Cape Hatteras

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Midway along the East Coast, a sliver of sand extends far into the Atlantic, exposed to storms from every conceivable direction. With less crippling continental shelf than anywhere else on the coast, swells hit the beaches chock-full of force. This combination of elements, as well as tricky currents and offshore shoals, has resulted in countless sunken ships just off the beach, earning it the nickname "Graveyard of the Atlantic." The same elements that made it the biggest shipping hindrance in history now serve to make Cape Hatteras the focal point of East Coast surfing.

A vulnerable sandbar connecting the Atlantic Ocean and Pamlico Sound, Hatteras (from the early European colonists' "Hatorask") consists of 70 miles of barrier islands that formed during the retreat of the ice age. Giovanni da Verrazano, on behalf of the French in 1524, was the first to land here, thinking the Pamlico was a sea leading to India. Just offshore, the Gulf Stream delivers warm water from the south and meets head on with the descending cold Labrador current. The intersection, known as Hatteras Shoals, forms Cape Point, the perpetually battered sand promontory marking the easternmost tip of the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Any swell making its way across the Atlantic will supply some sort of surf around Hatteras. North swells wrap around the cape, creating fast, powerful lefts that reel for hundreds of yards. South swells, including those generated by hurricanes, tend to produce hollow beachbreak rights along the north side. Designated for public use as the country's first National Seashore in 1953, Hatteras remained untouched by surfers prior to 1960. (But in terms of general history, it's a smorgasbord -- featuring the site of the first English colony founded in the New World, the first successful airplane flight and the venue for the pirate Blackbeard's pillaging as well as the final resting place for him and his vessel.) The sport was still a novelty along the East Coast at the time, so exploration for the sake of avoiding crowds wasn't an issue, not to mention the deterrent of a time-consuming ferry trip to reach the island.

The earliest surfers were local teens Buddy Hooper and John Ochs, who stumbled upon boards in 1962 and surfed in complete isolation for a couple of years. Fellow Buxton resident John Conner joined the pair in 1964. (He would later convert a mobile home into the area's first surf shop in 1968). "If you saw a surfer, you were high-fivin' him," Conners remembers of the early years, "but a few years later, we were thinking, 'Man, I wish he'd go home.'" Wetsuits were still not an option, so Conner and his brother surfed wearing sweatshirts in less than 50-degree water, frequently running up the beach to thaw out by a fire. In Virginia Beach, surfing had gained popularity, and surfers began making the Hatteras pilgrimage by the mid-60s, led by Bob Holland and John Sills.

Soon after the population explosion, thanks to Gidget and foam boards, surfing in Hatteras became commonplace. In 1962, a bridge was constructed across Oregon Inlet, turning the trek into an easy day trip. Crowds congregated at the Hatteras Lighthouse, just north of Cape Point, a shrine for surfers and tourists alike. Finished in 1870, the massive barber pole-looking beacon is the world's largest brick lighthouse, a 193-foot high watchtower overlooking the surf. The pointbreakish setup made it the obvious choice for the equipment and attitudes of the day, while the dumpier waves in surrounding towns generally went unridden until the pocket-rocket, barrel-minded '70s.

Hatteras remained something of a secret outside the mid-Atlantic until the latter part of the '60s. By the time Surfing magazine ran a feature story on the Outer Banks in 1969, surfers from Maine to Florida were making regular pilgrimages there, hoping to score the
sort of power not commonly associated with the East Coast. The Eastern Surfing Association began holdings its annual championships at the Lighthouse in 1972, introducing every age of East Coast surfer to the jewel of the coast. Suffering constant encroachment from the ever-pursuing sea, the navy, which built an instillation just north of the lighthouse, constructed three metal groins around 1970 hoping to curtail the erosion. They didn't, and the light was successfully relocated a few hundred yards inland in 1999. Initially, the jetties created a fabulous sandbar, lasting throughout the '70s, but they gradually shifted the bar farther offshore, turning bigger days into a washout. The crowd, already established by the early '70s, hasn't changed much, except that now the same sort of congestion can be found at several high-profile breaks along the island.

Once a seafaring community, the local population now relies on tourism, experiencing hectic summer months surrounded by relative isolation. It is this seclusion, in spite of the consistent, powerful waves, that makes Hatteras such a sough-after surfing destination. While the area does claim its share of grumpy locals (mostly transplants), the miles of desolate beaches offer ample space to spread out. On a solid swell, just about anywhere along the 50-mile stretch from Pea Island to Buxton offers an empty, hollow peak. There are plenty of reasons not to like Hatteras -- the brutal ghost town winters, the humid, insect-infested summers, the lack of amenities and a propensity for lengthy, boring flat spells -- but when it gets good, it's easy to forget all the hardships.

-- Jason Borte, January 2001