Where The Houses Fall

The houses are falling into the ocean here, where we are in Rodanthe on the Outer Banks in North Carolina. The sea is eating away at these barrier Islands and tearing the sand out from under the buildings. Hurricanes and nor’easters and thunderstorms and regular everyday winds and waves are ripping away sand dunes. Houses that once had lengths of boardwalk and beach before the waves now teeter haphazardly, stilts soaked in ocean currents until the pilings give way and collapse. 

My beachcombing girls find pieces of house siding, a chunk of asphalt, bits of wood, a mangled ladder there in the sand amidst such stunning wonders as whelk egg cases and mermaid’s purses, sea scallops and bits of coral. How should I feel about that? 

This is Cape Hatteras National Seashore, and the National Park Service protects the beach. The National Parks Conservation Association (NPCA) featured a great article about this topic. And then they did a podcast. Melanie D.G. Kaplan and Jennifer Errick did a fantastic job of capturing the tensions between the Park Service and the residents, of giving voice to the raw emotions that watching one’s house fall into the ocean elicits.

My own reaction to this place is hard to explain. Here, among carefully planned communities and million-dollar builds, roads are being swallowed by ever-shifting sands. Yet, I’m inexplicably drawn to these dunes, to this narrow scrap of land that sits between the sound and the sea, a sliver of a sandbar waiting to be swallowed like those houses.

Something about this hauntingly beautiful place got under my skin the moment we arrived. 

Which is odd. I always hated beaches. When I was young, we lived in Florida for many years. I went to the beach, like any dutiful Florida kid. Played in the sand, building castles and digging for shells. Sometimes, I’d wander into the water and play in the waves, bouncing along, praying nothing touched my toes, as I bumped here and there, ducking under waves, trying desperately to ride them back to shore.

Eventually, I’d look up and realize I didn’t recognize anyone on the beach. I’d think, “Who the eff are these people?”  I had drifted a half a mile down the shore. I’d have to get out and trudge back through the scorching sand. 

As I grew out of sandcastles and into my bikini, I laid out on a towel on the sand, hating every second of the hot, searing sun, the saltwater tangling my hair, the sand edging into the cracks of my bathing suit. But it was requisite that I show up to school with a tan, never mind that my fair skin blistered and peeled in entire foot-long sheets. 

It has always been well-established that I hate the beach.

Before being on the road, I would have told you I’m the type of person who is drawn to deep, cozy mountain forests. You know, the ones that look like they might harbor charming witchy cottages, chimneys billowing smoke, windows glowing soft and yellow in the moonlight, woodland creatures gathered at the door, stepping-stone paths strewn with fly agaric mushrooms.  

But throughout this trip, I’ve been drawn to these cold beach stretches, Cape Cod, Acadia, and now the Outer Banks. Here, the yaupon holly and the sea oats with their 30-foot roots cling to the dunes and bend in the wind, so different from the carefully planted morning glories that climb my trellis at home. Willets dart in and out of the ocean waves, picking off ghost crabs and sand fleas. Boattail grackles gather and cackle in the morning, so different from the mundane house sparrows that dart in and out of my eaves. 

If I’m honest, I’ve always been drawn to harsh landscapes. I’ve fallen in love over and over with places like Iceland, with its arctic thyme-covered lava fields, the stunted downy birches, and tea-leafed willows. The Arizona desert–what a surprise to find myself drawn to the prickly sharp saguaro cactus, the yucca, the arid brown landscape. 

There’s just something about harsh landscapes that is beautiful, that makes you feel insignificant and therefore so much more alive.

I sit on the beach here in the morning with my coffee and listen to the waves crash onto the shore. The steady rhythmic heartbeat of the water on the sand. And for the first time on this trip, I start to panic a bit about the prospect of someday going home. To a house that doesn’t move. To a garden tamed and landscaped, to the loss of mystery and wonder around the next bend. Routine. Predictability. Stasis. 

I find myself never wanting to go back.

Last night we weathered our first storm in our rig. Winds gusted 50 mph and rocked our RV back and forth like a ship on the ocean we sit beside. The rains pelted against the thin sliding glass windows, and thunder clapped in the distance. I frantically googled “How strong does wind have to be to knock over a 42’ Fifth Wheel” (the answer was 100 mph, in case you are wondering) and then tried to distract the girls with a movie. All night long, I listened to the wind rock our home and thought about houses being swallowed by the sea. 

This morning, the sun shone brilliantly through the windows, and the sands shimmered in the growing light. We weathered the storm just fine. The terror of blowing away in the night passed, replaced now by a glorious effervescent joy upon opening the door to the cold morning air that made me feel so alive. 

In the late morning light, we watched minke whales breach next to a collapsing pier and found a puffer fish and whelk egg casings washed up beneath the pilings of an abandoned house. It was breathtaking.

We are only here for a week. And after we leave, more houses will fall into the ocean. It’s a weird sensation knowing that. It’s devastating and tragic. I feel horrible for the people whose homes are toppling into the sea and whose dreams are dashed on the shores they love.

But it’s also somehow reassuring that mother nature cannot be tamed.

I am so in awe of the strength and majesty of the Earth. This beautiful, terrifying Earth

It brings such a weird sense of calm. After all it’s hard to feel anything other than humbled when the houses are falling into the waves, when the ocean is eating humanity alive.

For the first time on this trip, I may weep when we leave.