soon as we get to that next tree. No, 

 the next one. In the dusky light, we 

 spy two raccoons plucking oysters 

 from a tidal pool — watch them 

 quietly as we munch on cheese Nabs. 

 A musty-sweet smell of decay blows 

 through the cordgrass as we finally 

 head back to camp. 



Teachers, black and white, still 

 use this place. They use it as a living 

 model of nature for their students — 

 kids who've never seen a live whelk 

 or the papery necklace that contains its 

 eggs. We're zipped into our tent at 



night, lying on our backs. I shape a 

 depression in the sand for my hip- 

 bones and burrow my sore shoulder 

 blades into the ground beneath my 

 sleeping bag. Through the mesh 

 screen, the only lights are fireflies and 

 above us, stars and planets. 



Every fall, Lundie also comes 

 here. But she brings 30 or 40 N.C. 

 State students from the marine studies 

 class she teaches with Walter Clark 

 for an overnight field trip. Some of 

 them have never camped, never 

 plodded through a salt marsh or seen a 



fiddler crab wave his scarlet claw. The 

 students compare this wild place to the 

 developed beaches north and south, 

 lined with houses, hotels and condo- 

 miniums. The ones that sell things like 

 shell ashtrays, painted driftwood or 

 dried fish emtombed in a glass 

 paperweight. At Hammocks Beach, 

 the experience is the souvenir. 



"They come here as city kids and 

 country kids and find the beach a 

 place of small miracles," Lundie says, 

 as I settle into this island mattress and 

 lower the shades. □ 



10 JULY/AUGUST 1996 



