By Roberta Nordheim-Wallace
Photos by James E. Nordheim
My family visited the Outer Banks annually beginning in the 1950s, prompted by a newspaper column on Ocracoke that ran in the Pittsburgh Press.
We made the long, hot drive from western Pennsylvania in an unairconditioned car; the only break on the trip was the steamship ride on the Old Bay Line from Baltimore to Norfolk.
Ocracoke was always a dream as, after so much travel for one week of vacation, we were unwilling to take on two ferries (Oregon Inlet, which had no bridge, and Ocracoke) and the long drive south from Nags Head.
So, it was a big deal when Dad, determined to visit, hired a plane at the Manteo airport in 1961 to take us to Ocracoke.
I was 3 years old and had never been aloft.
The plane was hot, loud and scary.
After what seemed like hours of flying, we landed on the island beach and the pilot advised us sternly that we had very little time before the tide turned, so we’d best take advantage.
It was very hot, and the air buzzed with unfamiliar insect sounds.
We quickly walked to the village, took a walk around the harbor while Dad took pictures, then hustled back to the beach where the pilot waited.
My father carried a good camera and took his photography seriously.
Ocracoke has always been a very, very special place for me—likely more so because it has been so hard to get there.
I’ve treasured the times I’ve made it down over the years and have cried at the rail of the Hatteras ferry more than once.
I continue to visit Nags Head annually, but solo.
Roberta Nordheim-Wallace lives in Manlius, New York.
