desperately wanted to buy more land to 

 expand its facilities and protect the 

 adjacent natural resources. But the 

 corporation recently clear-cut the 

 balance of its acreage for timber, and 

 Bland says it's no longer valuable as 

 parkland. 



A few obvious remnants of the 

 Hurst-Sharpe saga are visible. One of 

 Hurst's descendants still looks after the 

 land. A park ranger since 1965, Hurst's 

 grandson Jessie Hines makes the rounds 

 every day and gives interpretive talks to 

 visitors. A granite rock and plaque 

 erected by the Sharpe family in 1990 



pay thanks to the doctor's contribution. 

 So far, no monument acknowledges the 

 black teachers or John and Gertrude 

 Hurst, although it is reflected in park 

 brochures and literature. The executive 

 director of the Hammocks corporation, 

 E.B. Palmer, wrote a letter to state 

 parks director Phil McKnelly request- 

 ing a complete acknowledgment, but 

 no action has been taken. 



Much of the story of this park 

 can't be told on a piece of paper. You 

 have to dig your toes in the sand and 



unearth it like a hard clam from a 

 mudflat. Or feel it as the soles of your 

 feet squeak against the fine, silicon sand 

 that blows through gray skeletons of 

 myrtles. You follow it with your eyes 

 to the sand-colored spots of a fawn 

 hunkered in a grassy dune. You hear it 

 in the clack-clack of a rail hidden 

 somewhere in the marsh. Or the splash- 

 ing beside your kayak as a spotted baby 

 flounder matches your strokes for a 

 few seconds. 



We paddle toward Bear Inlet an 

 hour before sunset. We'll turn back as 



Continued 



COASTWATCH 9 



