THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 11, 1994 TAG: 9409090242
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Cover Story
SOURCE: BY JOE COSCO
STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: PORTSMOUTH ISLAND LENGTH: Long : 154 lines
SLOGGING ANKLE-DEEP in water that warmly blanketed vast sand flats, we could see far behind us the village of Portsmouth, one of the few ghost towns east of the Mississippi.
Far ahead of us on this secluded southern Outer Banks island lay the dunes that guard one of the East Coast's most pristine shorelines.
The kid in us entertained a passing fancy that the kids back at the cottage in Avon would have loved this giant wading pool. But the adult in us realized it was best to leave them behind.
There is life beyond Ocracoke on the Outer Banks, but it's not for the faint-hearted, as our four-hour ramble across Portsmouth Island proved. The island demands a little effort, but it gives a lot more in return.
History, wildlife, shells, surf and solitude - Portsmouth has it all in rich variety, making this remote outpost a perfect day trip for those with a sense of adventure.
Our journey back in time had started the night before when I called Rudy Austin in Ocracoke to make sure he had room for us on his daily run to Portsmouth. The cost was $15 a head, which proved to be a bargain.
Austin, a big-boned boatman with the islander's distinctive hint of Elizabethan brogue, was just the right man to get us to Portsmouth: sure at the helm, generous with local lore, sage with practical advice.
Be sure to wear long pants and a long shirt, he told me on the phone. Pack a snack and something to drink along with the bathing suit. And don't forget the insect repellent.
The boat was to leave Ocracoke's Silver Lake at 9:30 a.m., so try to catch the 8 a.m. ferry from Hatteras, he advised. The 8:30 might be pushing it, but he would wait a bit if he knew we were coming.
A dozen of us, mostly day trippers and a trio of cami-clad campers, heeded Austin's advice and soon found ourselves skimming over Ocracoke Inlet. Above the roar of the motor, Austin explained that the inlet averages a mere three feet in depth - a fact that speaks volumes about the rise and fall of Portsmouth.
It was Ocracoke Inlet that breathed life into Portsmouth in the mid-18th century, and it was Ocracoke Inlet that began strangling the community a century later.
Portsmouth was established in 1753 by an act of the North Carolina General Assembly. At the time, Ocracoke Inlet was the major trade route through the Outer Banks.
Portsmouth boomed as a ``lightering'' center, where cargo was transferred from heavily laden ocean ships to lighter, shallow-draft boats from ports such as Bath, Beaufort, New Bern and Washington.
The village population peaked at nearly 700, including some 100 slaves, before falling victim to man and nature. During the Civil War, advancing Federal troops chased many residents to the mainland, and many never returned.
But nature proved a more powerful foe. Ocracoke Inlet began to shoal up, and the great storm of 1846 had opened new, improved Oregon and Hatteras inlets to the north. Portsmouth's days as a bustling shipping village were over, but the community would hang on through another century before dwindling to little more than a memory.
Rudy Austin dropped us off near Haulover Point on the Pamlico Sound side of the island and promised to pick us up at 2 p.m. at the Wallace Channel dock.
We walked up a grassy country lane surrounded by little more than sky and marsh. It was a perfect day for Portsmouth: not too hot, and breezy enough not to be ``mosquitory,'' as islanders used to say.
Portsmouth mosquitoes are legendary, but on this day that's all they were. The same can't be said for the biting green flies that occasionally found flesh below our rolled-up jeans.
What remains of Portsmouth Village is set amid the salt marshes and cedar-and-poplar hammocks of the soundside. Some two dozen structures in various states of health still remain, scattered along overgrown lanes that once tied together a close-knit community. The 250-acre historic district is on the National Register of Historic Places.
Not far from where we landed is the Dixon/Salter house, built at the turn of the century, which now serves as the National Park Service visitors center.
The Park Service owns Portsmouth, which became part of Cape Lookout National Seashore in 1976, and maintains volunteer rangers on the island.
Surrounding Henry's Creek is a cluster of buildings that include the homes of Henry Pigott, Elma Dixon and Dixon's niece, Marian Gray Babb - the last three permanent residents of Portsmouth. The women left reluctantly in 1971, the year Henry Pigott died. Islanders said Pigott, the grandson of slaves, kept a bachelor's home so neat you could eat off the floor.
Near the Dixon and Babb homes is the Methodist church, built in 1914 to replace the one destroyed by a violent storm the year before. The church and visitors center are the only buildings open to the public, and it is in the simple church that a visitor feels the soul of Portsmouth.
The comments in the visitors book speak of the island's character and allure: ``Pray for cool breezes.'' ``Damn the bugs.'' ``Back home again. Thanks to Jesus. Leona Gilgo.'' ``Married here 1986.'' ``Flies!!'' ``Seen it. Done it. Love it every time.''
If we felt the soul of Portsmouth in the church, we saw and heard it on the porch of the Elma Dixon house, where Ellen Cloud sat on this lazy afternoon. The writer leases the house from the Park Service and retreats to it when Ocracoke becomes too much for her. She has a generator for electricity, she says, but she rarely uses it because the noise spoils the solitude.
Continuing along Haulover Road, we came to the old cedar-shingled U.S. Life-Saving Service station, the last structure in the village. Commissioned in 1894, the station kept Portsmouth's economy afloat for some four decades before being decommissioned in 1937.
Leaving the village behind, we crossed the flooded sand flats, cut through the dunes and landed on a broad, windswept beach stretching more than 20 miles to the barrier island's southern tip.
Remembering Rudy Austin's advice, we hung a left at the shore and headed up the beach, trailing a flock of sandpipers. Portsmouth is a naturalist's delight, with fine opportunities for shelling, fishing and waterfowl watching.
But we barely had time to hike up the beach and around the point, this time in knee-deep water, to the sun shed for our 2 p.m. rendezvous with Austin.
In Dorothy Byrum Bedwell's book, ``Portsmouth: Island with a Soul,'' the author asks a string of questions in a search to explain the island's allure:
``What is it about this isolated island village that endures? What prompts former residents to look back wistfully as they share the conviction that Portsmouth has given them the best days of their lives? What causes visitors, again and again, to retreat from life in the fast lane and seek for a while the stillness that this island offers, when other shores are more readily accessible?''
Four hours wasn't enough time to really appreciate Portsmouth Island. But for Bedwell's questions, we could leave with the beginnings of answers. ILLUSTRATION: Cover and inside photographs by DREW C. WILSON
Abandoned Island
Portsmouth: Ghost Town of the Outer Banks
Staff photo by DREW C. WILSON
The sand banks of Portsmouth Island, as viewed from the east, arc
toward the Atlantic Ocean at left.
Staff photos by DREW C. WILSON
Former Portsmouth Island caretaker Lane Anderson sprays insect
repellent despite wearing a headnet to ward against the island's
legendary hordes of mosquitos and flies.
Jesse Babb, right, is among several former residents allowed to stay
for brief stints in their ancestral homes on Portsmouth Island.
Staff photo by
DREW C. WILSON
ABOVE: The home where Henry Pigott lived as the last resident on
Portsmouth Island has a pastoral view of Henry's Creek. The
bachelor, who died in 1971, was rumored to have kept a bachelor's
home so neat you could eat off the floor.
RIGHT: The United Methodist Church on Portsmouth Island stands as a
centerpiece in the abandoned village today, framed by
turn-of-the-century homes.
by CNB