chincoteague | Literature and Libation

My family has owned property in Chincoteague, Virginia, since 1990. It was our go-to summer vacation spot; a quiet and quaint little beach town with pristine white sand beaches and ponies clopping around like they were human.

I fell in love with the Eastern Shore a long time ago. The setting sun striking the water and reeds at just the right angle produces blues and yellows and greens that I’ve yet to see anywhere else in the world. There is a peace to being in a small town on the water, as if I have stepped back into a simpler, safer, less complicated time.

My parents chose to retire in Chincoteague. This turns all of our family gatherings into compulsory beach trips. A tragedy, I assure you.

The trip from Washington DC to Chincoteauge is a straight-forward, 3.5 hour affair, with little to see except the flat sprawling farmlands that hug Route 50 and Route 13. The occasional farmer’s market or antique store breaks up the monotony of corn and juvenile potatoes. It’s an easy, relaxing drive that usually helps soften and melt the stress of hectic DC life.

Just before the island, there is a 10 mile stretch that passes through the unassuming town of New Church, VA. It boasts a population of 205, dozens of annex offices for corporations supporting the nearby Wallops Island NASA base, and the ruins of a yellow and red building that dominates the major curve on the road through town.

This was someone’s dream, once.

I can remember when this wasn’t the shell of a venue, but a fully operational roller rink. If the parking lot on a Friday night was any example of the success of the business, The Dream Roller Rink was thriving in the mid-nineties. It often had signs promoting “all-skate nights” and food specials. Given the lack of not-beach-related activities in Chincoteague, I can imagine this roller rink was a great place for kids to spend evenings while on vacation.

Just behind the decaying rink, a short road leads to another yellow and red building in an even worse state of disrepair.

I’ve never actually been to a drive-in theater, which seems a shame.

This matching ruin was once a matching drive-in theater, owned by the same family. Both were built in 1940 by Elijah Justice who wanted to offer some entertainment for the local population and the sailors from the nearby Chincoteague Naval Air Station. The station closed in 1959 and the Justice family fought for decades to keep both the rink and drive-in financially soluble despite a dwindling pool of patrons.

Through the 70’s and 80’s the drive-in showed exclusively pornographic movies, which seems really bizarre for an open-air, drive in theater. Despite these attempts to bring in revenue through any means possible, the theater officially stopped its projectors in 1988. The screen, stained and drooping, hung on until 1998.

The only signs that this was ever a drive-in are the decaying brick concession stand and dozens of speaker poles, which have all been dug up and de-speakered.

No parking, even if you could.

The rink stayed open for two more decades, finally shutting down in 2008. A local developer, Don Brown, bought the rink and drive-in, hoping to restore both to bring an Art Deco renaissance back for the seasonal visitors to enjoy. Unfortunately, his vision was never achieved due to a land dispute with a neighbor and some poorly drawn property lines.

In the five years since it closed, The Dream has suffered the ravages of coastal storms, acrid salt air, and petty vandalism. The lipstick red has faded to cracking pink, and the mustard yellow has washed out to pale daisy. A relatively clean spot marks where the illuminated sign used to sit above the main entrance. It is a haunting reminder of a different time, socially and economically.

I couldn’t find what happened to the rest of the Justice family, but I assume they’ve long since abandoned their dreams of The Dream.

Roller Rink – Before and After:

Top image, courtesy me, 2012. Bottom image courtesy Cary Scott, 2008

Top image courtesy Cary Scott, 2008. Bottom image courtesy me, 2012.

Drive-In – Before and After:

Top image courtesy Drive-In Theatres of the Mid-Atlantic, 1998. Bottom image courtesy me, 2012.

Another interesting note: Writer Paul Hendrickson wrote an article about The Dream for the Washington Post on June 24, 1988, the same year the drive-in portion closed down.

(A special thanks to my sister, Becca, for the awesome photos in this post)

I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I don’t want to jump out of planes or off of cliffs or into big holes naturally bored hundreds of feet into the Earth’s crust. It does nothing for me. The love of self fights the love of excitement, and self-preservation almost always wins.

The one exception is driving. Something about clutch and gears and accelerator coming together in glorious harmony, resulting in a symphony of speed, resonates deeply in my pysche. I’ve always loved to drive, and drive fast. It was speed I wanted, and the car was the means to that end.

I couldn’t physically drive a real car until I was about 15 years old, because I was a tiny boy who didn’t experience his adult growth spurt until relatively late. Having my feet be able to reach the pedals was a prophecy straight out of Plutarch; like Theseus growing to a strength to be able to move the stone to retrieve his father’s arms, I had to impatiently wait until my physical body could handle 2000 odd pounds of steel and gasoline.

I sought to satiate my desire for speed in others ways. Bicycles. Skateboards. Sprinting. Soccer. They brought me fleeting joy, but I always wanted to go faster than the highest gear would let me go, just a little faster than the steepest hill could propel me.

And one glorious day, I discovered that they had made cars for kids; smaller things with less power that could be controlled in a relatively safe manner. I’m talking go karts, holmes.

The first time I shoved my slight frame into the tiny plastic seat of a homeade go kart, I felt like Mario Andretti mixed with Mario the plumber. If I’d had a red shell to throw at other karts, my life would have been complete.

I was an equal in a go kart. I wasn’t short or weak. I could keep pace with, and even pass my older sister. I could race my dad with the chance of actually winning. I was as big as the biggest man in the world inside that little black contraption, the 12 horsepower lawnmower engine puttering under the hood, feeling like nothing could ever go wrong as long as my hands were on that wheel.

On the southern most part of Chincoteague Island, Virginia, (the beach town where I spent my summers as a kid) there was a small go kart track that my father used to take us to when it was open during the Summer season. I remember fondly scooting around that oval of pavement, watching the sun sink into the Western bay; its rays throwing long shadows and an orange glow over my race, burning this image of childhood perfection into the permanence of my memory.

My sister visited the island and the track a few weeks ago. By my crude math, I hadn’t seen (or even thought about this place) for nearly 14 years.

Thinking about it, I’ve never see a private go kart track.

It’s hard to tell when the track closed. It’s clearly been abandoned for some time, based on its current state. I don’t think it was ever exactly a high end go kart track (if such things exist) but at least someone maintained the track and the karts and the little house where you bought tickets.

I have memories of this place being alive with noise and activity as I waited in line for my chance to burn as much rubber as a 10 year old is capable of burning.

There are a few more obstacles than I remember.

The bones of the track are still there, but it’s beyond salvage at this point. I suppose there is no place in our current world for the frivolity of a go kart track in a sleepy beach town.

The tires once surrounded the outside of the track as a makeshift guard railing.

You can see from the below set of images that the surrounding wetlands flora has been encroaching on the track steadily since about 1997. There is a large gap in the satellite imagery, but I think by 2007 it is safe to say that this place hadn’t seen patrons for quite a while. The large truck/trailer parked on the track was the biggest hint.

Ah Google Earth, I wish I knew how to quit you.

It’s sad to see this little piece of my childhood in such disrepair, but I suppose it’s bound to happen. Businesses close, buildings are torn down, people move, and nature reclaims anything it can.

But memories linger. It may look depressing to an outsider, but these pictures are a connection to bright memories of happy days. I may have sat in this very car all those years ago, when I was the king of the track, learning what it was to be in control and trying as hard as I could to win some imaginary race against imaginary competitors.

Sounds oddly similar to how I feel now.

Not a very good parking job.

Browsing Tags chincoteague

Forgotten Friday: Reliving The Dream

Forgotten Friday: Beached Go Karts