Graveyard of the Atlantic

None of us had met before now. But in the deserted car park beneath the neon signs from Ollies Bargain Outlet shining down on us, we introduced ourselves and embraced. Exciting talking about the trip on which we were about to embark.

Our crew consisted of Bri, an easy-going local surfer and a lifeguard in the Outer Banks. She’d lived on the Banks her whole life; fishing, surfing, painting, and playing music – it all seemed pretty idyllic. Ry, her husband, was an Australian who’d come to lifeguard for a season. But smitten, he had stayed and married. Bri was tough-skinned and joy either to ride with or surf with, a smile, joke and a song never far away.

Gary, a scientist with the gift of chat, was analytical and always looking beyond the obvious. He was a seasoned traveller having ridden around Africa on a motorbike with a surfboard strapped beside him. He also surfs good, from years on the Californian and Baja point breaks, and is a joy to watch on the fast peaky Outer Banks’ A-frames.

Robin was a kind-hearted Floridian now living in Santa Cruz, and had organised the trip. I’d met Robin last year in Scotland the previous year on a bikepacking trip, and talked about surfing and bikes. We compared notes around campfires and promised to make something happen. Robin then made it happen, he brought four people that barely knew each other to the Eastern Seaboard with kit and bikes. Even when plan A doesn’t quite work out, Robin always has a plan B up his sleeve that kicks in smoothly and calmly, with limited fuss.

Plan A was pretty simple. We would all meet in Virginia Beach and, using ‘fat bikes’ from Fatback Bikes, we would travel sound from the furthest northern point of the islands to the southernmost point. We would surf and camp our way south, riding the beach as much as possible from Virginia Beach to Back Bay, and then False Cape, before crossing the state line into North Carolina. From here, we’d take in Currituck National Wildlife Refuge, Corolla, Duck, Kitty Hawk, the wonderfully named Kill Devil Hills, Nags Head, Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, Rodanthe, and Cape Hatteras. From Cape Hatteras we would board a ferry and sail to Ocracoke, and from Ocracoke another ferry to Cedar Island, and then another ferry to Cape Lookout, before returning to the mainland via Harkers Island.

It sounds a long way, and it was. Two hundred-odd miles in just over a week, with heavily loaded fat bikes mainly on the sand, it was certainly going to be a challenge.

Back in Virginia Beach as we unpacked the bikes, attached racks and bags, ate pizzas and sank beers as we got to know each other. At this point Robin slipped it in that we needed a Plan B.

As we were planning for this trip, Hurricane Dorian had smashed into The Outer Banks, in particular into Ocraoke Island, just as Trump announced it was heading for Alabama. (The hurricane then immediately turned north and spun off into the Atlantic, largely missing the mainland US.) The destruction on Ocracoke, though, was so significant that the authorities had closed the island to all but residents and aid workers, meaning we were unable to travel via the island and the only current option was a 200-mile detour via the mainland to our finishing point. Robin said he had a plan, though, and he was working on it. As we finished tinkering with our bikes and one by one said goodnight we slipped off to bed with the excitement of the morning awaiting us, and the hope that Robin’s plan wouldn’t include too brutal a detour.

The Outer Banks are one of the most low-lying places in North America, and extremely exposed to hurricanes. Slowly but surely, these islands are being eaten up by the sea. OBX, as the region is affectionately known, is a unique coastal community steeped in culture, history, and rich in natural resources. Residents are resilient: they enjoy the setting, and they’ve become accustomed to the winds, storms, and other coastal hazards that shape their environment.

But it is an ever-changing landscape, and remains at the mercy of the sea. There are houses perched on stills on the beach, as if waiting for the sea to claim them. There are roads and houses knee-deep in sand. Rising sea levels are forcing residents from homes that are slowly washing out from under them.

The North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality says about six feet of coastal land erodes here every year. These rising seas are making already unstable strips of land prone to erosion. Each time a storm makes landfall, seawater carves inlets and deposits sand, spreading it across one side of the island while it erodes from the other like a slowly turning wheel.

For those who own beachfront property, the biggest concern is losing a vacation home, but other residents fear losing deep ties to the region. On some parts of the island, seawater has been known to flood cemeteries, threatening to wash away the buried remains of generations of locals. Residents have long debated how best to address the encroaching ocean; although they share a sense of community knowing they all face these creeping waters together no State-wide agreement has been reached. As they ponder solutions, the sea continues to eat away at the land.

The surf was shifting, and felt sketchy; the Oregon inlet is a shark feeding zone as the fish move into the open ocean

We cruised south down the beach, hollering at each other as yet another perfect set reeled down a new bank

When we first hit the beach after leaving our campsite in Virginia Beach the urge to jump straight in the water was strong, but the beach was crowded; Robin assured us in half an hour it’d be empty and we’d be able to surf alone. He wasn’t wrong,. The heat was unbearable, but the remnants of Hurricane Humberto had left good size waves and we had pristine offshore winds. After two hours on the bikes, the saltwater felt good and washed the heat and dust from our bodies. We rode some more, and with the last of civilisation approaching we stopped for lunch and beers. It’s incredible how good beer tastes after a bike ride, and knowing we didn’t have any supplies we had another.

Back on the bikes, spirits were high and the ride into Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge flew by. There were no people here at all. We took our time, and followed the sandy gravel paths. We were aiming for False Cape for the night, and we all had the thought of a sunset surf in the backs of our minds.

The surf was big and shifty here, and I didn’t really get much joy. However, when I swapped with Robin onboard a 6’1 bright yellow Wade Coffrey, I couldn’t help but smile; the board was fast and zippy as I slipped into a couple of nice peaky waves.

We all returned to shore with a smile. For a Brit, the camp conditions were something to dream of: no rain or midges, and we slept with no flysheet. When dawn came I was first up and out in the line-up. I knew this might be the last chance of waves for a couple of days as the swell dropped and we had a long day ahead of us in the saddle.

After catching some super fun small waves in Kitty Hawk, where we fished and cooked tacos with Bri’s family, another storm was making landfall. We started out before dawn to make it over the Herbert C. Bonner Bridge – one stretch of our journey where riding on the highway was unavoidable. Half asleep, we started to see the sun rising and for the first time in three days, we saw the surf. It was pristine perfect A-frames up and down the beach. We pushed our bikes over the mounds of sand freshly taken from the highway and ran with our heavy loaded fat bikes over the sand to the water’s edge. That morning was magical, beautiful light and fresh conditions; I shot from the beach before joining the others in the line-up.

The surf was shifting, though, and felt sketchy; the nearby Oregon Inlet is a major source of food for local sharks as the fish migrate from the Pamlico Sound to the Atlantic Ocean. But safely on dry land, fed and starting to warm up as the sun rose we started to plan our day. We wanted to make it to Avon that night, which was 30 odd miles away. Plus, this was the day when we could really score classic OBX waves, the clean and glassy kind that often line the pages of surfing magazines.