Trick or Treat
By Earl Shores
The phone outside my dorm room rang, then came a knock on the door. It was for me. I sat up in the darkness, my heart kicking in the nervous rhythm of a sudden arousal. Maybe my recently evasive "girlfriend" in Boston came to her senses. "Hello?" "Hey dude, what's up?" It only was Harry, my surfing buddy from Salisbury State, "I just bought a tent." "Yeah, so?" "Come on, man, let's go. Fuckin' full moon - Halloween in Hatteras. It's perfect." "Shit Harry, I got class - and a test next week." This answer was pure reflex. He knew I didn't need much coaxing. "Wuss," said Harry, invoking the lowest of surfing lifeforms, the surfari "wuss." "Are there any waves in O.C.?" "Who needs waves in O.C? We're fuckin' talkin' bout Hatteras, man." "Alright, alright. I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon."
Stupid-ass hunches were common motivation in the pre-SURFLINE.COM and 900-SURF days, and sometimes it seemed the stupider the hunch, the better ("soul" surfing at it's finest). So as a sunset glow fell on the rustic dilapidation of Virginia's lower eastern shore, we tooled down Route 13 through the crisp fall air, trading swigs on a bottle of Old Setter. By the time we reached the label, my growing internal glow finally saw Halloween in Hatteras for what it was - a "killer" idea.
The eerie lighted expanse of the Chesapeake Bay-Bridge Tunnel offered stoke (the first water we saw on the trip), and exiting I-64 at Rt. 158 deposited us into the southernmost reaches of Tidewater civilization. An abandoned dumpster provided cover for a wicked whiskey whiz, and we stocked up at a last chance 7-11 for our run through rural eastern Carolina - two bags of Cheetos and a six-pack of Busch. We fired up the car, fired up a joint, and savored "the cheese that goes crunch" as the empty two-lane-tree-lined highway to Hatteras, became the Highway to Hell with the help of AC/DC. Shortly before 1 a.m. we pulled up to the Lighthouse, and as its interval flashed over the water we tried to make out the swell. We couldn't get a good look, but the rolling whitewater we heard seemed to be a positive sign. We retreated to one of the oceanside motels in Buxton where a buzzer-awakened owner suspiciously eyed two slightly buzzed road weary surfer types. He agreed to rent us a room - if we left the boards on the car. Sure dude, whatever you say. Yeah, right. Sometime before the sun came up, the fishermen in the units around us decided to warm up their vehicles - unmuffled, full sized, V-8, four wheel drive, Detroit rustbucket shit. Vibrations rattled the room, and this airport decibel din was accented with cacklin' good ol' boy chatter. I pulled the pillow over my head and prayed to God (if he could even hear me aboth the noise) for just another hour of sleep. They left - eventually - and I finally roused from my musty synthetic blanket to throw on some clothes. It was chilly, but the wind was light offshore. So what if I only had a springsuit, the water would keep my legs warm.
Near the ocean though, it was quiet, and as I walked over the dune I couldn't believe what my puffy eyes saw. Fishermen. And not just a few - it looked like the whole damn state of North Carolina took the day off. I mean, that's what it sounded like earlier, but hell, who expected this? Lined up as far as I could see to the north and to the south, were beach buggies and fishermen - and fishermen, and more fishermen. There wasn't even a break in the line to get at the ocean. And the ocean - AAAAARRRGGHH! Flat. Dead flat, with just a few dumpy peaks of shorebreak every now and then. I closed my eyes slowly and opened them again. No change. I got in the car and drove to Frisco Pier - same condition. We were screwed. "It's flat, Harry," I said when I returned. "Huh?" "It's flat. With a capital "F." And there's fishermen everywhere. Fuckin' flat with fishermen." "Maybe the southside-" "I was there, same thing." "Maybe tomorrow-" "Let's just get the hell out of here. It's too weird" "Wuss." The picture I took of Harry flashing me the finger (he was good at that) from a swell-less Lighthouse lineup pretty much said it all.
After enduring dinner at Crickets with a half-dozen fatigue clad redneck fishermen staring down the longhairs (us), we froze our asses off in the tent, having only blankets Harry "borrowed" from the motel. Finally, I wasted our dinner time fortitude by spewing cheesesteak sub in the middle of the night. The drive home the next day was long...and silent. Fuckin' full moon Halloween in Hatteras - yeah, killer.
Earl Shores