The storm raged all night, till Sabiston had to turn about and sail "almost 

 under 'bare poles' " for safe harbor at Hatteras Inlet. "High upon the billows 

 would we rise scanning in our vision the heavens on all sides," wrote Buckman, 

 "then down deep in the trough of the sea leaving only to our view the sides of the 

 mountain waves." 



Being forced to seek haven at Hatteras was a seaman's worst nightmare. 

 Nearing the dreaded inlet the next morning, Buckman saw the skeletons of 

 wrecked ships along the shoals and bar. But Sabiston had little choice and, at 

 midday, he successfully navigated the Ogeechee between the dangerous shoals. 

 "Not knowing whether we would pass safely or strike and be dashed in pieces," 

 Buckman stated, "all seemed to be silence." That afternoon, a Hatteras pilot 

 guided the Ogeechee on a no less harrowing passage over the bar and into the 

 sanctuary of Pamlico Sound. 



Buckman awoke on the 26th to a clear sky, but the weather still did not 

 favor the Ogeechee. A steady northeasterly breeze and heavy swells left by the 

 storm hindered her from sailing back through Hatteras Inlet. The schooner's 

 passengers and crew would have to wait for the winds to shift. 



For two days, the passengers of the Ogeechee whiled away the hours by the 

 deserted shores of Hatteras Island. They raked clams on the mudflats. They 

 explored old shipwrecks and fish camps. They watched wild horses. Buckman 

 and a fellow traveler raced ghost crabs up and down the beach. And at night, 

 Buckman said, "all gathered on deck ... to tell jokes ... and enjoy the stories of 

 the past." 



The crew of the Ogeechee was accustomed to the sea's temperament. They 

 dried their clothes, whittled and fished. They dug a well ashore and filled kegs 

 with water. Every vessel's master saved a variety of chores for just such occa- 

 sions. Sabiston had his crew scrape down the booms. "For the sake of something 

 to do," Buckman noted, "all hands, passengers too, went to work at it." 



Sunbaked and sea-salt sticky, the Ogeechee' s passengers and sailors would 

 miss or be late for who-knows-what crucial business deals and family reunions. 

 Who knows, even, what far-off family or lovers might have feared them dead, 

 wondering whether the Ogeechee, like so many other vessels before it, had 

 wrecked on Diamond Shoals? 



Today we would scream in frustration. We would pout and fume and protest. 

 We would decry fate and rickety old ships. We would certainly demand our 

 money back, and some would file suit. But not a note of frustration can be 

 detected in Buckman' s journal. If a word of complaint could be heard aboard the 

 Ogeechee, Buckman did not see fit to record it. 



Time for the Ogeechee' s passengers had been put on hold. At least for a few 

 days, they fell sway to the sea's own rhythm, a beat not measured by timepiece 

 or date book, but by sun and wind, tides and currents. "Time not our time," T.S. 

 Eliot described the ocean's cadence in his "Four Quartets." 



The Ogeechee' s quiet interlude at Hatteras Island holds an important lesson 

 about the coastal past. We live in a fast-paced and busy world. Airplanes carry us 

 in a couple hours the distance a schooner sailed in 10 days. Computers, tele- 

 phones and satellites allow us to communicate instantly across the world. Time 

 clocks govern daily life. 



Not so in Buckman' s day. A passenger aboard the Ogeechee expected 

 delays. A couple of nights stranded at Hatteras Island meant nothing. One could 



