When the summer tourists have finally flown and the wintry winds churn the darkening Atlantic in to a seething adversary, then the isolated villages huddled tight along the vast island beaches of North Carolina's outer banks slip back to their solemn and unceasing vigil over the angry sea and he local residents gather nightly in small weather beaten clubhouses such as the Dead Bosens Lockers, to nod and dream, drink good whisky and exchange memories of the days that were, when shipwreck salvage and plunder were the towns's only industry and the omnipresent Atlantic each man's mistress...