Introduction
Chapter I
It has been aptly said from time immemorial the
lure of the sea has captured the minds and hearts of
men. In my own experience, my life has been one long
continuous love affair with this fascinating
medium -- particularly the beautiful and
bounteous Chesapeake Bay.
I was born and have always lived on one of the Bay
islands. The long finger of land called Hoopers
Island -- that part of Dorchester County, in
Maryland, which lies between the Bay and Honga River.
Family history relates that our ancestor, Roger
Hooper, came here from England in the early 1600s and
purchased this large tract of land -- then
principally wilderness -- from the Honga tribe of
Indians for a dozen yarn blankets. They agreed to move
away and never molest him, and kept their promise.
Honga River, which borders the island on the east, is
said to have derived its name from this tribe.
Hoopers Island, like all of Gaul, is divided into
three parts. The lower island, known as Applegarth,
was a thriving community in my boyhood. Uninhabited
for years, it has evolved into a kind of hunting
preserve.
The Hooper family tree from which I spring is
rooted in Hoopersville, or middle Hoopers Island.
Erosion by the ceaseless caress of the Bay has greatly
diminished the land area, but ours is still a
fair-sized community. I suppose we would classify it
as a fishing village, since the economy is geared to
the products of the sea. However, most of the fish
taken and processed now wear shells instead of
scales -- namely crabs and oysters. Fin fish are
no longer handled here in large commercial
quantities.
Upper Hoopers Island, also known as Fishing Creek,
is the larger community and is likewise supported by
the seafood industry.
Both are thriving communities with every modern
convenience, and although each is actually a separate
island they are in no sense isolated -- any more
than Manhattan Island. Sturdy bridges, sufficient to
accommodate heavy trucks, connect all land divisions,
so that our island chain is, in effect, a
peninsula.
At the age of eighty-five I look back with keen
satisfaction and happy serenity on the best of all
possible lives. The lure and the love of this place,
my work on the Bay and its tributaries, and the
waterways of neighboring states, combined to make my
career one long satisfying and fascinating adventure.
There is no place else on earth I would rather have
lived; no work other than that of a waterman ever held
my interest.
Life aboard the sailing ships, particularly the
schooners on which I sailed as a young man, was
rigorous but also exciting, carefree and
romantic -- although often fraught with
considerable danger. In fact, the life of a waterman
is a spartan kind of existence at best, demanding
perseverance, self-discipline, and a consummate
respect for the vagaries of the sea.
For my contemporaries and me the satisfaction more
than compensated for the hardship. Our years before
the mast brought us joyous adventure, the means to a
livelihood, and a kind of soul-satisfying communion
with that part of the universe which fills some
indescribable longing in man to be one with nature. A
magnetic, even eerie, kind of fascination that perhaps
has something to do with man's urge toward mastery and
use of one of nature's most turbulent and exacting
elements.
However one wishes to philosophize about the
fascination or mystic longing for the sea, we were
captivated by our lives under sail, and by the beauty,
wonder and majesty of our stern mistress -- the
Chesapeake Bay.
The Bay Area
Chapter II
Those unfamiliar with the Chesapeake Bay area may
appreciate a brief review of its outstanding
characteristics and historical significance.
Chesapeake Bay, which the Indians called "Great
Salt Water" was actually created by submergence of the
lower courses of the Susquehanna River and its
tributaries eons ago by the Atlantic Ocean. The Bay,
largest estuary on the United States Atlantic Coast,
covers a 4300 square mile area, and reaches inland
approximately 200 miles. Bordered on the north by
Maryland and on the south by Virginia, it is as much
as 168 feet deep in one spot. This deep hole --
the subject of considerable research in recent
years -- is off Bloody Point in the Kent Island
area. Overall, however, the Bay is rather shallow for
a large body of water, with a mean depth of just over
twenty feet.
Width of the Bay varies from four to thirty miles.
The entrance, which is twelve miles wide, is flanked
by Cape Charles on the north and Cape Henry on the
south. Several large and important rivers -- and
a number of smaller ones -- empty into the
Chesapeake. The James, York and Rappahannock flow
directly from Virginia. Between Maryland and Virginia
flows that sometime stream of contention -- and
skirmishes between the two states' "oyster
navies" -- the rich Potomac River. From Maryland
flow the Patapsco, Nanticoke, Choptank, Chester,
Honga, the lovely Tred Avon, and many smaller rivers
and streams. Most important of all, through Maryland,
from Pennsylvania, comes the mighty Susquehanna.
Actually, the Bay drains a combined area of more than
60,000 square miles.
In point of fact, all rivers and streams flowing
into the Bay are tributaries of the Susquehanna. Their
mouths are tidal estuaries which, when merged with the
many smaller coves and inlets, combine with the
contour of the Bay to form a shoreline of
approximately 4600 square miles.
Influx of the various rivers, actually forty-eight
principal ones, with their one hundred or more
meandering branches, combine with the irregular
coastal outline to exert great influence on the tides,
and cause them to vary as much as twelve hours from
normal in certain areas.
The western aspect of the Bay's coastline is fairly
straight and contains long stretches of high cliffs.
On a clear day, facing west across the Bay from our
porch, we can see the great chalky cliffs of Calvert
County. The eastern shoreline is low and marshy with a
highly irregular contour.
The Chesapeake has been an important trade route
since early times. After establishment of the first
permanent English settlement at Jamestown, Virginia,
In 1607, Captain John Smith explored and mapped the
Bay area. Soon settlers, including my ancestors, were
attracted to the Bay's protected and accessible
shores.
The Bay is open all year to oceangoing vessels. The
Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, a part of the Atlantic
Coastal Waterway, provides an inland water route to
Philadelphia. More important, by connecting the head
of the Bay with the Delaware River estuary, the Canal
shortens the sea route to the large seaport of
Baltimore from the north and from Europe.
Excellent harbors and busy ports have made the Bay
an important artery of commerce. Baltimore, Md. and
Norfolk and Newport News, Virginia, rank among the
half dozen leading ports in the country in volume of
seagoing traffic. These are also important
manufacturing and shipbuilding centers.
Although somewhat depleted in recent decades, the
Chesapeake, as far as we know, is still entitled to
its claim as the largest oyster ground in the world.
Crabs, although fairly scarce in some seasons, are
still of major economic importance. Fish, in
particular shad, bluefish and rock (striped bass) are
still plentiful enough to draw swarms of sports
fishermen to the area.
The Bay area is along the Atlantic Flyway, so the
low coastal marshes the wetlands abound with
waterfowl. There are 100,000 acres of wetlands in
Dorchester County alone. A kind of hunters' paradise,
although stringent Federal regulations concerning
wildlife prevail.
The area has several Federal game preserves. One of
the largest is Blackwater Refuge, between Fishing
Creek and Cambridge. I feel a special kinship with
this one. Its establishment was made possible by a WPA
grant (Works Project Administration -- for the
information of those too young to remember) during the
lean early thirties. I, and many of my friends, worked
on it. The wages would make today's youth gasp in
disbelief.
The thousands of acres of wetlands and grain fields
at the Refuge furnish safe resting and feeding grounds
for wing-weary geese and ducks on their way South from
the Canadian breeding grounds. Much of the acreage is
visible from the highway, and motorists are favored
with a roadside vantage point from which to view this
drama.
At sunset on a late fall day the graceful takeoff
and landing of the Canadian geese resembles the
traffic at a busy airport. By the thousands they glide
down to the fields to honk, strut around and feed,
sometimes just a few feet from the roadway, as if they
dared any itchy-fingered hunter to molest them. And
woe betide anyone who might be tempted. He would soon
find himself in a Federal lockup.
The Chesapeake Bay country has been the staging
area for much American history, including military
action. Many wealthy planters of tidewater Virginia
have honored space in our history books; they played a
leading role in America's struggle for independence.
The surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown in 1781 proved
the turning point toward victory in the Revolutionary
War.
In the War of 1812, during the British attack on
Baltimore, Francis Scott Key wrote our national anthem
as he watched the bombardment of Fort McHenry while a
prisoner aboard an enemy warship. During the Civil
War, the fight between the war vessels Monitor and
Merrimac in Hampton Roads, Virginia, is a classic in
the annals of naval warfare. Chesapeake Bay, whether
navigated by the colorful sailing ships of my youth,
or the liners, freighters and military craft of today,
has always been of great commercial, military and
historical importance. A truly national treasure.
Development of Sailing Ships
Chapter III
Information on the early development of sailing
vessels is somewhat vague, and largely a matter of
conjecture. We do know, however, that from the dawn of
history men have sailed boats in some manner. Ancient
Egyptian vessels, used mainly on the Nile River, were
equipped with both oars and a large sail usually
referred to as a lateen sail.
By the end of the 14th century sailing vessels were
seaworthy enough to go anywhere in the world. Of the
squadron which Christopher Columbus sailed to the new
world, the Nina and the Pinta were small
caravels -- ships noted for their broad bows and
high narrow poops. The flagship Santa Maria was a
larger vessel, with three masts. All were
square-rigged. Columbus' voyage, and the opening of
the sea route to India a short time later, brought
establishment of permanent colonies overseas. Heavy
traffic soon appeared on these routes. The Mayflower,
chartered to bring the Pilgrims to America, was a
180-ton ship with a high poop. Similar boats brought
pioneer settlers to Virginia, Maryland and to
Massachusetts Bay.
By the 17th century, Europeans were using three
basic types of sailing ships: the full-rigged ship,
which was square-rigged on all three masts (fore, main
and mizzen); the brig, whose two masts (fore and main)
were square-rigged; and the sloop, whose single mast
was fore-and-aft rigged.
The American colonists adopted these three types
for their use, and early in the 18th century developed
a fourth type, the schooner, which was fore-and-aft
rigged on all masts; it had two masts in the
beginning, more later. We Americans had a real need
for small fast ships in that hectic era. These ships
could easily dodge the British cruisers patrolling the
seas and sometimes blockading the coasts during the
period between the Revolutionary War and the War of
1812, when our young nation was struggling to keep her
trade routes open.
To fill this need the small fast little schooners
known as the "Baltimore Clippers" were designed and
built at the Bay port of Baltimore. They were
extremely adept at running the Royal Navy's blockade
or tangling with their merchantmen. Other American
shipyards continued to build these smart little
schooners. Typical of those which engaged in the
coastal trade until well into the 20th century, and in
some overseas trade as well, was the two-masted vessel
with foresail, mainsail, topsails, staysail, and one
or more jibs.
Larger schooners, vessels of more than two masts,
came into use around 1840. From then on into the early
years of the 20th century, American shipbuilders
constructed increasingly larger vessels with more
masts and greater areas of sail.
The 494-ton "Ann McKim," a three-masted vessel
built at Baltimore in 1839, is said to be the first of
the larger clippers. However, the majority of these
larger ships were built around New York and Boston.
The pioneer four-master "William L. White," was built
in 1880; the first five-master, the "Governor Ames,"
was built in 1888; and the first six-master, the
"George W. Wells," in 1900.
The only seven-master on record, the "Thomas W.
Lawson," was built at Fore River, Massachusetts in
1902. This ship was 368 feet long, with a capacity of
5,200 tons. Her sails were raised and lowered with a
donkey engine, so the ship could sail with a
relatively small crew in spite of her size. She was
lost in 1907. On a return voyage to London loaded with
freight, she encountered a severe storm in the English
Channel, struck a reef and broke in half. We saw the
'LAWSON' once from here on the Island. As she sailed
up the Bay word spread around the community of her
presence, and many came out to look and admire This
beautiful ship, and wonder in awe about what great
things or marvels would be done next by the hand of
man. People stood on their steps or lined the shore to
watch. The ship was a magnificent sight to behold and,
of course, she was rather far away -- in the
channel of the Bay.
Types of Sailing Ships
Chapter IV
For the benefit of landlubbers -- and sailors
with rusty memories -- let's briefly describe the
types of sailing vessels and their variations.
Square Rigger - Developed and built by
Europeans in the 17th century. These ships usually had
three or four masts, rigged with only square sails
stretched on arms between the masts and at right
angles to the deck. They were especially adaptable for
long hauls on the open seas. However, because of the
greater number of sails, which must be handled
separately, larger crews were required to operate
them. On coastal waterways, they were more difficult
to maneuver than a fore-and-aft rigged vessel. But
surely this was the most beautiful sailing ship ever
built.
Clipper - The term "Clipper" applied to a
ship that was fast and streamlined. All clippers had
speed and fine lines and were sometimes referred to as
the 'greyhounds of the sea.' The sharp, fast, slender
Baltimore Clippers, developed and built at Baltimore,
were small schooners with raking masts. They were used
wherever speed and maneuverability were of prime
importance.
Packet - A "Packet" referred to a ship with
special function. Actually, any fast sailing ship
chartered to carry passengers, mail or freight. Used
extensively in the 19th century, their use marked the
beginning of the 'line' principle in shipping; that
is, vessels sailing on regular schedules on particular
routes. Our country's first ocean liners were the
sailing packets that operated scheduled runs to France
and England out of New York. Beginning with the Black
Ball Line in 1818, the hardy Yankee captains kept
driving these sturdy, fast ships carrying passengers,
mail and freight as fast as they would go across 3000
miles of the roughest seas in the world -- the
stormy Atlantic Ocean. They began to lose their
importance with the advent of steam navigation in
1833.
Schooner - A commercial boat developed and
built principally in the Chesapeake Bay area, although
some were also built in New York and New England. Each
region built their boats with some variation. The
fore-and-aft rig enables a ship to sail closer to the
wind than is possible in the square-rigger.
Schooner-rigged vessels are more maneuverable; also,
more economical to operate because they can be handled
with smaller crews.
A typical schooner of the 18th and 19th centuries
was the two-masted vessel which engaged in the coastal
trade, and to a lesser extent in oceangoing commerce.
Larger schooners were usually built for the foreign
trade. When I was a boy there were perhaps a half
dozen five-masted vessels operating out of the Bay
area. Many of these larger ships were used in the
fruit trade out to the Bahamas Islands.
The Two-masted Schooner - The vessel most
favored for the coastal trade in the Bay area. There
were two types:
The Two Topmast Schooner rigged with a mainsail and
main topsail, foresail and fore topsail, standing jib
and jib topsail, and a flying jib.
The Main Topmast Schooner had a main topmast over
the mainsail, but no topmast over the foresail. She
was rigged with a mainsail and main topsail, foresail,
standing jib and flying jib.
Three-masted Schooner - had a mainsail and
main topsail, foresail and fore topsail, spanker, and
spanker topsail, standing jib, jib topsail, and flying
jib.
Four, Five and Six-masted Schooners - much
larger vessels, with a correspondingly larger number
of sails.
Ram or Balltop - Actually a three-masted
schooner with a slightly different sail rig: a
mainsail, foresail, spanker and standing jib. Very
seaworthy and economical to operate. The last ram on
the Bay was converted to an excursion boat, operating
out of Cambridge, Maryland. Some years ago she ran
aground off Sandy Point during a hurricane and broke
apart with the loss of several lives.
Pungy - Another schooner-built boat with a
somewhat different hull design: broad shallow hull,
with raking stem, and a broad shallow transom stern.
It had no centerwell but did have a large keel and,
therefore, deeper draught. The bottom was rounded, and
the absence of a centerwell made more room in the hull
of the ship for freight. When a pungy was loaded there
was little of her left above water. This boat had two
masts, but was smaller than the two-masted schooner.
She was rigged with a gaff foresail and mainsail, a
gaff main topsail and a large standing jib.
The pungy Twilight, one of the largest on the Bay
in my youth, operated out of Hoopersville with my
friend Alan White as captain. She was considered a
smart sailer. Alan told me that once when he had her
loaded with oysters, the Twilight and two schooners
left in a strong north wind, bound for Baltimore. It
was so rough in Chesapeake Bay that night the two
schooners anchored in Patuxent; he took his vessel on
up the Bay. He did allow, however, that night the
Twilight was under the water almost as much as on the
surface. Their hull design and watertight hatches
enabled these boats to sail in that fashion.
Bugeye - Another schooner with some
variation in hull design, sharp at both ends, with all
sails sharp. She was fitted with two masts of almost
equal height, raked sharply aft, and carried a
mainsail, foresail and jib. This boat was also
economical to operate, since few were needed in crew.
The larger ones were used for freight; smaller ones
for oyster dredging.
It has been said that this vessel got its name from
a sometime practice of painting a large eye on each
side of the bow. Perhaps so; but it had to be before
my time. I cannot recall ever having seen any such
decoration on a vessel.
Bateau - The hull design is similar to that
of a schooner, only smaller and half-decked. Fitted
with two masts and three sharp sails. Used for
oystering and crabbing. Usually not large enough for
any kind of freight. My brother-in-law and I owned and
operated a bateau named Lucifer for many years.
Sloop - This is another schooner-built
vessel with one mast, and rigged with four sails:
large mainsail, main topsail, standing jib and flying
jib. Large enough for light freight hauling, but
mostly used for oyster dredging.
Of the sloops that operated out of Hoopersville,
the Henry W. Ruark stands out in my mind, probably
because I worked on her one season. She was large as
sloops go, and was built by my wife's grandfather
Capt. Tom Ruark and his brother at Flag Cove. She was
rebuilt several times. I believe she is still in use,
rigged as a sharp sailboat and owned by Cambridge
interests.
Skipjack - Schooner-designed with a clipper
stem, broad transom stern, and V shaped bottom. Fitted
with one mast and two sails, mainsail and jib. Used
principally for oystering and crabbing; sometimes for
light commercial work. Also, sometimes fitted and used
as a small yacht. The most popular work boat ever used
on the Bay. Some were quite small. Others quite
sizable. About sixty years ago I dredged oysters in
the Potomac River one season in my two-masted bateau
Defender. I tied up at night beside a large skipjack
named the Flora Price, out of Deals Island. That
vessel would carry 1200 bushels of oysters.
An occasional bugeye or bateau may still be seen in
the Chesapeake Bay area. The skipjacks, however, are
the only sailing craft left in any number. They are
mostly engaged in oyster dredging in the few areas
where this operation is still permitted. The majority
of the oyster grounds were closed to dredging years
ago, in order to conserve the dwindling supply. Only
tonging is permitted now over most of the beds. Oyster
tongs are giant rake-like pick-ups with large metal
teeth set in slender wooden handles twelve to eighteen
feet long. Manipulation of the handles in a
scissor-like motion causes the metal teeth to tear
oysters loose from whatever object they have seen fit
to attach themselves. Probably the best known of the
skipjacks left in service is the work-racing vessel
Rosie Parks, out of Cambridge, owned and operated by
Capt. Orville Parks. Capt. Orville and my brother, the
late Henry James Hooper, were in the same Company in
France during World War I.
The Changing Scene
Chapter V
When I was a boy of ten or twelve years, fishing in
the Bay with my father -- this would be in the
mid 1890s -- we would sometimes see three or four
square-riggers at a time plying the Bay in the
distance.
Gradually, as the years passed, the square-riggers
were seen less and less frequently. They began to be
replaced by the more "modern" ships described earlier;
those without the many arms and sails of the
square-riggers. These schooner-built vessels, as
previously mentioned, were easier and more economical
to operate. They could sail with smaller crews, since
their sails could be raised and lowered from the
deck.
So, with the advent of steam navigation in 1838
(competition which dealt them a severe blow), and the
development of these newer vessels, square-riggers
were gradually relegated to long hauls at low freight
rates.
Some nations shifted from sail to steam more
quickly than others. The United States was one of the
last strongholds of sail. At the time of the steam
boom, around 1870, the Americans lacked the industrial
facilities to build steamships, comparable to such
countries as Great Britain, so they allowed much of
their overseas commerce to be taken over by foreign
steamers. They still used their big "Down Easters"
(square-riggers built mostly in Maine, and commanded
by Maine men) in the grain trade from California
around Cope Horn to Europe.
In the protected coastal trade, schooners were to
find employment for years yet in hauling seafood,
lumber, stone, lime and assorted other freight. It may
be interesting to note here that the last important
naval vessel to see action under sail operated during
World War I as a German raider. The big square-rigger
"SEEADLER," under the command of Count Felix von
Luckner, counted quite a few sailing vessels among the
shipping she destroyed. The fisheries industry was a
field where sail held its own until well into the 20th
century. By its very nature the work involved adapted
to sail propulsion. Most of the fishing activity was,
of course, carried on in local waters. Some hardy
souls from Europe, however, continued to sail all the
way to the Grand Banks below Newfoundland, an area
rich in codfish. Even as late as the 1950s the
Portuguese continued crossing to the Banks in their
big schooners.
My career on the Bay and neighboring waterways
actually got underway toward the end of the 19th
century. In the beginning I sailed on the freight
schooners, usually two-masters, which hauled lumber,
coal, oysters and assorted other freight between Bay
ports, and oysters to New Jersey.
The greater number of years under sail, however,
were spent in fisheries activities, principally the
taking of crabs and oysters in the Chesapeake Bay
area; sometimes in such neighboring waterways as the
Delaware Bay and off the New Jersey coast.
First Voyage Before The Mast: The
Annie Hodges
Chapter VI
I am the sole survivor of the thirteen children
born to Samuel Thomas and Susan Meekins Hooper. At the
age of fourteen it was necessary for me to quit school
and go to work with my father, who was a
waterman -- as was my grandfather -- in
order to help make a living for our large family. From
that time until I retired two years ago, I worked on
the water, or as we said then "followed the water," on
the coastal freight schooners as a very young man;
later, in the fisheries business of oystering and
crabbing.
When I was seventeen I sailed with Capt. Ellie
Phillips on the schooner Annie Hodges. The Hodges was
a main topmast schooner; that is, she was fitted with
a mainsail, main topsail, foresail, standing jib and a
flying jib. She could carry around 2000 bushels of
oysters. Capt. Ellie, his sons Amos and Goldsborough,
and I made up the crew.
I was cook. What could I cook at seventeen?
Anything that came aboard; an assortment of good
things: fish, ham, pork, beef, beans, potatoes,
hominy, many kinds of vegetables. I cooked all we ate.
Did the crew enjoy my cooking? They did indeed! It was
all devoured.
The pay was $15 per month, and all the good food we
could eat. Capt. Ellie told us that when he was our
age he sailed for $10 monthly. His father, Capt. Gus
Phillips, was also captain of a vessel in the coastal
trade. Capt. Ellie ran oysters in the spring and early
summer, and in the late summer and early fall hauled
freight over the Bay: railroad ties; wood from
Baltimore to Philadelphia; coal, lumber, etc. between
various other Bay ports. In the late fall and winter
the boat was used for oyster dredging. Although my
official job was cook, and this was my first
responsibility, I also had other duties. When not busy
with cooking I worked on deck, handling sails,
steering the boat, loading and unloading freight. When
Amos and Goldsborough were not busy on deck they
helped me prepare the meals. We helped each other, and
worked well together. Capt. Ellie treated me as if I
were his own son. I am the only one left of our little
crew.
During the three seasons I sailed on the Annie
Bridges we ran oysters from the James River in
Virginia, to Maurice River Cove, near Port Norris in
New Jersey. Port Norris was a beautiful little town of
about 5000 population.
May and June made up the oyster planting season in
that area. However, sometimes we ran oysters up there
as early as the latter part of March. Capt. Ellie
hauled the oyster plants for a man who lived in Port
Norris, to be planted in Maurice River Cove on leased
bottom. On arrival, the oysters were shoveled onto
pontoons brought out to the vessel by scow. When a
pontoon was loaded it was poled out to the planting
ground and the oysters were shoveled overboard.
We received an extra $3.00 for every load of
oysters we helped to shovel off the vessel. There was
usually extra help. Capt. Ernie would get boys who
were hanging around the beach; at times some of our
own boys from here on Hoopers Island could be found
there, and brought aboard to help. They also received
$3.00, and their meals that day.
The tides in that area behave in a most
disconcerting fashion, with an ebb and flow of from
seven to nine feet. On one of our runs to Port Norris
in the Hodges we anchored off shore in approximately
eight feet of water, and after the vessel was unloaded
decided to go ashore awhile. While we were on the
beach the tide went and left the vessel high and dry,
resting on the bottom. We walked back to the boat and
climbed aboard on a ladder. Why the hurry to get back
aboard? It was supper time and we were hungry. The
first rush of incoming tide may be several feet; and
it comes in strong, sometimes with enough force to
sweep a man off his feet. A vessel left resting on the
bottom would refloat in about two hours.
When the tide went out, local fishermen would drive
out in their horse and wagon rigs and set traps made
of poultry wire. After the next tide receded they
drove out again and fished them. They caught an
abundance of many kinds of fish including large trout
and flounder. When we were in the mood for fish they
would supply us with a large basket full. We offered
them oysters in exchange, but they always declined.
There were plenty of oysters on the beach; and at low
tide one could pick up plenty of them and clams too
from the bottom.
To addition to the fish, they sometimes caught a
wagon load of king crabs, measuring eight to fourteen
inches each. These were piled on the beach to be used
as compost.
The fish made good eating, and were especially
delicious with the hot bread I made. We called it
yeast powder bread, made with white flour, salt,
baking powder and plenty of lard to make it tender and
flaky. Our saddle-back stove baked it beautifully,
with the loaves browned as evenly on the bottom as on
the top.
The saddle-back stove was one especially designed
for use aboard a vessel, and particularly adapted for
cooking in rough weather. It was square, with rods
built across the top structure to hold cook pots in
place. Either wood or coal could be used as fuel.
We always had plenty of good food on board, and
healthy hardworking men had the keen appetites to
consume it. We cooked and ate in the forepeak, in the
bow of the vessel. The cabin, aft, in the stern
section, provided sleeping quarters.
Other Voyages on The Hodges
Chapter VII
On one trip to Maurice River Cove in the Annie
Hodges we had picked up a cargo of oysters from James
River for a man who lived in Bivalve, New Jersey. It
was late afternoon when we finished loading and got
under way, so we stopped for the night in a harbor at
Great Macomico, near Smith Point Lighthouse. Next day
we continued our journey up the Bay to the Chesapeake
and Delaware Canal. We entered at Chesapeake City,
locked out at Delaware City, and continued on down the
Delaware Bay. Night overtook us as we rounded Bennie's
Point -- a familiar landmark, near the mouth of a
creek by the same name -- not too far from
Maurice River Cove. Delaware Bay has a narrow
channel -- it did in those days, anyway. Since
the route from there on in was full of bars and
shallows, and we were heavily loaded, Capt. Ellie felt
it would be too hazardous to try to make it in the
dark. He decided to anchor in Bennie's Creek for the
night. There were quite a few boats already anchored
there. It was a good and a very popular anchorage,
with water six to eight feet deep.
It was a crisp, pleasant evening; calm and clear.
We let go our anchors and went to bed. At that time
the vessel was smooth, or as we would say then "still"
in the water. She was low in the water, too. This was
around the last of March, and the oyster season was
almost over in the Chesapeake Bay area, but we were
loaded to the gunwales with large fat oysters for our
buyer.
About an hour before dawn the wind struck to the
north, that is "down," on the flood tide. The tide
runs strong in there when the wind is down as much as
five or six miles an hour, which tended to keep the
vessel side to the wind. We were awakened with a
jolt -- I should say a series of jolts -- as
the boat rolled wildly, throwing us around the bunks
and knocking down objects in the cabin and
forepeak.
We jumped from the bunks and headed for the deck to
see what needed attention on the vessel. Sometimes the
strain of such a blow would cause the guy ropes to
slacken around the sails; or cause the boat to drag
her anchors -- an extremely dangerous
situation.
We rode the blow out without any difficulty, but
did have one minor casualty in the cabin. As Capt.
Ellie scrambled to put his pants on the boat went into
a particularly heavy roll and tossed him to the floor.
No injury -- except to his dignity. By that time
we boys had reported from the deck that all was well.
He took his time then, and lit his pipe before he came
on deck. Nobody went back to bed. It was much too
rough for sleep; and it was necessary to keep a close
watch for the safety of the vessel. Sometimes when a
heavily loaded vessel was being tossed around in such
a manner while riding at anchor, the cargo would punch
a hole in her hull, or loosen planking --
especially if she was not a new boat. We felt some
concern about these possibilities that night. Capt.
Ellie kept the Hodges in good shape, and she was a
smart sailer, but she had some age on her.
As we prepared to weigh anchor that morning, the
man for whom we were hauling the oysters had himself
and the men he had engaged to help unload the cargo
ferried aboard; he had guessed we were harbored there
for the night. The wind had moderated by that time, so
we proceeded to Maurice River Cove and threw off the
oysters.
Afterwards, we continued to Bivalve, put the men
ashore, tied up and went to bed. Bivalve is just a
little way up the Maurice River from the Cove.
Next morning we set sail for home. On up the
Delaware Bay to the C&D Canal again. Entered the
Canal at St. George's and locked out at Chesapeake
City into an area known as Back Creek, and on into
Chesapeake Bay and down past Swan Point. By that time
it was blowing a stiff breeze to the northeast. We
were bound home light, so had a good sail down the Bay
that night.
Unfortunately, by early morning the wind had
practically died out on us. We could have used some of
that mischievous breeze that bounced us around
Bennie's Creek the previous night. That morning
another happening, in a lighter vein, further served
to lift this voyage out of the ordinary.
I cooked breakfast, and called Capt. Ellie and Amos
down to eat while Goldsborough and I remained on deck.
The wind had died out calm by that time; there was
scarcely a breath of air stirring. We were in the
stern of the boat, with Goldsborough perched on the
stern seat; I was at the wheel. As he casually leaned
over the rail he noticed some corks bobbing on the
surface, moving along with the boat. He said "Will
Hooper, what do you suppose is hung up in that rudder?
Maybe we hooked a shad seine as we passed Swan
Point."
We decided to launch the skiff and have a look. I
put the wheel in the becket. (A becket is a device for
holding the wheel in a pre-set position. It usually
consists of a length of rope attached to the deck
beneath the wheel, with the other end of the rope
forming a loop which can be slipped over a spoke of
the wheel). The vessel was so becalmed she was
scarcely moving; there was no danger in leaving the
wheel unattended for a short time. The skiff launching
attracted Capt. Ellie's attention, and he poked his
head from the forepeak to ask what was going on.
Goldsborough replied we were just going to paddle
around a bit.
We took the boat hook -- a large metal hook
set in a handle about twelve feet long -- and
rowed around to the stern to investigate. It was
indeed part of some poor guy's shad seine! We removed
it from the rudder with the boat hook and were
pleasantly surprised to find three large roe shad
entrapped. They weighed about six pounds each. The
Swan Point fishing ground was also a busy traffic
lane, plied by all kinds of commercial and pleasure
craft. The fishermen had been warned to put their nets
deep enough so that boats would clear them --
whether light or loaded. If they failed to heed this
warning and lost their nets they could blame only
themselves. Although we sympathized with the owner's
misfortune, we did enjoy his fish. We cooked one shad,
and all the roe, for dinner. Capt. Ellie salted down
the other two for our enjoyment later.
Hairbreadth From Eternity
Chapter VIII
Probably the nearest I came to having my career
ended prematurely -- at the tender age of 19
years -- was the day I fell overboard from a
moving sail skiff, wearing boots and oilskin
clothing.
A number of us were crabbing in the cove below the
steamboat wharf that morning. We were using trotlines.
A trotline is one of the oldest devices used to catch
crabs, and is still in use. As used today, at
predetermined spaces in a stout line of desired
length, a loop is put in the line, a piece of bait
placed in the loop and the line pulled tight to close
the loop and hold the bait in. We used a variation of
this technique. Instead of the loop, we tied small
nooses of line six to eight inches long on the main
line, then tied our bait to the dangling ends of the
nooses. The baited line is payed out between two
weighted buoys, or poles stuck in the bottom, with the
line submerged to the desired depth -- that is,
whatever depth one thinks necessary to have crabs
become interested in it. A rack, usually made of wood,
is attached to the side of the boat. Beginning at one
end, the line is hooked through this rack. As the boat
runs slowly alongside, the line will be lifted from
the water -- hopefully with some crabs hanging
onto the bait. At this point a small net is used to
scoop up the crabs. Using the nooses instead of
putting the bait directly on the line made it easier
to dip up the crabs while they were still submerged.
They will loosen their hold on the bait faster while
still in the water.
This was a cool rainy morning in late August, hence
the oilskins -- a waterman's waterproof outer
garments. The others were using push skiffs powered by
one oar and a great deal of muscle. Plutocrat of the
lot, I was working in a sail skiff eighteen foot long.
My friend, the late Bill Dean helped me build her. He
died several years ago, having owned and operated a
seafood factory in Wingate, Maryland, for more than
half a century. We all had our lines out that morning.
I had caught almost a barrel of crabs, but when
several runs down the line brought up only a few
scattered here and there, I decided to move down the
river a ways and try my luck in a new spot -- a
considerable distance from the others. While running
the trotline out at this new location, I sat on the
stern seat steering the boat, with the tiller in one
hand, and sort of leaning hard on the head of the
rudder with the other hand. When the line was about
halfway out, suddenly the head of the rudder gave way
beneath my hand, threw me off balance and caused me to
tumble overboard. The skiff quickly sailed away from
me -- still paying out the line another fifty
yards. Encumbered with boots and oil skins I was
unable to swim fast enough to catch up with her. As a
matter of fact, I was unsuccessful in shucking the
heavy boots and oilskin pants, and quickly became
exhausted just trying to keep afloat.
Meanwhile, my plight had been noticed by the other
crabbers. Capt. Frank Booze, my future father-in-law,
was the first to notice me bobbing around in the
drink, and sounded the alarm. Brady Dean, a future
brother-in-law, was closest to me and started to push
his skiff as fast as he could to the rescue. He noted
that she would go faster stern foremost, and that's
the way he pushed her -- so hard and fast he
cracked his oar just before reaching me. It was the
only oar he had aboard. He felt he dare not slacken
his pace, so just kept hoping it would hold together.
Fortunately, it did. One might say my life that
morning hung not only by the proverbial thread, but
also on a cracked oar.
I saw Brady coming, but by that time I was in deep
trouble. Exhausted, lungs waterlogged, and spending
increasingly longer periods submerged, I felt I was
drowning. As consciousness faded, my vision could no
longer discern the surroundings. First, a
twilight-like dimness, then ever deepening darkness
seemed to engulf me -- as though I were passing
through a thick dark wilderness.
Brady saw me surface briefly, when he was almost
there, but by the time he reached the spot I was again
submerged -- probably for the last time. He
reached in past his shoulder and just managed to grasp
my thick black hair. Unconscious by that time, I have
no idea how he alone managed to haul a strapping
specimen like me into his small skiff without
capsizing it. He draped me across the middle seat with
head and feet resting on the bottom of the boat.
Pressure of my midriff against the seat helped to
drain my chest.
By the time he met the others, who were all pulling
for the scene, I had regained consciousness enough to
mutter "I'm all wet." An understatement, no less. Wet
indeed! Inside and outside. Several large sailboats
working outside had seen the flurry of activity and
were also on the scene.
They took me ashore to Capt. George White's General
Store. Capt. George was a fine old gentleman with a
large grey mustache he was fond of stroking. A rugged
individualist, who usually knew what to do in any
given situation, he instructed his wife -- a
gracious lady affectionately called "Miss Lovey" to go
upstairs and bring me a drink of liquor from his
'vial.' Whiskey came in gallon jugs then, and Capt.
George referred to his as a vial. Miss Lovey returned
with a teacup half full, but he felt this was not
enough to furnish the stimulation I needed. He took
the cup back upstairs, returned with the contents
spilling over the rim, and made me drink all of it. I
felt no effects whatever from what should have been a
staggering potion -- because my stomach was full
of salt water. Capt. George knew what he was
doing.
News of my accident reached my mother, who was
seriously ill; when I reached home she cried, and
begged me not to use the sail skiff again for
crabbing. I spent a good bit of time with her until
she died in September of that year. Eventually, I sold
the boat to a man from Fishing Creek (Upper Hoopers
Island).
I had other water-connected accidents during my
long career, and some near misses, but none had quite
the impact of this one. I suffered the effects of all
that water in my chest for a long time. A year passed
before I felt normal again. My near-tragic episode
taught me some valuable lessons early. First of all,
respect for the water, and the realization that man is
not a fish. I learned to be careful on all boats, and
to behave as though my life depended on staying in the
boat. It did! Most important of all, I was convinced
that the lone occupant of a boat in motion is
particularly vulnerable to tragedy.
Unprofitable Season on The Henry W.
Ruark
Chapter IX
One dredging season I shipped with Capt. Jake
Waters on the sloop Henry W. Ruark. A most
unprofitable berth, as it turned out, but rich in the
insight it provided in one of the less desirable sides
of human nature. The Ruark, as described in an earlier
chapter, was a big square-sailed sloop, built in Flag
Cove marsh by Capt. Henry Ruark and his brother Capt.
Tom Ruark, my wife's grandfather. Capt. Tom died of
pneumonia before the vessel was completed.
Capt. Jake was a gruff, hard-driving, unpredictable
man and the local boys disliked working with him.
However, when he asked me I decided to go. I needed
the job, and the oyster season was usually the most
profitable one in the waterman's calendar year.
There were nine of us in the crew: Capt. Jake and
myself, who served as mate, and seven deckhands from
Baltimore. Beginning October 15th we dredged in the
Potomac River for two weeks, then returned to Honga
River and worked there until a few days before
Christmas.
None of us received any pay for our more than two
months of what surely must be the hardest work in the
world. Capt. Jake kept promising to pay us; I believed
he would, so just kept on doing my job. The other crew
members were fed up with mere promises instead of
cash, and apparently had been looking for a chance to
get away. One night Capt. Jake came back aboard
somewhat in his cups from the partying ashore, and
left the skiff overboard -- instead of having her
put back in the davits. The men piled in, rowed to the
steamboat docked at the wharf, and returned to
Baltimore.
Why he blamed me for losing his crew -- when I
was off duty and fast asleep was something of a
puzzle. Anyway, he used this as an excuse for
withholding my wages. Fact of the matter was, of
course, he had spent all the money.
My elders in the community were incensed about this
treatment of a crewman, and tried to persuade me to
sue Capt. Jake for my pay, or attach the boat --
which at that time belonged to Capt. Levin Creighton
of Fishing Creek. I rejected the lawsuit idea, but did
go to see Capt. Creighton with the thought that he
might intercede in the matter. He told me to go ahead
and attach the boat; that I had every right to do so.
He had received no payment for the use of the
boat.
It was the custom for the man who owned the boat to
collect a third or fourth whichever had been agreed
upon for the use of the boat. In other words, one
third or one fourth of the gross proceeds from the
catch, or as we said then, what the captain "sold for"
was considered the boat's part, and belonged to the
owner of the vessel. It was a flexible, unofficial
lease, with no contract signed. A man was considered
honest until he proved himself otherwise.
It was also the right of a crewman who had been
denied his wages to obtain a warrant and attach the
boat for the amount owed him. This action would tie
up, or immobilize the vessel until his claim was
satisfied. I felt I could not do this to Capt.
Creighton. My misfortune was not his fault.
I let the matter drop, and have always been glad I
did. Soon after we laid the Ruark up fortune smiled on
me and I began a long and rewarding association with
one of the finest captains who ever set foot on a
craft.
First Voyage on The Arianna
Bateman
Chapter X
Several days before Christmas, and shortly after I
had finished my ill-fated work on the sloop Henry W
Ruark, Capt. Avalon Simmons, who sailed the schooner
Arianna Bateman in the coastal freight trade, asked me
to go with him voyage to Rappahannock River to deliver
a consignment of oysters.
Oysters were plentiful that year. The market
glutted early, with the season not half over; it was
difficult to sell oysters anywhere. A Rappahannock
River planter had called Avalon and told him if good
oysters could be bought for 15c a bushel (imagine that
!) to load his vessel as deep as she would swim and
bring them to his planting ground, or leased bottom,
in the Rappahannock. Avalon, cousin of the girl who
later became my wife, was rather a young man for
coastal captain, but he handled the job flawlessly. He
was strong, intelligent, big-hearted, pleasant and
imperturbable. Most important, he was an excellent
seaman.
The Bateman was a main topmast schooner: that is,
she had two masts and five sails. A smart sailer, too;
and Avalon kept her in good condition. We loaded the
schooner with 3200 bushels of the most beautiful
oysters I ever saw. Taken from sandy bottom, they were
big as horse shoes and fat as butter. We left in the
late afternoon and sailed on down the Bay to the
Rappahannock. You will remember this is Virginia
waters. We had unloaded our cargo by noon the next
day, and immediately set sail for home. Only two days
remained before Christmas. We came out of the
Rappahannock in a light breeze, and by sundown were in
sight of the Windmill Lighthouse, situated on the
lower end of the Windmill Bar. Avalon instructed me to
go to the cabin and get some sleep. I had been up most
of the previous night.
I had been asleep about two hours, and the vessel
had long since passed the Windmill Light, when I was
awakened by a commotion on deck and horns blowing the
distance. When I opened the cabin door and poked my
head out to see what was going on, it was as if I had
thrust my face in a wad of cotton. We were enveloped
in thick fog -- so dense I was unable to discern
the others on deck.
Avalon assured me they were getting along alright
and told me to go back to sleep. My response was to
the effect that in such a situation I would rather be
on deck. He told me if that was my wish to come and
take the wheel and he would join the other crewmen on
the lookout detail.
Presently the wind breezed up from the southeast.
We had all five sails on and all of them were
drawing -- that is, each was filled with wind and
furnishing its fair share of propulsion. She was
sailing smartly; really cutting the water. We were
bound home light and, of course, this increased the
vessel's capacity for speed.
Avalon on told me to hold her north by east, which
course took us past North Point Lighthouse; we passed
within a hundred yards of it. The fog was not quite so
thick there, but the Bay was still full of noise from
horns and whistles. Several steamers were navigating
the area, honking continuously. It was altogether a
dangerous time to be abroad in the Bay.
'The captain said our course would bring us to the
Southwest Middles, and from there we could head into
Hooper Straits and on up Honga River without any
difficulty. The Southwest Middles is an area in about
the middle of Chesapeake Bay where the bottom contains
oyster bars, stone piles and assorted other debris; a
kind of bar, where the water is shallow -- but
not too shallow for safe navigation. There is also a
Northwest Middies.
I asked how long it would take to get to the
Southwest Middles. Avalon looked at his watch and
remarked that from our position in relation to North
Point Light, and with such a breeze as we were under,
he had made it there in an hour and five minutes.
In exactly sixty-five minutes he picked up the lead
line sounder, threw it over the side and measured
exactly two and one-half fathom. This was the depth he
expected. As I said before, he was a captain par
excellence.
I held the vessel in east by northeast for the
Straits. The fog had lifted by that time and we sailed
on up Honga River and anchored in Hickory Cove. We
were ashore, in Capt. Johnny Simmons' store, by 9
p.m.
Avalon came to me in the store and asked how much
he owed me for my services on the trip. I told him not
much of anything; we were only away a little over
twenty-four hours. He said, "I heard about your
treatment by Capt. Waters -- his refusal to pay
you for two months work. Now Christmas is almost here,
and you must have some money. You have to buy your
girl a gift." He handed me twenty-five dollars. That
was a lot of money then. Crewmen were usually paid
eighteen dollars per month.
The 3200 bushels of oysters, bought for 15c per
bushel, were sold to the planter for 28c per bushel.
He grossed good freight on the cargo, and did not mind
sharing his good fortune. He was that kind of man.
