AUGUST 2011
06
The Power of the Surf By Amy Mathews Amos It was close to midnight by the time we got there.
With no streetlights or buildings, the roadway was black and the only feature we could discern clearly was the line of sycamore trees curving alongside the asphalt. No matter. We didn’t need much. We were self-supporting with our sleeping bags and tent and stash of food. After all, that was the point of heading to a wild seashore. Assateague Island off the eastern shore of Maryland
and Virginia has always been the odd cousin of mid-At- lantic beaches— the polar opposite of its brassy neigh- bor to the north, Ocean City, or high rolling Atlantic City. With no boardwalk or condos hugging the sand, Assateague offers wind-swept dunes and wild ponies in place of snow cones and taffy. Yet Assateague was connected physically, if not in spirit, to Ocean City until 1933 when a storm wiped out the narrow strip of sand between them. That storm, and another pow- erful force known as Judith Colt Johnson, became As- sateague’s saving grace; the force that has allowed As- sateague to flourish as a sandy savior from beach scene excess. Surf and storms rule here, not boardwalks and beach umbrellas. That suited me just fine on that dark October night in 1985. The ocean has power, and after four years at
an inland college I was ready to recharge my coastal batteries. I had gained a healthy respect for that power as a toddler, when the undertow at New York’s Jones Beach threatened to suck me into the Atlantic. Finally my own woman, I took advantage of my 22-year-old autonomy and 11-year-old automobile and drove the three hours from Washington D.C., where I worked, to Assateague Island. “You’ve never seen the ocean?” I was incredulous
when my Great Lakes boyfriend told me this. How could someone live for 22 years and never experience the ocean? “Well, we had Lake Ontario,” John said con- fidently. “It’s just like the ocean.” Yeah, sure, I thought. We’ll see about that. Geologically speaking, Assateague is
not particularly unique. It’s one of dozens of barrier islands that form a protective chain along the U.S. Atlantic coast from New York to Florida, the remnants of eroding Appalachian Mountains flushed downriver to the ocean. Barrier islands first emerged from the swirl of the sea when glaciers formed on land, locking up the freshwater that otherwise would have fed coastal waters and covered them up.
As the glaciers melted and sea levels shifted over time, the size, shape, and location of the barrier islands changed as well. This constant flux characterizes these islands, and Assateague as we now know it has been around for only about 5,000 years –- the blink of an eye geologically. But we were on human, not geologic, time as we approached the island that night, and shorter time frames mattered -- a week to be exact. Unbeknownst to us, the state campground had just closed for the season. In the black of midnight, we pondered our op- tions for the night. The road stops four miles into the
“What’s that sound?” John asked . . . “That’s the ocean,” I replied.
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