...or how rare it is that "fair blows the wind." The following is written by a man who lives
on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where some of our book this month takes place,
and will give an idea of some reasons why there are so many shipwrecks around Cape
Hatteras.From "WIND -- HOW THE FLOW OF AIR HAS SHAPED LIFE, MYTH AND LAND," by Jan
DeBlieu, Mariner Books, 1999. (I scanned it, so it may not look perfect.)
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B E T W E E N 35 and 36 degrees north latitude, the thin islands known as the Outer
Banks lie in a band of spirited west wind that accelerates as it moves over the
Piedmont region and toward the Atlantic Ocean. The weather of this coast is shaped by
the westerlies that scream across the continent in winter, pushing calmer, milder air far
south.
Offshore the wide, warm Gulf Stream ropes its way north past Cape Hatteras and turns
back out to sea after a close swipe at land. It mingles briefly with the cold, dying
tongues of the southbound Labrador Current. In terms of weather, the junction of
these two flows is enough to stop the show. In winter, when a dome of high pressure
from the Arctic drifts southeast, it may come to the edge of the Gulf Stream and stall.
Will it linger or be pushed over the Gulf Stream and out to sea? Suppose there is a
core of warm air off the coast, just east of the Stream. At the same time, suppose the
jet stream has grown unusually strong and is flowing toward the northeast. The two air
masses bump against each other like huge bubbles, the cold air fighting to
move east, the warm air prodded north by the jet stream. A pocket of turbulence
develops in the crook between them. Wind flows east, then is bent quickly to the north.
Unable to resist the centrifugal force, it begins to move full circle, creating a system of
low pressure that deepens violently.
The barometer plummets; rain descends in torrents. Up north, snow falls thick and
fast. The western edge of the Gulf Stream is where great winter storms are made. They
drift north, bequeathing rain to the Outer Banks usually, but sometimes snow. And
wind.
In the spring of 1962 an explosive low-pressure system developed unexpectedly over
the Outer Banks. In the wake of fierce northeast winds the ocean pounded the shore
for three days, spilling over the dunes and through the little towns tucked behind them.
During that particular meteorological episode, known as the Ash Wednesday Storm,
people woke to find the ocean sloshing into their, beds. This cycle of weather has been
repeated many times since, though never with a force equal to that of the first.
Such sudden, lashing northeasters have always intrigued coastal forecasters, who as
recently as the early 198os were at a loss to explain them. Now, with the help of
Doppler radar, satellite photographs, and computer models of the atmosphere,
meteorologists can often tell when a winter low-pressure system threatens to form over
the coast. They can' warn island residents, with some confidence, to buckle down for a
storm.
More typically the wind blows fickle, and its swings of mood are devilishly tricky to
foretell. At the center of a pressure core the wind speed slows, but . at the edges it
quickens. A strong knot of high pressure, sliding over the coast, may bring light wind
that lasts for days. The system may stall long enough to dissolve, or it may venture
out to sea, stirring up gales as it passes.
How much wind tomorrow? Technicians at the weather station make their educated
guesses, knowing all along that the wind may fool them. Knowing that whatever else it
does, the wind will call the day's tune.
B E F 0 R E T H E A D V E N T of worldwide forecasting systems, islanders watched for
subtle changes to predict the behavior of weather and wind. They studied the sky and
the animals the way a mother might look for the telltale signs that her young child is
growing tired and cross. If, in a light, variable wind the gulls stand facing north, watch
for steady north wind by nightfall. If clouds form a halo around the moon, count the
stars within the halo. If there are three, expect bad weather for the next three days.
A mackerel sky - one with clouds that look like fish scales - means rain is on the way.
A sundog at sunset foretells a bad storm. A mild spell in December or January is a
"weather breeder"; it brings penetrating cold before winter's end. "A warm Christmas,"
an elderly island man once told me, "makes a fat cemetery."
The intensity of the weather here always depends on the wind, and the traditional
sayings impart more folk wisdom about gales and breezes than about any other facet
of life. A heavy dew in the morning means heavy wind by afternoon. If a swarm of
biting flies shows up on a fishing boat far offshore, a land breeze is bound to shift to
an ocean breeze. When the wind swings hard to the northeast, it will most likely blow
itself out in a day:
A Saturday shift, come late or soon, It seldom stands till Sunday noon. Once or twice a
winter, however, a northeaster lasts for most of a week. No matter how it begins or
ends, local lore holds that the blow will always diminish on the third, or fifth, or seventh
day, never on the second, fourth, or sixth day.
Only fools lived at the edge of the ocean back before hurricanes could be spotted on
radar. The houses of Outer Banks natives nestled together in wooded sections just off
Albemarle and Pamlico sounds. The sound side was considered the front of the islands,
and the ocean beach, where the fury of storms hit hardest, was thought of as the back.
It was the jumping-off point, the place where daring souls - swimmers sailors,
fishermen - could venture from the encircling arms of a continent into an ocean of
uncertainty and terror.
Islanders spoke of their homeland as if they were intent on keeping their backs to the
wind. The 'Cattle that ranged freely across the Outer Banks in the late nineteenth and
the early twentieth century seemed to know when a weather shift was imminent, and
they anticipated changes in the wind to escape biting flies. If they moved to the "back
of the beach," east wind was on the way. If they migrated to the marshes, the easterly
breeze would swing West. Most of the time the range stock stayed in the open
grasslands and dunes. When they wandered into the villages, residents began
boarding up windows for a hurricane.
Normally the wind migrates slowly from northeast to east to southeast to southwest,
moving clockwise in the anticyclonic pattern typical of high-pressure systems in the
northern hemisphere. There are exceptions, of course, when the wind direction shifts
backward - counterclockwise. For generations'native islanders have known such a
pattern to be a harbinger of the most violent storms. The weather change might come
as a localized thunderstorm or a devastating hurricane, but a backing wind is always to
be feared. As an old saying has it, "I'd rather look at Grandma's drawers than see a
backing wind."
WIND Is culture and heritage on the Outer Banks; wind shapes earth, plant, animal,
human. Wind toughens us, moves mountains of sand as we watch, makes it difficult to
sleepwalk through life.
The spring I moved to the islands I lived in a house beset by wind. Air seeped easily
through the decayed siding and whistled through the roof The constant clatter made
me lonely and chafed my nerves, but I gladly sought the shelter of those rooms rather
than stand exposed to the chilling breeze. I developed a ritual for going out: before
opening the door I pulled on my coat and gloves, yanked down my hat, and braced
myself for an onslaught.
I conditioned myself slowly, taking walks in steady wind for twenty minutes at first, with
the hope of working up to forty-five. An appreciation for wind was not in my nature; I
had to learn to like the feel of air pummeling my chest and roaring across my skin.
"Light" wind, I learned, blew less than fifteen miles an hour.* Anything less than ten
miles an hour was not worthy of mention. Walking with my hood pulled hard against
my scalp, I began to notice how animals coped with wind. Terns, the kamikazes of the
bird world, seemed oblivious even to hard gales. I remember watching them one spring
afternoon at Oregon Inlet, as air howled down on us from the north and waves sloshed
against each other. Together wind and tide made a mess of the landscape; with the
frothing water and the whipping branches of wax myrtle shrubs, it seemed as if the
world were being shaken to its foundations. Yet the terns hung steady in midair,
flapping their wings quickly and chittering to each other, their beaks pointed downward
as they scanned the ocean for fish.
Not many animals come out in such wind. Those that do may find the normal
parameters of life redrawn. In a sustained east wind the water in the sounds is pushed
toward the mainland so that vast stretches of sandy bottom are exposed. Islanders
refer to this as the tide running out, and indeed it is the only kind of falling tide to be
seen on the banks' western shore. The water level in the estuaries here does not
respond to the pull of the moon. All sound tides are erratic and driven strictly by wind;
they ebb in northeasters and flow during westerlies.
Soon after I moved here I learned that water swept east by wind for many miles has a
way of suddenly'spilling over its normal banks, like a bowl tipped sloppily to one side.
One morning after several days of hard west wind, I parked in a lot near a fish house
on Pamlico Sound. An islander casually warned me, "You might ought to move your
car, case we get some tide. ' I parked on higher ground. Within an hour three feet of
briny water covered the fish-ho use lot.
Even the more docile winds affect the shape of the water and the distribution of
creatures within it. East winds send the surf pounding against the beach; west winds
slow the shoreward roll of breakers and make them stand erect. The best surfing
waves are sculpted by a northeast blow that shifts cleanly to the west. But if the west
wind blows too long, the breakers are knocked flat., Surfers disappear, replaced by
commercial fishermen, who row dories just offshore to set their nets for bluefish and
trout.
We all have our favorite winds. Outer Banks surf casters like a land breeze because, as
they say, Wind from the east, fish bite the least. Wind from the west, fish bite the
best. A westerly breeze draws trout, mullet, and other species to the calm waters in the
lee of the shore. During duck hunting season it also pushes waterfowl from the middle
of Pamlico Sound toward the islands, putting them in easy range of hunting blinds. A
friend of mine, an avid hunter and fisherman who lives on Hatteras Island, grew so
enamored of the sound-side breeze that he vowed to name his first-born son West
Wind. His wife's wisdom prevailed; they named the child Teal.
Good fishing or poor, the light summer easterlies are dearest to my heart. West winds
muddy the ocean waters, but east winds clear them . West winds bring biting flies to
the beach, but east winds banish them to the marsh. The most pleasant summer days
are those with an ocean breeze strong enough to set up a little surf but not so strong
as to make swimming dangerous. Waves roll lazily ashore as wind gently fills my
lungs, caresses my skin, and sweeps cobwebs from my brain. I lie in the sun, hot but
cool enough for reading.- I slip noiselessly into the clear green surf and float on top,
watching as sparkling grains of sand tumble out to sea between waves.
I L I V E in an island forest now, where tree trunks slash the winter wind before it can
hit the house full force. At night I listen to the loblolly pines pitching back and forth
high overhead and wonder how many more years the cottages on the ocean will be
able to stand against the forces that batter them.
At times I imagine that the wind takes on different personas, like a god that is
capable of assuming any living form. I still often think of it as the breath of a dragon,
though it usually feels more like ice than fire. Its gustiness, its ability to surround and
overpower me, seem to be of mythical greatness; yet it is undeniably real. I do not
bundle up as carefully as I used to when I go out; to tell the truth, I now look forward
to the cleansing power of heavy blows. But unlike the old-timers, I will never think of
the ocean as the back side of the islands. It is the front line of battle, the front line
against the wind.
Over the past dozen years I have been in perhaps a hundred windstorms here. A few
have stayed in my thoughts. One of my clearest memories is of an August day when I
stood on the back porch of my little wind-haunted house and waited for a hurricane to
roar through.
It was 1986, the year of Hurricane Charley - a runt, as hurricanes go, but with gusts to
eighty-five miles an hour. A friend had come over to visit my husband and me with his
dog, a Chesapeake Bay retriever. The storm, passing offshore, was throwing off east
wind and was not expected to do much damage. Even so, no one wanted to be out in
it. It was enough to stand on the leeward side of the house and watch the myrtle
bushes being shaken like rag mops.
That summer a. pair of Carolina wrens had built a nest in the pump house and raised
several broods. There were still chicks in the nest when the storm hit. In the
excitement I had forgotten about the wrens, when I saw a quick movement under the
dilapidated table where we cleaned fish.
An old beach chair was folded and propped beneath the table. Leaning over, I could
see an adult wren clinging to the chair. He was soaked from rain and, judging from his
hunched posture, too exhausted to move even as far as the pump house. He knew we
had caught him off his home base, but he did not seem to care.
The others noticed the wren the same second I did. Nobody moved, not even the
retriever, although he eyed the wren with a lazy spark of interest. nobody did anything
except look out at the wind and rain. We stood on the back porch, an unlikely alliance
- two men, a woman, a dog, a bird each of us snagged momentarily from the flow of
our normal lives, refugees from the wind.
*All wind speeds are given here in miles per hour rather than metric or nautical
measurements. At fifteen miles an hour, waves begin to form whitecaps; at thirty-two,
a b