Eastern seaboard on a super bike

When I left Pennsylvania on my Ducati 900 SS, the year was 1993. The solsitce is the longest day of the year and this is the day I left. My parents had some trepidations about their middle child quitting his job and biking across the country with no plan. I can admit now that I was pretty nervous. I felt deeply that I had to go and embrace the mystery of life. This drive far outweighed the fear. In 1989, I spent 5 weeks in Europe. During this time, I met many travelers and learned that there was a traveling subculture which can be quite supportive. After 4 years, I finally felt like I had enough flow$$, to pull off the random relocation act. My itineary took me down the eastern seaboard. The outer banks of North Carolina provided a nice change from the Doylestown duldrums. While in Kill Devil Hills, I hang glided off the same sand dunes that the Wright brothers made famous with their first flight. I met a guy named John in a campground there. He'd started biking in Canada, a pedal bike. The night I met him, it was raining. He thru a tarp over a picnic table and slept under it. I had my Sierra Design Meteorlite 3 person tent. The next day we talked and he told me about a place called: Hostel in the Forest. It is located just outside of Brunswick, Georgia. Geodesic domes and treehouses. I'm there I think to myself. I leave town on the motorcycle a few days later and pass John as he pedals, pedals, pedals. Next stop for me: Cape Hatterus. I stay in a state run campground. I go to a surf shop and rent a surf board. Somehow I manage to bungey cord the board to my back and motorcycle to the beach for my first attempt at surfing. One word description: frustrating. No real swell. No paddling strength. I strap the board on my back and motor back to the campground. You're supposed to stop but I try to just go thru slowly. The girl working the guard station makes me stop and I kind of freak and give her a piece of my mind. The surfboard makes stopping very akward but rules are rules. The next day the campground manager or whatever comes to my site and asks me about what happened. He has a uniform that makes him look like a cop as did the girl in the booth. This converstaion is pretty blurry after 12 years; all I remeber is that I left of my own accord an hour later. Next stop, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.