



That was before the Carolina Yacht 

 Club made its appearance on Wrights- 

 ville Beach. In the mid-1850s, several 

 men, tired of rowing their small boats 

 to the island only to have no bathing 

 facilities, joined forces to build the bath 

 house. It was one of the first of its kind 

 in the nation. 



A railroad was built to the island 

 between Wrightsville and the mainland 

 in 1883 and local folks began to catch a 

 vision of the playground the beach 

 might become. Finally, the waterway 

 between Harbor Island and Wrightsville 

 was breached by a walkway. The 

 development of the beach had begun in 

 earnest. 



The Wilmington Sea Coast Railway 

 Company played a major role in the 

 development of Wrightsville as a 

 rendezvous for the wealthy. The 

 company offered moonlight excursions 

 to the island. 



The beach's popularity grew and 

 by 1897 about 50 beach cottages and 

 several hotels had sprung up where 

 before there had been only sand dunes 

 and sea oats. 



The greatest and perhaps most 

 famous of the structures was the 

 Lumina, a hotel ringed by hundreds of 

 lights. The resulting night scene became 

 not only a symbol of prosperity on the 

 beach but a navigational aid for passing 

 ships. 



The rich and famous cavorted on 

 Wrightsville Beach and gave to this 

 narrow strand its reputation as a place 



C. R. Edgerton 



