DATE: Monday, April 14, 1997                TAG: 9704120008

SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B11  EDITION: FINAL 

TYPE: Opinion 

SOURCE: Ann Sjoerdsma 

                                            LENGTH:   74 lines

CIVILIZING NATURE, AFTER ESCAPING TO IT, AN OUTER BANKS PASTIME

``Spring forward'' has long meant for me ``fall out.'' Fall out of circadian rhythm and out of bed too late.

There is no astronomical reason for daylight-saving time, to which we now ``spring forward'' at 2 a.m. on the first Sunday in April. While the Earth continues its 24-hour rotation, we humans simply run an hour short until our biological clocks catch up.

Like time itself, daylight-saving is a human construct, a manipulation of the natural world, and a recent one at that: Congress enacted uniform daylight-saving time just 30 years ago, ostensibly to conserve energy.

During that time, ``civilization'' - a.k.a. the manipulation of nature - has gradually encroached upon North Carolina's precious Outer Banks. But it does not conserve.

Today, small towns exist in place of beaches, and ``springing forward'' means cashing in ever earlier on the tourist trade. Where once the ocean was the great constant that man could not alter, noise, caused by hammer and saw, minivan and truck, and community squabbling, is now another.

Maybe I just need a vacation. . . .

I live just a few miles from the bridge over Currituck Sound that connects the northern Outer Banks to everywhere else. Though my memories reach to the 1960s, I don't propose to turn the clock back. Nor do I want to complain. But I do wonder why people who flee the city often insist on bringing it with them; why people who seek out nature often won't let it be.

On the Outer Banks, I've seen people plant grass where none has ever grown and ``beautify'' already beautiful neighborhoods with trees that won't thrive. I've seen them build houses that could be built in any suburb and use creature comforts to separate themselves from other creatures.

They ask for ``anytown'' restaurants, ``anytown'' stores and ``anytown'' amenities, so that the once-distinctive Outer Banks is no more. It's anytown, with an ocean nearby.

Since Easter and the newfound daylight, desperate refugees from the city have started arriving, defying both cold winds and cold waters. Wearing shorts and swimsuits in 65-degree weather, they are hopeful. As they crowd into supermarkets and onto the roads, I remind myself: You once joyfully descended on the Outer Banks, eager for brief respites. Be kind. Share.

But it's hard. There are so many more of them. And I, and other bygone vacationers, didn't need the palaces by the sea that they demand. We didn't need a Jacuzzi, a TV and VCR, a swimming pool and all of the opulence that now characterizes beach-vacation living, especially in Corolla, a too thin strip of once-pristine land.

When we went to the beach, we went to the sand, ocean and sun, not to fantasy playhouses that overwhelm the landscape. We left the city at home. Nature was enough.

How long will it be, I wonder, before the getaway homeowners and renters of Carova, accessible only by four-wheel-drive vehicle, bring a road to their doorsteps?

Currently, Dare County residents are ``debating'' a proposed $59.5 million school-bond issue that will go to referendum on May 20. At the heart of it is construction of a second high school on the beach ``north of Oregon Inlet,'' which is needed or not needed, and perceived as a threat or a complement to existing Manteo High School, depending largely on one's personal stake.

Judging from the arguments of recent months, the proposed school is the equivalent of a coveted parking space on an urban block. The community factions, based on politics and demographics, parallel those in the city. Manteo vs. Kill Devil Hills vs. Duck. It's hard to fathom, on such precious, little land.

Last weekend, I looked at a lot on an undeveloped tract of land near Kitty Hawk. With waters to the east and west, it seemed to offer serenity, a marshland hideaway. I did a bit of fantasizing myself.

But the moment I stepped from my car, I heard the din, rising from the trees, less than a mile away. It was traffic bearing down. A rumble now as constant as the ocean's tides. MEMO: Ann G. Sjoerdsma, an attorney, is an editorial columnist and book

editor for The Virginian-Pilot.

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