File:Coast watch (1979) (20038562253).jpg

Title: Coast watch
Identifier: coastwatch00uncs_7 (find matches)
Year: 1979 (1970s)
Authors: UNC Sea Grant College Program
Subjects: Marine resources; Oceanography; Coastal zone management; Coastal ecology
Publisher: (Raleigh, N. C. : UNC Sea Grant College Program)
Contributing Library: State Library of North Carolina
Digitizing Sponsor: North Carolina Digital Heritage Center

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and ominous. The wind calms a little, and the lake is a sheet of glass. We paddle a few hundred feet from shore, striking cypress roots with our paddles as we maneuver through the shallow waters. George snaps a few photos and makes a quick decision. "Let's head back," he says. "I just can't forget what Ray said about the whitecaps. Things could change drastically in a few minutes." As we reach the campground, Jenkins is cleaning up the lunch dishes with water from the outside faucet. He says the water comes from a well dug there on-site. He shows us a light amber-colored water, like weak tea. "You can drink it," he says. "But I don't recommend it for cooking. It'll turn coffee black as ink." The swamp's water has sired its own set of legends. The water was once a highly touted commodity. Its acidity discourages the growth of bacteria and other contaminants. That was a plus for early seagoing vessels, whose captains would order Dismal Swamp water for long journeys at sea. Some say it'll cure what ails you; others warn about drinking it without boiling it first. We ask for some, and Jenkins disappears into his office. He comes out with a plastic gallon jug filled with water. "It doesn't look like Dismal Swamp water to me," I say. "That's because this is water from Ray Jenkins' kitchen faucet back in Chesapeake," he says. "Trust me; you'll like it better." That night, I lie under the canopy of a starlit sky. Winds pick up and blow away the same cloud cover that made our day in the Dismal less than perfect. I hear the occasional drone of a Coast Guard helicopter from nearby Portsmouth or the swoosh of a jet from the Norfolk Naval Base. These sounds are soon drowned by heavy winds shooting into the swamp from the northeast, cutting across Lake Drummond like an F-15 jet and hitting the tops of the trees around the campground with a vengeance. The treetops roar like a locomotive convention as the huge gums, oaks and maples bend under the wind's awe- some power. The sound keeps me awake for a while, thinking of the brave men who first traversed this morass called the Great Dismal. "Hey George," I say between blasts of wind. "Listen to that. No wonder they call this the Great Dismal. That's kind of scary." But George doesn't hear. He's snoozing away, zipped up tightly in his sleeping bag. □
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COASTWATCH 9

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