When land-buying sprees 

 started in the late 1800s, Currituck 

 residents often found themselves liv- 

 ing on someone else's property. 

 "Hunt clubs owned most 

 of this beach for years, " says 

 Shirley Austin of Corolla. 

 "Sometimes some of the 

 people actually lived on hunt club 

 property," she says. "They might 

 own their house but not the land it 

 sat on." 

 Most of the time, the 

 hunt clubs didn't mind, she says. 

 The homeowners were not trouble- 

 some. Some clubowners asked for 

 token rental fees. 

 Austin, whose father 

 worked for the Coast Guard, says 

 her family owned their house just 

 above the state line in Virginia. 

 They paid SI annual rent to the 

 landowner. 



Looking Back at the Land 



Waterlily, N.C 



The people of Currituck know what it is 

 to go around their elbows to get to their 

 thumbs. 



They boat across the sound to avoid long 

 drives. They use the beach as a road to 

 reach their homes. And they wait patiently 

 to take state ferries across the sound. 



They've been doing it since their 

 ancestors crossed the swamp and marsh- 

 land on a corduroy road made of logs. 



Before then, American Indians were 

 said to have crossed the shallow sound on 

 beds of oyster shells. 



But whatever the obstacles, people 

 managed. They farmed the land, fished 

 the sound, hunted the abundant waterfowl 

 and thrived as best they could in this 

 sprawling county. 



From the Virginia state line, the county 

 stretches south in three fingers bordered 

 by the Atlantic Ocean, the Currituck and 

 Albemarle sounds and the North River. 



Many communities can be reached only 

 by a boat, a ferry or a very long drive. 



Even by water, you have to know how 

 to "drive" in the shallow sound. Boaters 

 must carefully navigate the myriad shoals 

 in Currituck Sound, which is nearly 30 

 miles long and 3 miles wide. 



You can easily find yourself in 2 feet of 

 water out in the middle. 



The sound and its distinctive qualities 

 set the area apart from other coastal 

 habitats. Where else can you fish for large- 

 mouth bass and hear the roar of the ocean 

 less than a mile away? 



The sound is almost all fresh water, and 

 hasn't been linked directly to the ocean 



since New Currituck Inlet shoaled in 1828. 

 The subsequent flourishing of freshwater 

 vegetation such as widgeongrass and wild 

 celery became a prime attraction for 

 waterfowl. The proliferation of ducks, 

 geese and swans, along with an abun- 

 dance of fish, sustained the residents of 

 Currituck County. 



In the late 1800s, wealthy Northerners 

 flocked to Currituck, buying large tracts 

 of land on the banks and islands in the 

 marsh. There, they established opulent 

 hunt clubs that provided work for many 

 natives. 



"These were poor people," says Warren 

 Austin of Barco, who has been a hunting 

 and fishing guide for 30 years. "The 

 sportsman came down and he had money. 

 They tipped pretty good and you had a 

 good Christmas." 



Before "market" hunting was outlawed 

 in 1918, many Currituck residents killed 

 waterfowl by the thousands for sale to 

 northern markets. They packed the birds 

 in barrels around ice-filled cylinders. 



On the beaches, bankers worked for the 

 Coast Guard, lighthouse service or life- 

 saving stations. 



Small northern banks settlements such 

 as Wash Woods, Seagull and Poyner Hill 

 sprung up where coastal jobs were avail- 

 able. All except Corolla have virtually 

 disappeared. 



Early lifesavers on the Outer Banks re- 

 ceived little compensation for their long 

 hours of work. A keeper could earn an 

 annual salary of $200, a crewman $40 a 

 month. And some paid dearly for their 

 work. 



The entire crew of Jones Hill Station 

 died trying to save the crew of an Italian 

 vessel wrecked at Currituck Beach in 1876. 



Other jobs arose when construction 

 began in 1874 on the last major light- 

 house on the Outer Banks. Currituck 

 Beach Lighthouse, a red brick structure 

 150 feet tall, was lighted in December 

 1875. 



"My grandfather originally came here 

 from Hatteras in the late 1800s to this 

 lighthouse," says Gene Austin, whose re- 

 cent retirement as keeper closed the book 

 on three generations of Austins caring for 

 the Currituck light. 



For Austin's grandfather, Riley, tending 

 the lighthouse was a full-time job, and he 

 lived in the keeper's house. For Gene, it 

 was a weekly task. He checked on the 



Photo by C.R. Edgerton 



