Ward Creek, low tide. The 

 brackish waters of the sound have 

 fallen, receding from the salt marsh in 

 their twice-daily ablutions. I steer the 

 truck off the road, drop the windows 

 and pull salt air deep into my lungs. 

 Overhead, a tern skirls and dives into 

 the water; it re-emerges, water droplets 

 showering from its wings, a small fish 

 shuddering in its beak. I step out of the 

 truck and walk to the marsh's edge. A 



hundred feet from shore, a Core Sound 

 workboat floats, tethered to a stake and 

 surrounded by hummocks of sand 

 rising from the shallow water like the 

 backs of breaching whales. Suddenly, 

 the white wooden bow swings from 

 east to north, pointing a shifting wind. 

 I turn to take the freshening breeze full 

 in the face. 



Stronger winds than these — 

 hurricane, nor'easter, mullet blow, gale 



— have shaped these islands, these 

 trees, this shoreline, the people of this 

 part of North Carolina known as Down 

 East. I let the breeze fill the sails of my 

 imagination. In it I hear canvas ruffling 

 over a Core Sound skiff trailing net for 

 mullet. I hear breezes roaring through 

 the dunes and rising to hurricane 

 strength, driving a century's worth of 

 settlers off the vulnerable barrier 

 islands and into this nearest mainland 



2 MARCH/APRIL 1996 



