Coastline

August 16, 2021

Coastal North Carolina is a good hike from Greenville S.C., no matter how you plot it. Typically that’s I-26 to I-20 in South Carolina, then I-95, the east coast’s north-south thoroughfare, to “future” I-74, now U.S. 74 when you cross the state line, all the way to Wilmington. We have friends there we had not seen in five years.

The interstates, hard to tell apart anywhere, are especially monotonous along this stretch. The piedmont countryside levels off in a blur of lush green scrub growth on both sides through small towns until Florence. Squarely on the state line is South of the Border, the massive Mexican-themed amusement park/fast-food stop/fireworks market that, depending on your taste, may be only a massive eyesore. Why, you wonder, does it exist right here?

Wilmington was an important Confederate port, a point of export for Southern cotton and tobacco to Europe and import of weapons and soft and durable goods that supported the rebel armies in the field. The ship route up the Cape Fear River was guarded by Fort Fisher, the largest of a series of fortifications. After multiple attempts Union troops captured the fort in January 1865.

The Wilmington to Southport peninsula, created by the fast-flowing Cape Fear, has become a retirement destination for thousands of Yankees looking for a milder but not-quite tropical climate. The flat terrain and thousands of acres of pine forests and wetlands is a northern marker of the swampy Southeast coast down to Florida. The major artery, U.S. 17, once a lonely rural road, still cuts through swamps but now passes new gated golf communities, stripmalls, Walmarts, and shooting ranges.

The visit was a kind of mission, as they tend to be lately. We reunited with four friends, two couples who had relocated from Virginia fifteen or twenty years ago. The initial connection then was our children, the community swim club, daycare, and elementary and high school. The kids grew up and scattered to college, jobs, other states. We met over the years for weddings. They were near Wilmington, we were still stuck in Virginia, we traveled, gladly. Now the conversations are poignant updates: the new community, the kids, and that perennial favorite, the health and medical situation—the aches and pains report. I started the weekend Friday with another CT scan, my twelfth. But we all have something to contribute.

We dodged monsoon-like rain to visit Wrightsville Beach and looked out at the boiling gray surf. The beach area resembles shore areas everywhere: a boardwalk separating the sand from the casual restaurants and bars, the tattoo joints, the souvenir shops. We said hello to a staff person from the local chapter of Life Rolls On, a nationwide charity that uses surfing to inspire persons with disabilities. When the rain let up dozens of volunteers in colorful shirts carried their clients to the water on surfboards and helped them catch the fast-moving waves.

Southport, maybe 30 miles south of Wilmington, is an old port town at the mouth of the Cape Fear where the river meets the Intracoastal Waterway. Bay Street is lined by stately antebellum homes with a majestic view of the river and Battery and Bald Head Islands, which I guessed offer some protection from hurricanes. We walked along the rocky shore and looked out at the wide river. Powerboats and ferries plowed by through the calm waters. A giant oil tanker appeared at the mouth of the river and turned sharply north toward the Port of Wilmington. We checked the lively restaurant scene at the end of Brunswick Street. Afterward we walked on the beach. Volunteers had marked sea-turtle nests, doing what they can to protect turtle eggs and miniature turtles as they hatch. We watched the gentle surf roll in. The air was warm and soothing as the bright, fiery red sun set through a hazy sky.

Not far from downtown is St. James, once part of Southport, now incorporated, and like the rest of the peninsula home to a large contingent of Northerners who decided to pack up and move to a place near the water without tramping a thousand or more miles to Florida or the tourist-heavy beach towns of Myrtle Beach or Hilton Head, S.C. We admired the beautiful homes and careful planning. Settling in St. James, like anywhere on the Atlantic Coast means a commitment to seashore life. The beach and marina are there, along with the golf and tennis, which is everywhere in these places, for those who like those things.

Our friends who used to run on mountain trails in northern Virginia tells us you can’t find that. At St. James you can stroll, you can jog, you can go to the fitness centers and take yoga. You look around—you see houses, grass, trees, and dark ponds where alligators live.

We drove home, through what seemed like the daily hurricane-like cloudbursts. The rain came down sideways as we crawled back along U.S. 74, heading for the Upstate, with its gentle view of the southern fringe of the Blue Ridge. We talked, Sandy and I, for the hundredth time about why we landed there instead of on the seacoast. We like the crash of the surf, the warm breath of sea air, the thrill of the sunrise on the Eastern shore. But we’re nestled at the pointed end of pie-shaped South Carolina, near the mountains, the crashing waterfalls, the rocky trails, the quiet forests. We can drive to the beach.