The Kate Burton: a Happy Ship
Chapter XXI
Vivid still in my recollections are the many
interesting and memorable experiences of the dozen or
more years I worked in Bivalve, New Jersey, during the
oyster planting season. The planting season was
short -- usually six to eight weeks in the months
of May and June. However, it could begin as early as
March.
Transportation was always a problem, even the
water-home variety. Sometimes we took the steamer to
Baltimore, then continued to New Jersey by train. This
was expensive, and we tried to avoid it. Often a group
of us from Hoopers Island would charter a boat for the
trip down, and keep her there until all had secured
berths.
One season twenty-one of us chartered the skipjack
Mary E. Trier, and fitted her with makeshift bunks for
the trip. Capt. Mike Young was the skipper, and Jeff
Ballard signed on as cook. I remember well the date of
this particular voyage March 7, 1904 -- because
of the terrible news we heard en route. As the tow
path mules (usually six or eight of them) pulled us
through the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, the canal
keeper told us a severe earthquake had practically
demolished San Francisco the day before.
One year my nephew, John Thurman Ruark, son of my
sister Eva, took us down in his 1924 Chevrolet, and
came back for us when the season ended. The automobile
industry was young then. Actually, Bivalve is the
place where I first saw a car -- a Model T Ford,
on a roadway next to the dock. Dozens of people were
clustered around it, fascinated by this marvelous new
contraption.
I worked with a number of fine captains in Bivalve,
but most pleasant to remember are the three seasons I
served as mate to Capt. Henry Nixon on the two-masted
schooner Kate Burton.
The Kate Burton was an older vessel, but in
excellent repair. Capt. Nixon had bought her in
Philadelphia, had her hauled on the railway, rebuilt
and recorked. She was a large boat, and a good
sailer.
Our captain was a religious man; an inspiring
preacher who served as pastor of a Methodist Church in
Bivalve. He also ran a mission on the waterfront,
serving the spiritual needs of a large seasonal flock
of itinerant crewmen. At service each Sunday men of
various colors and races intermingled -- sat side
by side -- and listened to this fine man's
Christian message.
He was a strict observer of the Sabbath. It was
customary for captains to take their vessels to the
oyster grounds Sunday afternoon, in order to be ready
to start work at daybreak Monday. Capt. Nixon felt
this amounted to working on the sabbath and he would
have none of it. Instead, our crew was up early Monday
and had breakfast during the final hour of darkness.
At the first streak of dawn our canvas was hoisted and
we headed for our destination -- anywhere we
could load with oyster plants -- usually the
Potomac, James or Rappahannock Rivers. Our vessel was
equipped with large dredges, and when the gasoline
winders brought one aboard and it was dumped on deck,
the pile looked like a roads truck load of gravel.
Capt. Nixon was a powerfully built man who worked
along with his crew. He had a strong baritone voice,
and sang hymns constantly as he worked. A good man,
secure and happy in his faith and in his work.
Ours was a happy ship. We were treated with
understanding and consideration, fed well, and given
ample time off for rest and recreation. We had an
excellent cook, a man of German descent, from
Princeton. Feeding us took up most of his time, and
was his greatest satisfaction. He fed us four times a
day: a hefty breakfast before sunrise; coffee and cake
or doughnuts at 10 a.m.; dinner at 2 p.m. and supper
around 7 p.m.
Cook (his name has faded from memory) liked to come
on deck sometimes and scratch around in the oysters,
to cull a few. He liked to work beside me, and would
ask in that heavy accent-laden voice "got any room
here for me Beel?" It was obvious that working with
the oysters, except to cook some, was not exactly his
calling. Shortly he would be done with it, and head
for the cabin muttering something like it was time to
fix his boys something to eat.
Those were long days. We let the dredges go at
sunrise, and stowed them away on deck around sunset.
Friday, after dinner, our captain would tell us to put
away the dredges. We were through until early Monday
morning. This gave the crew time to throw the oysters
off on his planting ground, and get food, water and
other supplies aboard for the following week. The
oyster plants (young oysters) were shoveled into
floats and carried to Capt. Nixon's leased planting
bottom in Maurice River Cove. The water was brackish
(salty) there, ideally suited to the rapid growth of
oysters. They would grow to be large oysters in a
relatively short time, and were fat and tasty. When
ready for market they were dredged up again, as very
select oysters, bagged and shipped out. Maurice River
Cove was reputed to be one of the largest oyster
development areas in the country.
Part of Saturday, after supplies had been procured
and stowed, and all day Sunday, were free. Cook would
go home on weekends, but he usually left us an
assortment of prepared provender. We also did some
cooking ourselves, and especially enjoyed preparing
the delicious clams we caught. An abundant supply of
clams grew in the oyster beds. Sometimes we pulled in
a loaded dredge that would contain two dozen or more
large fat clams mixed in with the oysters. Sometimes
we had a restaurant meal in Bivalve.
We enjoyed the work and had a good time. One year
Bernie and Jess Booze, their cousin Everett Booze, and
I, went to Bivalve together for the season. As usual,
Romie and I shipped with Capt. Nixon. The others
signed on with an elderly captain who had the
misfortune to carry the mast off the old sloop he was
working the first day of the season. He decided not to
refit the vessel, so his crew was out of work. Unable
to find other berths, Jess and Everett were preparing
to leave for home when Capt. Nixon lost two of his
crewmen and asked me to find a replacement. I was
happy to oblige, and promptly helped our boy move
their gear aboard.
It was during this season that I had another
serious brush with disaster. We had our young oyster
plants piled high on deck; also, some floats which we
would shovel them into for their trip to the planting
ground. In making my way to the bow to cast off the
line, J stepped on one of the logs placed at the tip
of the float to make it more buoyant. The log must
have had moss on it. I slipped and went over the side
of the boat. My reflexes were fast in those days; in
falling I hooked my right arm over the log, then
grabbed a float ring with which I was able to pull
myself back to the deck immediately after landing in
the water. Had I become submerged, the tide --
running eight to ten miles an hour -- would have
pulled me beneath a string of a hundred or more dredge
boats anchored side by side. Needless to say, my
career would have ended before I had a chance to
surface again.
Dredging The Morning Star
Chapter XXII
The bugeye Morning Star lingers fondly in my
memory. She was owned by Capt. Warren Simmons, brother
of Capt. John H. Simmons, previously mentioned. I
leased her for two seasons, and worked in Honga River
with three crewmen from Baltimore. It was customary to
call such crewmen "ship men" but I never referred to
them that way. My crew members were always courteous
hardworking men, and they were treated with respect
and consideration.
Incidentally, much folklore has been built up about
the cruelty of the Bay area oyster boat captains of
yesteryear; tales of how they shanghaied their
crewmen, worked them all season, then paid them off by
having them knocked overboard by the boom to drown.
I'm inclined to believe these tales were fabrications.
All the knowledge I have about such goings on is
hearsay. If our industry was ever infested with any
such human vermin, I was spared the ugly misfortune of
association with them.
The first season I worked the Morning Star was a
very profitable one; never did better on the water in
my life. Oysters had gone up to 55c and 60c a
bushel -- considered a big price then. And they
were much in demand both by the regular market and the
steam houses (canning factories) in Baltimore. My
father told me he had run oysters up to the steam
houses when he was paid as little as 12c a bushel.
More about the oyster canning operations later.
Our good fortune was further enhanced that season
by the birth of our daughter -- on a bitter cold
day in February with the thermometer hovering around
zero. So we can say my wife, the former Edith Booze,
did well that season too, on the domestic front. A
son, William G. Hooper Jr., was born nine years
later.
Spring could be a very profitable season for those
lucky enough to team up with a large scale fisherman
(no pun intended) during the early run of shad, rock
and herring. I had just such an opportunity that
spring when Capt. Robert G. Booze, husband of my
sister Ida, asked me to work with him in his fish trap
operation. Fish were plentiful. In addition to the
usual run at that time of year, we caught a sizable
number of flounder and croakers. One day we even found
a ten foot shark entrapped.
It was customary at that time to use ponderous,
heavy gauge nets called "traps" to scoop up as much as
possible of the spring run. We worked under the usual
modified partnership arrangement for such operations.
In much the same way a boat's share is set aside for
her owner, a third of the proceeds from the catch went
to the owner of the traps to offset all expenses
entailed in the operation, and compensate him for the
wear and tear on the equipment. Remainder of the
profits was divided between the partners.
We did well. When the short season ended --
actually only a few weeks -- I was $300 richer. A
young fortune in that era.
The second dredging season I worked the Morning
Star I also had three good crew members. One of these,
a young Polish boy, apparently looked upon me as a
kind of father image. As a rule, just before Christmas
dredge boat crewmen were paid in full and given notice
that there would be no work after the holidays. When I
paid my men their final wages that season, the young
boy mentioned above asked me if he could come back
after Christmas. I told him there would be little
work, but he was welcome to return awhile.
Sure enough, a day or two after the holidays he
arrived by steamer, and I put him aboard the boat. The
Star had a good cabin, and I kept him supplied with
food and firewood. Although there were few oysters to
be caught that late in the season by dredging, we did
take the boat out now and then when weather conditions
were such that the boat could be safely operated with
just two persons. He returned to Baltimore late in
March.
Usually, by late December the bars and rocks were
pretty well depleted, and although most of the boats
continued to work when weather permitted, there was no
longer need for large crews. Small wonder the oyster
beds were scraped bare early. During this period,
there were hundreds of dredge boats operating in Honga
River. The night before the season opened, Hickory
Cove and beyond, would be lit up like a city. Boats
from Upper Hoopers Island, Wingate, Crapo and Bishop's
Head would join us here, ready to go at dawn the next
day. Included were dozens of schooners. Seven or eight
large schooners belonged in Hickory Cove alone,
including the William Layton. Fannie Insley, William
H. Van Name, Flora Kirwan and the Laurena Clayton. The
Fannie Insley was once owned by our good friend and
neighbor Capt. John Wesley Brannock Sr. One of his
daughters, Nellie, married my brother -- Henry
James Hooper and bore him two fine sons, Henry James
and Paul Alton Hooper.
Other large vessels also made Honga River a regular
port of call. It was not unusual to have fifteen or
twenty markets (buy boats) here at one time to load
oysters. These were large boats; many of them used
during the summer season in the fruit trade to the
Bahamas. Capt. Johnny Clayton owned the William H. Van
Name, mentioned above. She was a big, two-topmast
schooner built down East -- around Connecticut.
We put oysters aboard her many times.
At the height of the season all the buy boats were
busy ferrying oysters to Baltimore to the steam houses
for canning. They could hardly carry them fast enough
to meet the demand. Capt. Johnny sailed the Van Name
in here from Baltimore one day -- having gone up
there loaded -- and without lowering the sails,
reloaded with 3500 bushels and sailed out again. The
work boats were strung out to the stem of that vessel
for a hundred yards, waiting to put their catch
aboard.
Oyster canning in Baltimore was a thriving industry
from the 1880s until the early years of this century,
loaded vessels crowded the docks to keep the canneries
running. Preserved by this cooking process the
succulent oysters were distributed throughout the
country. While it lasted the business was a great boon
to the Bay area watermen. A number of factors
contributed to the decline, and ultimate termination
of Maryland's oyster canning operations: increase in
the demand for raw oysters; discovery of better
methods of shipping them raw; more effective methods
of preservation; and faster transportation. During
these busy years, when large quantities of oysters
were in great demand, at season's end, in the spring,
every place was so depleted there was scarcely enough
left for a stew. However, there was always plenty of
small oysters left, so next season good market size
oysters were again in plentiful supply.
Unfortunately, for many years the oyster rocks and
beds in the whole Chesapeake Bay area were
over-harvested, and as the supply dwindled, so did the
number of boats and the men who worked them. From an
all time high of 15,000,000 bushels in 1865, only
around 3,000,000 bushels were harvested during the
1971-72 season. The lowest yield occurred during the
1962-63 period, when only 1,243,497 were reported
taken.
Clearly, this valuable resource has been either
neglected or mismanaged to the brink of extinction.
Much has been done in recent years to improve the
situation; hopefully, it will not be too little too
late.
Stormy Voyage to Salisbury
Chapter XXIII
In the spring of 1918 my brother-in-law and I had
an unforgettable experience when we ran Into heavy
weather on a voyage to Salisbury, Maryland, with a
load of oysters.
We bought a quantity of choice oysters for 40c a
bushel from several local catchers, and deposited them
in a convenient spot in Hickory Cove, where they could
be easily retrieved when the time seemed right to sell
them How could we be sure someone else would not
appropriate them in the meantime? We were trusting
souls -- and there was a code of honor in our
group prohibiting this kind of activity. Actually, my
father and I, also father-in-law Capt. Frank Booze did
lose some oysters this way once, but this sort of
thing rarely happened.
Late in March we started making plans to get our
oysters up and take them to Salisbury for sale. The
mast in our bateau, Lucifer, had considerable age on
it, so Capt. Johnny Clayton offered the use of his
boat the Albert Parks, in which a new mast had been
recently stepped. The Parks was a large bateau with a
nice cabin; a very able and seaworthy boat built down
near Tangier Sound. There was no charge for her use,
but Capt. Johnny gave us a large shopping list:
lumber, cattle feed, paint and various other
items.
We cleaned the boat up and got our oysters aboard.
The 98 bushels gave the vessel just the right amount
of ballast for good sailing. The day we had picked for
the trip dawned with a strong south wind blowing, and
Capt. Johnny said his "glass" (barometer) was low, and
predicted stormy weather for the voyage.
Very early that morning we went duck hunting; shot
four or five apiece. After breakfast we deliberated on
the weather situation, to go or not to go, since the
wind by this time had hauled around more like
south-southeast. However, with the oysters aboard, and
all in readiness we decided to go anyway.
So we got under way and fetched on down past
Hoopers Straits Lighthouse. The wind kept hauling
around more toward southeast, and picking up velocity.
By the time we were abreast the can buoy on Bishop's
Head bar I told Romie we were in for a rough ride.
Bishop's Head is a peninsula that juts between Fishing
Bay and Hoopers Straits. The tide was low, and the 98
bushels of ballast set the vessel down rather low in
the water, so we were unable to sail across the bar
(flats); instead, it was necessary to sail around the
peninsula -- a considerable distance farther.
The Parks was still carrying two full sails when we
started bucking the head wind across Fishing Bay. It
was picking up so fast we hurriedly hauled a single
reef in the mainsail and two reefs in the jib.
We pressed on with a short tack and a long one
across Fishing Bay, crossed the Nanticoke River and
entered the mouth of the Wicomico by means of a slew
that runs through Stump Point Bar. A slew is a
slightly deeper inlet through shoal water. By that
time it was blowing so hard from the southeast we had
nothing on her but a double reefed mainsail. The tide
was full, and a flood tide in the Wicomico River was
equivalent to a good breeze of wind. It's a crooked
river, but deep, with a retch (bend) first one way,
then another.
When we reached Shad Point the sky was gray and
overcast, with thunder rumbling hard. We barely made
it to Salisbury ahead of a terrific snow storm, and
docked just as the L.E. Williams Lumber Company blew
the whistle at five-thirty to end the work day. We
tied up under the bow of a weather-beaten three-masted
schooner loaded with lumber.
Although snow had stopped falling by next morning,
it was bitter cold, with winds of gale intensity. Some
weather for the last of March! The place was full of
boats But few were moving. A captain who had wharf
space rented for the season had sold his oysters and
was taking his large vessel out that morning, invited
us to drop our boat In his space; he planned to be
gone for several days. It was a nice convenient berth
and, as he predicted, we had no trouble selling our
oysters. His vessel had been loaded with oysters from
Hollins Bar, below Dames Quarter; they were small and
round, but fat and very tasty.
Our 98 bushels of treasure were beautiful specimens
from Honga River, big as my hand and fat as butter.
They sold like hot cakes at 90c a bushel. When
prospective buyers sauntered down to the wharf and saw
those big oysters they were much impressed. We would
open one and hand it up to a prospective customer to
sample. He would slurp it in his mouth, smile
approvingly, and as soon as he swallowed it ask for
one or two baskets. An elderly man with a pushcart
bought the last five baskets -- and was
disappointed because there was no more to sell
him.
We stayed aboard the boat. With plenty of food and
firewood, the cabin was adequate for our needs. We
were accustomed to this kind of life, and could sleep
as well in a workboat's bunk as in a bed ashore.
Meanwhile, our families were apprehensive to learn
whether we had arrived safely, so a telephone call was
received by a storekeeper near the waterfront (he had
one of the three phones in the area) from Rufe White,
a brother-in-law at Hoopersville. The storekeeper made
some inquiries, then called Rufe back to report a
two-masted bateau loaded with oysters in port, with
two men aboard from Hoopers Island.
In the afternoon of the third day the wind started
to mild down some. We loaded the lumber and other
items for Capt. Johnny, got under way and started our
voyage home. As we passed White Haven and started
across Fishing Bay the wind was blowing the water up,
and there were no other boats in sight. My shipmate
began to lose his nerve, and we decided to play it
safe and not try to make the crossing that day;
instead, returned to White Haven and tied up there for
the night.
On a walk into the village we met a farmer with
pigs for sale, and bought two small black ones apiece.
Their pen aboard the boat was a nailed-up upper bunk.
Needless to say, they added nothing to the atmosphere.
In that that era just about everybody in rural areas
raised their own hogs and fowl. Some years cholera, or
some other fatal ailment, would strike and destroy
stock and flocks. Undeterred, folks would clean up the
pens and start over again. That year everybody's hogs
died -- including the little black piglets that
sailed home with us. Next morning, we had breakfast,
fed the pigs, got under way and sailed on out of White
Haven. The wind had moderated, but was still blowing a
rather stiff breeze. The trip across Fishing Bay that
day was a cold rough ride, under a two-reefed
mainsail, with icicles big as my arm hanging from the
forward rails. We anchored at Bishop's Head Point, ate
dinner, and fed the pigs again. Under way from
Bishop's Head Point we shook the two reefs out and
gave her a single reefed mainsail and a two-reefed
jib. Because the tide was low and the centerboard
down -- necessary in order to navigate in a head
wind -- we were forced to again sail around the
tip of the bar, past the can buoy.
We continued our journey, in bright sunlight now,
with a head wind still full of tricky flaws, although
the storm was over. However, by the time we reached
Hooper Straits Lighthouse, the one now residing in the
museum at St. Michael's in Talbot County, the wind was
so moderate it was necessary to put full canvas on the
vessel to keep going.
On our run up Honga River we tacked close, and
waved to my old pal Willie Dean in his big new power
boat. She sported a twelve horsepower Buffalo Marine
engine and was named the Mary Jane Dean, after his
mother. He and his three crewmen were bound to the bay
to look after their fish traps for the first time
since the storm. His traps were severely damaged.
Later, it appeared I had come through the storm
unscathed in more than one way. Before my brother
Henry left for France that year (1918) he turned over
to me for my management or disposal, his share of the
fish traps and power boat he held in partnership with
a friend. His friend and I were unable to arrive at a
satisfactory working arrangement, so a few days before
we left for Salisbury I sold him my brother's interest
in the business, and put the money in the bank to
await his return from the war. Except for one small
fragment all of these traps were swept away by the
storm. To return to the windup of our stormy trip, it
was late afternoon when we reached Hickory Cove and
the first order of business was to tie up at Capt.
Johnny's Wharf and unload his lumber and other
supplies. He came aboard and had a big laugh over pigs
sharing the cabin with us. He mentioned how reassured
he felt to know we were in a boat with a good mast.
Just how wise our decision was to take the Parks to
Salisbury -- instead of the Lucifer -- was
demonstrated later that year during dredging season,
when we carried her mast off in a light breeze, and
were marooned back of Lower Hoopers Island. The marine
police boat, with two inspectors aboard, towed us back
to Hickory Cove. Had any vessel attempting to sail
across Fishing Bay during that storm carried off her
mast all would have been lost.
The Day The Shores Capsized
Chapter XXIV
A most grievous episode to recount is the tragedy
that struck our community the day the Catherine Shores
capsized with the loss of five lives. It was a cold,
grey blustery day in January. Romie and I worked our
bateau Lucifer on Dick's Point, abreast of home, not
too far offshore, all day under a double reefed
mainsail. It was that kind of day. The wind would come
over in gusts and almost blow us out of the water. At
times it blowed us down, that is caused the boat to
list out sideways, with the dredges overboard, and
dipped the leeward rail under. Then it would get
moderate again. Altogether a dangerous day to be
working any kind of sailboat; but there was nothing we
could do about it. Either we must stay out there and
endure the hazards, or come ashore and miss a good
day's work out of a short season. Our catch that day
was forty-five bushels. My brother Henry worked to the
leeward of us in his small bateau, and our good friend
and neighbor Colvert Parks, worked on the Ware Point
in his skipjack Jess Willard. Boxing fans will find it
interesting to note that another neighbor, the late
Capt. John Wesley Brannock Sr. had a boat named Jack
Dempsey.
In the year 1912 Oscar Nelson and a brother-in-law
Rufe White (who married my sister Betty) established a
seafood factory at Hoopersville, which was built on
pilings about a hundred and fifty yards out in Hickory
Cove, connected to the shore by a narrow walkway. The
Catherine Shores, a large two-masted bugeye, belonged
to White and Nelson. Oscar worked the Shores to bring
in additional seafood for the factory -- to
supplement that bought from local watermen. Exile,
handicapped by an infirmity that required the use of
crutches, managed the factory -- with the help of
a kindly efficient man called Mox (a nickname), not
long over here from Germany.
The Shores had a mixed crew that year: two local
men from an area below Cambridge, Maryland; two
deckhands recruited from Baltimore; plus a regular
named Patty, also from Baltimore, who served as mate
and cook.
On this disagreeable day in 1919, Oscar was
preparing to get under way and head out for the day's
catch when he discovered he had no gloves left on
board, and gloves were a must for this cold wet work.
He sent his eleven year old son Clyde to the general
store to get a new supply. When the boy returned he
begged his father to take him along -- reminding
Oscar that he had promised to take him dredging one
day, and had not yet done so. Besides, the glove
errand had already made him late for school. So Clyde
came aboard, and they set sail for Bentley's channel.
Only the larger boats worked in Bentley's because of
the greater depth. On this particular day a number of
boats were there, including Foble Tyler in his large
bateau Harper. These boats had heavier dredges and
gasoline winders -- which furnished the power to
pull the heavily laden dredges back aboard. The
Channel had an exceptionally good crop of oysters that
year, and the boats were catching deckloads every day.
In late afternoon all the boats working Bentley's
Channel, except the Shores, had quit for the day and
were waiting in line to put their catch aboard Capt.
Sam Brannock's buy boat "Ole Bill Layton" -- the
watermens' nickname for the schooner William Layton.
Oscar had gotten a late start that morning, so
apparently had decided to make a few more runs over
the beds before calling it a day. The wind had picked
up some by the time they started out of Bentley's, and
the Shores was heavily laden, with ballast in her hold
and a deckload of oysters. Suddenly, a particularly
vicious flaw struck the vessel broadside, and before
the crew could slack the sheets off or head her into
the wind, the Catherine Shores capsized and quickly
slid beneath the surface.
Fortunately for the two survivors, the vessel went
down on the edge of the Channel. When she righted
herself on the bottom, four or five feet of her masts
protruded above the surface. Oscar and Patty swam to
one and clung there. Neither of the four deckhands
surfaced.
Foble Tyler, who saw the accident as he waited in
line to land his catch, quickly put sail on the Harper
and went to the rescue. He was noted for his excellent
seamanship. Under the most adverse conditions, he
maneuvered his large boat close enough to that bit of
mast to pull the victims aboard unhurt.
As he shivered on the deck of the Harper, Oscar
suddenly remembered Clyde was in the Shores'
cabin -- having gone there a short time before
the accident to remove his boots and warm his feet by
the cabin stove. In the period of shock following the
calamity it was easy to forget the child, since he was
usually not on the boat. Had Oscar remembered while
clinging to the mast, there would have been only one
survivor. He could swim very little, and a rescue
attempt -- which he doubtless would have
made -- at that depth, in icy water, would
probably have been impossible for a trained
lifeguard.
By the next morning the blustery, treacherous wind
flaws had changed to a light breeze. A good dredging
day, but so far as I can recall not a boat moved. The
tragedy of yesterday was everybody's sorrow. Just
about every able-bodied man in the community gathered
at Capt. Johnny Simmons' store and proceeded to board
the William Layton to help raise the sunken
Shores.
The Layton, a big main topmast schooner with a
flying jib, was almost loaded with oysters. After we
had put more chains and other salvage gear aboard,
Capt. Sam Brannock took her up to Bentley's. Several
power boats also went along. We got chains beneath the
stricken vessel, broke her loose from the bottom, and
brought her close enough to the surface to retrieve
the bodies of two crewmen tangled up In the halyards
(ropes that hoist the sails). Suddenly, one of the
chains broke, and we had to let her back down.
Everybody looked discouraged, but we had to try
again.
On the next attempt we got stronger chains beneath
her -- all large schooners like the Layton had
strong chains aboard. This time we pulled the vessel
up until the top of the cabin came out of the water.
Capt. Sam put sail on the Layton, and with the help of
the power boats brought the Shores across to shoal
water, on the Oats between Hickory and Flag Coves. In
approximately eight or ten feet of water she took up
(stuck) on the muddy bottom. That was as far as we
could get, probably because there was a good bit of
her centerboard down when she went to the bottom. That
afternoon, when low tide left the cabin top above
water, we dragged around over the vessel and found the
body of another crewman. The fourth crewman went
adrift, and was found early that spring hung up in one
of Willie Dean's fish traps. Capt. John Ashton probed
around the cabin with a pair of nippers (small oyster
tongs) and brought Clyde up. Old Mox clasped the child
in his arms and ran to the opposite rail of the
vessel, weeping. The Catherine Shores was salvaged and
sold outside the community. Eventually, she was
stripped down and converted to a power boat. As such,
she continued to ply the Bay area waterways for many
years. The mere sight of her never failed to agitate
her former captain.
Tough Luck in Patuxent
Chapter XXV
The old axiom 'business is where you find it' is
nowhere more true than in the fisheries occupation.
Even though oysters were more plentiful in my youth,
we had some lean years when Honga River, for some
reason, just failed to yield a sufficient catch to
make the effort worthwhile. At such times we would
leave here, seek out a more fruitful area, and try our
luck there. One such season, a group of us took our
boats to the Patuxent River. I was in a two-masted
bateau named Reliance, which I had bought from Mrs.
Lovey White, widow of Capt. George White. Oscar Nelson
was there too, in the bateau Defender (which Jess
Booze and I later bought). Rufe White was there in a
small two-masted bateau named Gladys. The largest boat
in our group was an oversized bateau named Oceanic,
operated by Ulman White, brother of Rufe. My stay in
Patuxent that year was a short one, punctuated by a
string of misfortunes. Of the two crewmen I had
obtained, one got sick and had to be put ashore at
Solomons Island to be transported to a hospital. The
Patuxent River oysters were large and fat that year,
but scarce. My lone crewmen and I had done rather well
for several weeks -- until he almost severed a
thumb one day chopping kindling wood. The doctor said
he would be unable to return to work for an indefinite
period. It was impossible to work the boat alone, so I
decided to return home. I paid my injured crewmen the
wages due him and made ready to leave. He was in good
shape aside from his injured thumb, and intended to
return home to Baltimore. Exile and Oscar wanted me to
lay up the Reliance and work with them. They already
had enough help, and my presence aboard would have
diluted their already small profits. But it was kind
of them to offer. They took a dim view of my sailing
the two-masted Reliance across the Bay alone.
On my day of departure a stiff breeze was blowing
from the southwest. I came on out of Solomon's, where
we harbored, under two single reefs, sailed on out of
Patuxent River and into the Bay. I held her in for
Barren Island Gap, at the upper end of Fishing Creek
(Upper Hoopers Island).
I had decided against going into Hooper Straits
because the wind had struck down (due north) after I
left, but elected instead to go through the draw
bridge at Fishing Creek. This can be tricky in a
good-sized sailboat even in a light breeze; in a
stronger breeze one had better be sure he knows what
he is doing. Before reaching the bridge I lowered the
mainsail, leaving nothing on but a single reefed
foresail. Once through the draw, and into Honga River
she went on down at a pretty fast glide. It was
blowing a gale by that time, but the boat's shallow
draft allowed her to stay fairly close to
shore -- down past Dick's Point, Old House Point,
and into Hickory Cove. Someone asked me later if I was
scared during the trip -- alone, with that much
boat to handle, and all that wind. Had I been scared I
would have been lost. Dangerous? Perhaps; but I did
not consider it so at the time. In our youth we were
all somewhat cocksure and venturesome. On the other
hand, we acquired a great deal of skill in boat
handling at a very early age.
Crabbing The Lucifer
Chapter XXVI
My brother-in-law and I continued to work our
bateau Lucifer in crabs until 1933, but it was usually
feast or famine. Sometimes our weekly catch was very
small; at other times we would strike it big. One
thing that was never big was the price paid us for our
catch.
One summer a neighbor who used a trotline (a method
of crabbing discussed earlier) was mystified that he
kept losing his bait off the line but caught no crabs.
He even tried at night, to no avail. Romie and I had
been crab scraping on the river side for weeks, with
little success, so decided to sail around the island
to the Bay side and try to catch some of those elusive
critters that had been eating our neighbor's trotline
bait.
We decided to try a streak of broken bottom
(patches of grass scattered over white sandy bottom)
off Cow's Island, a small island between Middle and
Lower Hoopers Island, just below Richland Cove.
Richland Cove is at the tip of Middle Island
(Hoopersville). Actually, the whole area close inshore
on the Bay side is also known as Tar Bay. It is
delineated by a line drawn from Barren Island down to
Hollands Island. Inside this line is considered
Dorchester County territory. The state has
jurisdiction and responsibility for all waters
outside.
Back to our crabbing operation. Off Cows Island we
let the four scrapes go scraping sixteen feet of
bottom at one time. The water was clear and we could
see the scrapes as they were dragged along on the
bottom. We stood talking a few minutes as the boat
dragged the area, and presently when we looked down at
the scrapes we almost fell overboard in surprise. All
four scrapes were literally choked up with large
chandler crabs. When we dumped those scrapes on deck
it was a beautiful sight.
We worked there until mid-afternoon, with a fair
west wind, and caught approximately 1400 pounds of
large hard crabs; also, around 300 peelers and double
crabs. A double crab occurs when a male crab attaches
himself to a female which is in the young peeler
stage -- just starting her preparation for
shedding. (Crabs grow by periodically shedding their
shells). The couple remain attached until the female
crab sheds and becomes a soft crab, after which they
mate, detach and go their separate ways. Sometime
later a spongelike mass of eggs appears on the back of
the impregnated female. As this mother crab swims
about, the eggs float free, hatch and join the next
generation of crabs.
We went back the next day and did rather well, too,
although the wind was not as favorable. By the third
day word had spread around about our fruitful spot so
we were joined by a number of other boats. All of us
together soon had the area either caught clean of
crabs -- or, perhaps they were just scared
away.
Sometime after that we heard crabs were being
caught back of the Great Bar just below Barren Island.
These were also being taken with scrapes, from grassy
bottom -- not seeded grass, but a shorter variety
called scows. A waterman from Fishing Creek (upper
Hoopers Island) had told us about this spot.
The day we went up a number of other boats were
working the area. Ross Thomas and my brother Henry
both worked alone in small boats. Brady Dean and his
two sons, Bruce and Delmas, were there in the large
bateau Thelma Roberts. When we let our scrapes go in
that grass, they were filled with crabs in a matter of
minutes. It seemed as though every crab in Chesapeake
Bay had suddenly congregated in that spot. We filled
every barrel and other container we had aboard with
large hard crabs, around 1700 peelers, and four
bushels of soft crabs. I recall we had to buck a
strong head wind back down Tar Bay (the area inside
the county line), but the Lucifer could outsail them
all. Our anchorage during that period was on the Bay
side. It was smooth here then -- before erosion
worked this section out deeper, there was almost a dry
bar to Water Bush Point. When the tide made very low
we could walk out and dig manoses -- better known
as soft shell clams.
During this period the catch was ferried ashore in
a skiff, and a truck from the factory picked it up.
Part of our big catch was lost that day from too long
a wait on the landing in the hot sun, waiting for the
truck. A large percentage of the peelers were dead on
arrival at the factory; also, about two bushels of the
soft crabs had gone limp. We took the soft crabs to
Capt. Johnny Simmons' store and told anybody who came
in to take what they wanted. Although limp, they were
still fresh and edible; the whole two bushels
disappeared very fast.
Such were the vagaries of the business. The
waterman, who did the hardest work, reaped the
smallest profit. To a marked extent, the same inequity
still prevails. And price-fixing probably originated
in the seafood business. From our standpoint, however,
the waterman has all the fun.
Late one fall we had laid the Lucifer ashore in
preparation for blocking her up to recork the bottom
and fit her for the dredging season. This was probably
around 1920 or 21. The crab scrapes were still on the
boat, so when Oscar Nelson stopped by one evening and
asked us to try to rake him up a few crabs to fill an
order, we hauled her away from Shoal Point, where we
had harbored her, and made ready to go the next
morning.
A friend had told us he had reason to believe there
were some crabs on a mud lead off the Thoroughfare.
The Thoroughfare is a shoal water area at the
confluence of the Bay and Honga River, over which the
bridge between the middle and lower islands once
stood. At sunrise we were on this spot and let the
four scrapes go.
They were soon filled with crabs -- mostly
females, or sookies. We worked there until late
afternoon and filled everything aboard, also the skiff
we towed. We could handle them fast, since they were
practically immobile as soon as the cold air hit them.
We landed 2100 pounds of hard crabs, for which we were
paid 1c a pound, and 190 peelers, at 2c each.
Sad Fate of The Lucifer
Chapter XXVII
The last year we dredged the Lucifer was 1929.
Honga River was closed to dredging thereafter. We had
her fitted with four dredges and two special oyster
scrapes. An oyster scrape is similar to a dredge, but
without teeth, for working grassy, muddy or hard sandy
bottom -- other than hard shell rocks or
bars.
One windy day we were working an area of grassy
bottom on Windmill Point, between Shell Rock and the
Thoroughfare Shoals. I had reason to believe we could
catch some good oysters in that particular spot. I
could case an area of bottom, make mental marks on it,
then usually find what I expected to find there.
On that small area of grassy bottom we caught
sixty-five bushels of large fat oysters that day. When
we moved up to the wharf to land them, Rufe white
asked if we had been robbing somebody's oyster beds.
This size catch was unusual, however, since the crop
seemed to be getting smaller each year. We continued
to take oysters in Honga River for years, but only by
tonging.
What happened to the Lucifer? We continued to use
her for crabbing through the 1933 season. In August of
that year, after the crabbing season had slowed to a
crawl, we blocked her up on Sarah's Island, a small
promontory of land south of the church, belonging to
the Hooper family.
The Lucifer had been built of good lumber, but was
getting some age on her, and a few of her planks had
some questionable spots. We removed these faulty
planks and ordered replacements. Also, planned to
renail and recork the bottom. I even took the wheel
off to give that mechanism a good checkout.
On August 23rd a severe tropical storm struck the
area. High winds and tidal flooding caused great
destruction. Our venerable bateau was swept off her
blocks and into a field a hundred yards away,
apparently banging into one or more damaging obstacles
in her path. She was mortally wounded: sides
shattered, decking damaged -- a total loss. A
neighbor cut up the remains for firewood. Our power
boat was also damaged, but not beyond repair. I had a
skiff swept away.
Many other sailboats were lost in the storm, but
those remaining continued in use many years for crab
scraping. However, with the loss of the Lucifer, in
1933, my partner and I took no more crabs under
sail.
I continued working into the late 1960s, alone in a
small motor boat, tonging oysters during the fall
season: crabbing during the summer, with the use of
trotline -- until crab pots were invented in the
early 1940s. The crab pot, a kind of baited trap, is a
clever device which has taken most of the hard work
out of commercial crabbing. On the other hand, their
indiscriminate use can be destructive to this valuable
resource.
One of my most delightful pursuits was fishing my
small marsh nets, or seines, in either the river or
the shallow waters of Tar Bay. I would sometimes push
or row a small skiff for this operation, rather than
use the motor. I loved the hushed quiet of the early
morning. I fished before daybreak, so the fish would
not spoil in the nets; also, in order to allow time to
get to my regular day's work early early. Too, I had
the added bonus of watching the sun rise over the
river. This magnificent spectacle never failed to lift
my spirits. The sleepy head misses the best part of
the day.
Once at the nets, that element of luck, or chance,
was as fascinating as a horse race -- and much
less expensive. I might catch a bunch of trout, rock
or blues; perhaps some croakers, or a flounder; maybe
one large one of tall tale proportions; sometimes not
a scale of anything. But there was always tomorrow,
with maybe a bigger catch, or none at all. Always, it
was wonderful just to be out there.
Passing crabs often nibbled numerous small holes in
the seines, or a pesky skate (stingray) might tear a
big hole that would take me hours to mend in my spare
time, or while housebound by bitter winter
weather.
My career as a waterman, whether under sail or
other forms of power, was a richly satisfying
existence. Most cherished, of course, are memories of
those early and middle years, all under sail, and of
the wonderful men who shared these experiences, for I
have told their story too.
We worked hard for long hours, and loved every
minute of it. We ate simple, wholesome food, with a
hunger born of heavy muscle-straining toll; and slept
the sweet deep sleep of exhaustion. We worshipped God
and were awed by his handiwork. It was a good
life.
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