Where Land Meets Water

When you look at The Outer Banks on a map, there seems to be little more than a thin line of land kissing the sea. And so it is when you come here. There is so much water to the west and to the east that the land seems insignificant.
But the land is what makes the place so special.

We came to Hatteras Lighthouse and listened to a park ranger told us about the graveyard of the Atlantic, just off the Outer Banks. There are around 1,000 ships buried in the sands of Diamond Shoals. But this ranger very smartly focused on just one - a German U-boat. The submarine, numbered 701, cruised off the shoals and did some substantial damage to U.S. ships during 1942. She even headed up to the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay and, under the cloak of night, she laid out a field of mines that resulted in the sinking of three ships.

She cruised just under the waters of the Outer Banks and took out one of the largest fuel tankers of the time. But she sustained damage to her air scrubbing system that caused her crew of 50 to get sick from carbon dioxide poisoning. She had to make frequent trips to the surface to open her hatches and take in fresh air. And that was her undoing. A little trawler, outfitted poorly by the Navy, tried to take her out by throwing depth charges at her while she was on the surface.

Before she could dive, however, the trawler radioed to the mainland and a bomber was dispatched. It dropped two depth charges which blew her stern off and she sank in 100 feet of water. The skipper sent his men to the surface in a huge embolism of air from the submarine and 40 of the 50 men made it up. The bomber dropped them a raft before heading back to base. The Gulf Stream current took the men north, far from the site of the attack and all but seven men died while awaiting rescue. A seaplane landed in the Atlantic and saved the seven men, including the skipper.

We wandered the grounds of the lighthouse and learned the entire structure had been moved more than a half mile in 1999 when its original position was threatened by the encroaching Atlantic. Moving this huge lighthouse - which weighed twice what a Space Shuttle weighs - was accomplished with jacks and tractors.

We headed on down the ribbon of land to a free ferry that took us and our car to Ocracoke Island. Free! Now this is an interesting change of attitude, compared to the Maine ferry system which is designed to discourage visitors from visiting the beautiful islands off the Maine coast by more than doubling the fare charged if you buy a round-trip ticket on the mainland compared to the local residents' cost if they buy their tickets on the islands. Mmmmm. It says much about welcoming people.

Ocracoke is a distinctive little place about 14 miles long with hour-glass-fine sand. The wind howled and blew the sand into every orifice and crevice on us. And we were astonished to see people driving their trucks on the beaches of the main part of the Outer Banks where the land seemed to be invisible because it was so low. That's what our picture at the top of this blog shows.

On our way out, the wind had picked up even more. The road was covered with drifting sand and even salt water that had blown over the dunes from the nearby Atlantic. Great fluff balls of foam filled the road, the spindrift of the seas. Highway workers pushed back the sand and we crept through the one road out with salt water up to our tires.

Flying Away South

We awoke on Saturday morning and could see our breath.
This is not a good thing. It indicates we are in VERY cold weather. So it was time to head south. And so we did.
We moved along smartly through Connecticut, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. We parked in an empty lot alongside Jo's particular friend, Sue, in the city of Harrisburg. We caught up with her and and then rolled south, around Baltimore, Washington, and finally, to Richmond, Virginia. We found a little campground among the pine woods, 200 miles away from the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
On Tuesday morning we came to that very special place, Kill Devil Hills. This is an historic place. This is where man first managed to fly. Orville and Wilbur Wright, a pair of high school dropouts who made a living by making bicycles at the end of the 1890s, wanted to fly. They read all the literature available at the time. And they were secretive. They didn't really want to explore the possibilities of flying machines in the bright lights of publicity. This was 'way before CNN, of course. So they set out to find the windiest areas in which to experiment.
They found out from the Weather service that Kill Devil Hills in North Carolina was a little village of 200 souls on the edge of the Atlantic. So they set out to figure out the physics of flying in this windy neighborhood.
First they created a kite, a big kite, and they put up a local boy, weighing 60 pounds, in the kite. He survived. They tried it with one of the Wright brothers but he was too heavy.
But these young men - they were 32 and 36 at the time - figured out that all the current literature about control of kites was incorrect. These smart guys created a wind tunnel in Dayton, Ohio, and experimented with dozens of wing shapes. They discovered the keys to control and they carted their broken-down kites by train and boat to Kill Devil Hills. They were successful with their kite and returned two years later with their first powered machine.
Interestingly, they had asked automobile manufacturers for a light engine (weighing less than 200 pounds) that could generate eight horsepower. They were laughed at. Impossible, they were told. So they built their own 12 horsepower engine that weighed only 160 pounds. It is the embodiment of American ingenuity.
That first flight, as many of you know, was only 120 feet. Think about that for a moment. Many of our homes today are 120 feet wide.
Today, we walked the field and saw the markers showing where their plane lifted off and where it landed a few second later. And the second flight was just a little farther along the field. And then they flew again and achieved an additional 50-or-so feet. And then Wilbur took the plane and flew it for a fourth time that day for 850 feet.
(The picture at the top of the post shows the point of liftoff, with the markers for each of the landings).
You can see the granite marker out there and the significance hammers itself home.
The plane, built of ash, with a cotton muslin material covering the wings, weighed 650 pounds (with its engine).
Their achievement is monumental. But it is astonishing to realize that, 66 years later, Americans stepped onto the surface of the moon.
We headed on south down the Outer Banks. Wind swept the sand in spirals across the road. it reminded us of driving into Luderitz, through the Namib Desert.
We came to Avon, a tiny community on the Banks. And here is where we linger for a couple of nights before continuing on our journey back to Florida.

Fixing the rig

I introduced you to Chip from Rallys-R-Us when we were at the motor home rally in Vermont 'way back in August. Chip lives in his rig, a big Kenworth diesel beast that gives him a workroom, as well as a living area. He also pulls a heavy trailer in which he has heavy-duty equipment, as well as a motorbike.
We'd negotiated a price for Chip to install a new sway bar on the front of our motor home, along with new bushings on the rear axle. But he didn't have our size at the rally. No problem, said Chip. He said he'd meet us in Danbury, Connecticut, on his way to another rally. Date was set for Sept. 13 and I had to call him and give him the location of a suitable parking lot near the interstate highway.
We met at 9:30 when he rolled in with his rig and parked alongside our quite small RV.
His wife hopped out and headed for the big stores in the shopping mall. Chip set about laying out his piece of carpet and a wide array of tools to do the job. He was meticulous about getting everything organized before disappearing under our RV. No wasted motion.
Without putting the heavy RV on any jacks, he removed and replaced the three front shocks (one is linked to the steering column and is called a "shimmy shock," he told me.
Then he used his air compressor to undo the old sway bar and yanked it from the front end. He hauled his bright orange - 50 per cent heavier - sway bar into position and attached it to new bushings which he bolted onto the chassis.
Then he undid the wheel covers on the dual rear wheels of our rig and installed stainless steel mesh tubes which link both back wheels on each side. These are linked to a nifty device which continuously measures the air pressure in each tire to provide us with protection, we hope, when we roll down the highways of life.
All this was done in 2 1/2 hours. Then he hooked up his computer in his workshop to his credit card reader so he could get paid for his work. Off he went, with his wife in tow, to another appointment about 100 miles away.
Very impressive, very efficient. Another American finding a different way to make a living on the road.
Did all this make a difference. Incredibly, the sway bar keeps our heavy vehicle much more stable. When we make tight turns, we no longer have the sensation that the rig is about to topple over because it feels top heavy.
We'll just have to see with the wheel checking and balancing system.

Meanwhile, in Namibia

I like to visit the Internet version of The Namibian, the newspaper where I spent 10 months over three separate visits. I keep in touch with the country's struggles and find a story that makes my blood boil every once in a while. Such happened earlier this week when I read about a cabinet minister's rantings about a new political party causing what he described as anti-democratic reactions in the country. He, of course, is a member of the dominant ruling party, SWAPO.
I stewed for a while about this minister's racist whinings because they were an extension of what I'd seen in my months in-country.
So I awoke this morning determined to speak back to power. It's always difficult to deal with the subject of tribalism in that country. It is rife. But it also is against the law to mention tribalism.
The picture, by the way, is of the man to whom I refer in the letter as "my blood brother". He is my dear friend Oswald Shivute, a reporter in the North of the country. He represents, to me, the hope of Namibia.
Here's my letter:

To the Editor:
Petrus Iilonga’s recent attack on the divisiveness of the Rally for Democracy and Progress demands a response.
Why is it not crystal clear to this man and his compatriots at SWAPO that he and they are on the wrong side of this issue? Mr. Iilonga, stop for a moment and review: Your SWAPO brothers – the huge majority of them – have created an underclass in Namibia by their insistence on putting their Oshiwambo-speaking brothers in the positions of highest power in the country. Why is it difficult to understand this action forces the other Namibians to be placed in a subservient position.
It just isn’t good enough to argue that the SWAPO brotherhood fought for the freedom of Namibia and, thus, is entitled to the spoils of war by placing themselves in virtually every important position – whether that be the top leadership of the country’s police, the ministries, the judiciary, local government. You cannot do this and expect the Namas, the Herero, the Damara, as well as every other group to grow in their resentment.
And so it has come to this: your fellow Namibians are at last rising up and saying “Enough is enough.”
I have never been so moved as when I stood in a football stadium in Otjiwarongo and listened as 15,000 Namibians stood to attention and raised their voices in unison to sing your national anthem. Tears came to my eyes as I envisioned the promise of a unified nation, a nation where each person saw himself or herself as a Namibian instead of a member of a tribal group. I have spent many months in your country as a visitor and, as an experiment, I would make the point of asking strangers what they were. Only the white farmers’ families identified themselves as “Namibians”. Everyone else described themselves in tribal terms. This told me the government has done a terrible disservice to Namibia by not building this primary sense of country among its people.
My sense is that this is because the government – SWAPO – fails to understand this fundamental building block of democracy: You cannot have people think of themselves in other than tribal terms if you are unwilling to share the power.
This harsh criticism must be leavened by mentioning that I was singularly impressed by many, many Oshiwambo-speaking people in and out of government. If I were permitted to have a blood brother in your country, he would be an Oshiwambo with whom I spent many weeks in the North. But I also met Damara, Nama, and Herero, Himba and other men and women who desperately love their land and look to the day when they are not perceived as an underclass.
I am fully cognizant of the fact that free Namibia is a young, young country. But I fear for you as you struggle to deal with those who are not believers in the ruling party’s vision for a country that bends to their will. Why is it so difficult for the hard-line SWAPO members to see that democracy actually demands the right to dissent, to question authority, to encourage new, different ideas? When that day arrives, SWAPO will have matured and should be considered worthy of representing Namibia. Until that time, I see nothing but brutish bullying and inconsiderate short-sightedness that demeans your fellow Namibians and makes me think you have learned little from the horrors of the apartheid era.
Robert S. Mellis
Palmetto, Florida, USA