Читать книгу The Unsolved Oak Island Mystery 3-Book Bundle - Lionel and Patricia Fanthorpe - Страница 7

Earlier, I said that my parents were the ideal candidates for the adventure of Oak Island. They were already accustomed to unusual activities. They weren’t tied into any one job or source of income. Mom and the boys were devoted to Dad and cheerfully followed whatever path he chose, accustomed to making sacrifices for his projects. The family was quite insular, not needing outsiders for companionship or approval. Dad was knowledgeable, a great innovator, could be relied upon to make something from nothing, could fix anything mechanical or structural, and always persisted until he completed whatever he set out to do.

Dad believed that once the treasure was raised, Oak Island, with its shafts, tunnels, and unique method of safeguarding the treasure, would take its rightful place alongside the Seven Wonders of the World. And he was the man who could make that happen.

On the island, Dad was in his element. It was as if his previous life had been no more than a warm-up for this great challenge. Bobby made an enthusiastic and dedicated co-worker. Yet living conditions were harsh beyond belief. Mom, who had always been 100 percent behind Dad, was a city girl. Their primitive existence on Oak Island was a difficult adjustment.

Their initial contract with Chappell granted them only three months on the island. Chappell promised that an extension would be forthcoming as long as there was progress, so Dad and Bobby set right to work. They began to dig a shaft on the beach at Smith’s Cove, intending to intercept the inlet tunnel that brings sea water to the Money Pit, while Mom set about housekeeping in the minimalist fashion dictated by their circumstances: no electricity, no running water.

Luckily, right from the start she began to record her impressions of life on the island, a woman’s take on this adventure. This is her account of her introduction to Oak Island.

The Reluctant Treasure Hunter: Part One by Mildred Restall

Treasure hunting is strictly a man’s game. Just mention the word treasure to some men and right away their eyes gleam, their hands start to twitch, and their breath goes a little faster. Tell them a tale of treasure hunting and there they sit, absolutely spellbound; but long before you get to the end of your story you will find that you have lost them. They have gone into a dream world of their own.

Fortunately for their family’s sake, it remains just a dream. However, there is always the odd one who is not content just to dream. Such is my case.

One October day in 1955, my husband suggested that he and I take a little vacation alone. We left our two sons with our recently married daughter and took off, heading East from Hamilton, Ontario. It was to be one of those leisurely, meandering trips, stopping and going as we pleased. At least that was my understanding. Less than three days later and after covering nearly fourteen hundred miles, I found myself on a small fishing boat heading for Oak Island.

Oak Island is in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia, opposite Western Shore, a small community about fifty miles down the coast from Halifax. Oak Island lies just off the mainland and runs on an angle, lengthwise, out into the bay.

It’s an odd-shaped island; nearly a mile in length and half a mile at its widest point. At one end two fair-sized coves are almost opposite each other; a swamp running from coast to coast separates the length of the Island into two halves. At the extreme end of the outer half and facing East is a small, crescent-shaped beach known as Smith’s Cove. It was here that we docked. We left the boat and walked across a sandy beach, then up through the woods to the top of a hill about thirty-five feet above sea level. Here we came to a large horseshoe-shaped clearing roughly 300 feet in diameter, ringed by spruce trees, and as we walked across to the far side of the clearing we saw the pits. We had been told that someone was working on the island, and there, by the pits were three men using a drilling rig.

Bob, my husband, talked with the man in charge while I looked around the area. I stood on one shaft that had been planked over and looked down another that was open; I could see water far below. I heard Bob asking questions. How deep was this pit, how deep that one, and who blew the big hole in the ground a couple of hundred feet away, and so on. I gazed around me; it all seemed so fantastic. Treasure hunting!

Bob and I next went to Halifax, where we spent some time in the library and newspaper morgue. Then on to the parliament buildings, where we learned more about the island and who the present owner was. We were treated with the utmost of courtesy as we shuffled from department to department. Everyone was very helpful, giving us all the information they could, even if at times I suspected a gleam of amusement in their eyes. I showed enthusiasm and keen interest; after all, if it weren’t for Oak Island, where would I be right now? Certainly not on a vacation in Nova Scotia. Besides, I had nothing to worry about, I told myself, people don’t just run off treasure hunting.

At last our vacation came to a pleasant end. Nearly four years elapsed, and to me Oak Island was a thing of the past. Although I was aware that there had been some correspondence between my husband and the owner, I thought it would all blow over in time.

Then out of the blue, my husband told me that he had decided to go treasure hunting and asked me if I was “with him.” I stared at him dumbfounded. Treasure hunting! What did I want to go treasure hunting for? But suddenly the image of myself traipsing all over an island with a pick and shovel over my shoulder was too much. I started to laugh, I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever heard, and couldn’t stop laughing.

I wasn’t laughing a few weeks later when once again I found myself on the way down to Nova Scotia. This time, however, we were loaded to the limit. My husband and I drove one car, towing a box trailer crammed full with suitcases, shovels, picks, motors, and pumps. Our eldest son, Robert Jr., then eighteen years old, drove another car, towing a boat with an outboard motor, the inside of the boat filled with camping equipment and more tools. We made the trip in fine style. But several times I thought to myself, “Of all the cockeyed things we have ever done, this tops them all.”

On October 15, 1959, the day after we arrived at Western Shore, we rented a boat to get over to the island. It was a raw, windy day and by the time we reached the Oak Island dock I was freezing. Just as I stepped onto the dock, my husband closed the throttle with a firm twist. It snapped clean off. “That’s a good start,” I thought. An omen? Well we were here, so off we went to see the pits.

It had been four years since I last saw the pits, and standing there looking down at them I was shocked at their condition. One pit had partially collapsed, leaving broken and twisted timbers around; you could no longer see the water. In the other, the larger of the two, rotting cribbing was visible, as all the deck planking had been ripped off, exposing it to the weather. Even my son’s face fell momentarily. Looking across the slate grey sea at the black smudges of other islands, I felt utterly wretched. I don’t think I have ever seen a place so bleak and lonely as that island, that day. I just wanted to go home.

Soon Bobby’s eyes began to sparkle as he and his Dad walked around, talking. They walked here, they walked there, son asking questions, my husband answering … all about the history of the place. I trailed after them, ignored and unnoticed. Finally Bob said it was time for us to go back. Catching sight of my face with its woebegone expression, he started to laugh. “Look,” he said to Bobby, pointing to me, “the reluctant treasure hunter.” They both thought that was hilarious and went off down the hill, roaring with laughter.

We launched our boat the next day, a 16-foot molded plywood boat with a 35hp motor. Then we began to haul lumber over to the island to build a construction shack for our equipment.

The shack was built between the pits and the edge of the clearing on the west side. It stood facing east, about 15 feet back from the pits. The floor was laid across a small ditch, giving us space underneath to store some of the heavier tools. We extended the floor 2 1/2 feet in front of the shack to give us a platform so we could walk across the ditch. Behind the building, two small hillocks gave shelter from the westerly winds, and the circle of trees protected the shack from the northern blasts and the western and southerly gales. It was too cold for camping on the island, so we stayed on the mainland, going to and from the island every day.

When the shack was near completion, needing only the workbench, lockers, and shelves, we gathered our tools, camping gear, and other things that we didn’t need on the mainland, put them inside, and locked up. That night a storm blew up and for two days we couldn’t get over to the island; our boat was too small to weather such rough seas. When we finally did get over, it was only to find that someone had broken into the shack and stolen an assortment of stuff. Blankets, car radio, tools, and more were gone. About $200 worth, altogether. That is when my husband decided that we should move onto the island to live.

It wasn’t easy trying to get settled in an 8 foot by 12 foot construction shack, especially for me, but I suppose my years with Bob Restall had prepared me for this.

We bought a two-burner, propane gas plate for cooking (and for heating Bob’s soldering iron!), and a small used space heater for warmth. Now we had what they call here “stiddy heat.” For water, we had the big hole created when an earlier treasure hunter [Mel Chappell] used explosives. It was now a pond after years of seepage from the rains and snows. Drinking water was obtained by straining a pailful of water through cheesecloth and then boiling it. For groceries we went to the mainland once a week. And for the other necessity for civilized folk, Bob and Bobby built a traditional-sized dry water closet (outhouse) a little ways out back.

We made arrangements to leave our car with some people on the mainland with whom we had become friendly. Their property ran down to the shore where they had a small landing we could use. So when we went shopping, Bobby would take my husband and me over to their place, return to the island, and later pick us up at an arranged time. We never left the island unattended for more than a few minutes, ever again.

What landlubbers we were. Our brash eighteen-year-old took charge of navigation. After all, hadn’t he been boating on the lakes up in Ontario one summer. As well as operating the motorboat, he had to row the skiff out to where the boat was moored and bring it in for us. We had a mooring just off the mainland and one in Smith’s Cove at the island. Sometimes as he rowed from shore I wondered where on earth he was going. What with the breeze blowing one way and the pull of the tide another, he wouldn’t seem to be heading anywhere near the mooring.

How I hated those trips to and from the island in that small boat. Up to then, all my sea journeys had been aboard ocean liners. But that little thing bobbed and rocked at the slightest ripple. I would cling to the sides grimly while my son took away in a show-off swing that put the boat way over on its side (my side), expecting at any moment to get an earful of water. Sitting contentedly on the back seat, my husband invariably burst into song, “Ohhhh, a life on the ocean wave, la da de da da da.” … Some life.

Having brought the best equipment he could find for the job of treasure hunting, Robert Senior and his Junior settled down into uninterrupted treasure hunting all the daylight hours, six (or more) days a week. Most nights were spent researching, planning, and just dreaming. For my two men, time could always be filled in some useful fashion. For me, things were different.

The days were endless. After breakfast the men vanished through the woods to work down at Smith’s Cove, leaving me alone to fill in the mornings as best I could. By ten I had nothing to do; I couldn’t whip up a batch of cookies or such — no oven. I had no sewing, no knitting, I didn’t want to read — this I saved for the long evenings. I managed to fill in the time somehow until after the men had been in for lunch. Then began the long, draggy afternoons.

I never had been alone in a place amid acres and acres of space. At first I was afraid to leave the clearing — the surrounding forest frightened me, and the beach had such an air of desolation that it was more than I could bear. But as the days went by I gradually gathered courage and went exploring. Some days I went down to the beach behind our shack and poked among the rocks at low tide. Sometimes I went to see what the men were doing at Smith’s Cove, but I wasn’t especially interested in their doings; I found it rather boring.

By suppertime I’d be back at the shack to wait for my husband and son. Merely to pass the time I would walk around the clearing, look down the pits, walk around the clearing, look down the pits, and then look down the pits and walk around the clearing, just for a little variety.

After living in a bustling city and in the midst of enormous activity, the quiet and solitude of the island was too much. The only sounds to be heard were of a few birds, the rustling of the tall evergreens, and the lapping of the waves. Sometimes I wished the trees would stop rustling, the waves, lapping, then perhaps I could hear something. My ears were attuned to voices, autos, radios — all common noises that are part of living among people. After being in show business all my life with the crowds, music, lights, city noises, this quiet was overwhelming.

As the sun set each day a hush fell over everything. At night I couldn’t sleep, for the silence was like a huge void. I found myself straining my ears, listening. For what? I didn’t know. The drone of planes overhead on their way to and from the Halifax Airport made me feel even more lonely, and when we did have the occasional visitor, strangely, instead of wanting to greet them, I felt an urge to run away and hide.

There would be many days without a soul coming near, and when they did, they were usually armed to the teeth. Deer hunting season was on. I, who had never been at such close range to guns before, felt something close to panic at the sight of these men, casually hefting their deer rifles from side to side as they stood talking to my husband and son.

Such was the state of my nerves that each night, when I finally managed to fall asleep, the slightest sound would bring me alert, fully wide awake. One night a scuffling noise outside woke me up. I glanced up and there, through the window by the door, I could see the outline of a man’s head. I thought of the robbery and of men prowling the island with guns. I was frightened sick. I nudged Bob, but he was dead to the world. The head disappeared and slowly the door started to open. I lay there watching, petrified with fear, trying to think of something clever, but nothing came. Oh, if only we had a gun under the pillow, I thought. Now the door was open.

In a flash of inspiration I decided I might be able to frighten the intruder away. I waited, holding my breath. Then, as he stepped quietly inside, I jabbed Bob hard with my elbow and at the same time screeched at the top of my voice. Startled, Bob grabbed the flashlight we kept by the bed, swung the beam over to the door, and there, leaning against the doorpost, white-faced and shaking, was … Bobby, just returning after having had to answer Nature’s Call.

For days after this little episode, whenever I thought of it I had a fit of the giggles, but my son refused to see the humour of it, grumbling about how he nearly “got shot.”

Towards the middle of November it started to rain. It teemed for three and four days at a stretch for nearly a month. This is when we found out how cramped we were for living space. After putting in a double and single bed, then space for cooking, shelves for food, also the heater, there wasn’t enough room left for us all to be standing at the same time. To make matters worse, my two men tried to work, regardless of the weather. It was quite warm so they didn’t mind getting wet. I managed to dry some of their clothes during the dry spells, but most of the time their things were hung inside the shack near the ceiling to dry. The saturated, dripping ones were hung over where there was a little floor space, and the ones that were just damp hung over the beds. Sometimes the humidity was more than we could stand, so we would leave the door open and the heater on full blast. I got very tired of pawing my way through wet clothes to do my work. And mold invaded all our books and papers.

The coast of Nova Scotia is very rugged. Boulders, large and small, line the coast, with sandy beaches dotted here and there. It was the same on the island, so one either left his boat moored out in deep water or made a skid to drag the boat up beyond high tide. I often worried about our boat being moored out, especially at night when while lying in bed I could clearly hear the wind and waves. But Smith’s Cove is fairly well sheltered from the storms, except when one is blowing from the southeast, off the Atlantic.

A strong wind brought in big rollers at the cove one day. In what seemed only minutes, there was a roaring wind with teeming rain and huge waves pounding on the beach. Before long the mooring started to shift from the pull of the boat and the stern was getting closer to the rocks at the end of our wharf. The men tried to pull the boat in, but the lines were tangled and the boat remained fast to the mooring. The tide was falling and soon the boat would be smacking down hard on the rocks, so there was nothing else to do but to go into the water and cut the lines.

Bob went in, stumbling and slipping over the rocks, he pushed the back end of the boat out then worked his way to the nose and cut the lines. It seemed like hours before he was able to guide the boat around the end of the wharf and heading for shore. Time and time again the boat slammed down onto the water, just missing him by inches. With Bobby in up to his waist, hauling on the painter, and Bob pushing at the rear, they brought the boat close to the shore. The transom was full of water, and the boat grounded. I was assigned the job of bailing it out while they heaved and shoved, inching it out of the water. Every wave that came along helped to bring the boat in a little, at the same time pouring more water into the transom. We yelled instructions to each other, but they were ignored, for none of us could hear above that howling wind. Finally we got the boat out of the water and pushed it up the beach, rolling it along logs. This was backbreaking work and we were all exhausted and looked like drowned rats by the time the boat was safe and secure, high on the beach.

Ever after that, we always brought the boat right out of the water. We never left it moored out again.

One day, late in November the owner of the Island came to visit just to see how we were getting on. As we all sat in the shack, huddled around the heater, he told us of the many people who were interested in Oak Island, and how anxious they were to get permission to work on the island. We felt very lucky indeed to be the chosen ones. Without mentioning names, he also told us that a party from the West Coast was very eager to come treasure hunting, but the trouble was, this group wanted a three-year contract and that was not acceptable to Mr. Chappell. Silently, we were thankful.

The lobster season opened December 1st. We hadn’t seen any boats around for a long time because of the bad weather. Now everything was calm and clear as if the weather were behaving itself to give the fishermen a break. December 1st came on Sunday that year, so the season couldn’t open until Monday. The official opening time was set for 10:00 a.m. It was just as if a gun had been fired. Precisely at 10:00 on the dot, boats scooted out from the mainland in all directions — big boats, little boats, all piled high with lobster pots. They raced one another for locations, and jockeyed for position along the way. Some dropped their pots around the islands near shore and some on the shoals in between, while others headed further out to sea. One fellow we knew screamed and waved “Hello” as he shot by, while we stood on the beach, amazed by all the commotion.

For a few days activity was hectic. Boats were chugging around the bay from early morning to sunset, and sometimes in the middle of the night. We often speculated about those midnight runs, wondering Who was taking Who’s lobsters. By the end of the first week the new enthusiasts had dropped out and only the regular fishermen remained. It was again raw and wet, and lobstering is a cold, miserable job.

It was getting close to Christmas and I was anxious to get home to our other son, Ricky. On this initial move to the island, we had left him with my daughter and her family so that he wouldn’t miss school. I was also homesick for people, lights, noise, anything but this deadly quiet. I tried to talk the others into leaving with me and coming back in the spring, figuring that once I got them off the island, that would be the end of this idiotic business, but they wouldn’t hear of it. We knew that we couldn’t leave our possessions on the island for there wouldn’t be a thing left when we got back. We already had a hoist and motors set up at the pit head. They would be extremely attractive to looters. The shack was livable, so Bob decided that he and Bobby could manage on the island for the winter and get some work done. [In December 1959, Chappell wrote Dad advising that he would extend Dad’s original three-month contract on the island for all of 1960.]

So it was settled. My husband would take me back home and Bobby would stay behind to look after things until his dad returned. Our eighteen-year-old son lived alone on the island for five weeks.

Back in Hamilton, Bob collected more equipment and left for Nova Scotia at the end of January. I wondered how long it would be before they would miss me. Who would do the dishes, make the beds, do the cooking? How long before the loneliness would get on their nerves? I think I was the one who was lonely. I heard over the radio of the terrible winter Nova Scotia was having and I expected to hear any day that they were on their way home. But still they stayed. By the end of March I knew that they were determined to carry on with their treasure hunt.

Adjusting to life on an island wasn’t difficult only for Mom; it presented challenges for Dad and Bobby too. Almost everything that had to be done was done by them. They built, maintained, and repaired equipment. They dug, they chopped, they heaved, and they hauled, side by side.

For Dad, there was much more to Oak Island than recovering gold or jewels. Of equal importance to him was discovering precisely how the treasure had been put down and how those who buried it had planned to bring it up. Dad and Bobby were determined to recover the treasure in such a way as to preserve the magnificent underground systems that for so long had confounded every recovery effort. After all, how could Oak Island become the Eighth Wonder of the World if evidence of this extraordinary engineering feat was destroyed in the lust for gold?

Before they’d arrived on the island, Dad had read countless articles and books on Oak Island. He knew the Money Pit as it would have been before anyone dug into it and discovered its first secrets. He also knew that little of the original work remained. Many years before, each layer of earth and logs in the Money Pit had been removed to see what lay beneath. Now the island was riddled with shafts, holes, and tunnels created not only by those who buried the treasure but also by the succession of treasure hunters who had sought to recover it.

In October, when Bobby and Dad set to work, there was no longer any sign of the original Money Pit. All that could be seen where it had been were two adjoining rectangular holes bordered by broken timbers, encircled by a rickety log fence.

Bobby and Dad started digging a shaft in Smith’s Cove beach in an attempt to locate and block the sea water inlet tunnel. If they could stop the water, they would be able to search for treasure in the Money Pit area at their leisure. They spent each day in arduous physical labour, and at night they reviewed the day’s progress, discussed options, and debated theories of what was meant by various findings. During the long, cold winter nights of their first six months, they carefully reread every publication on Oak Island that they could find. They compared the information in those sources each with each other and related them to the signs of earlier expeditions that were still visible on the island. In this way they were able to calculate what lay where underground. This informed the direction of their work on the island.

It was like detective work. Every time they encountered previously dug earth, marker stones, timbers, or other objects, they tried to determine if they were part of work done by other treasure hunters or by those who had buried the treasure. They hoped to find the original work because that could lead them more directly to the treasure. However, other searchers’ work could be useful too; Dad and Bobby could add to that previous work or use it to calculate new directions for their own search. Conversely, whenever they encountered earth that had never been dug before, they knew they had gone beyond anything of interest.

Just living on an island presented special problems. They had neither electricity nor a telephone. They used propane lamps and stove; they rigged a battery charger, then charged a battery connected to an old car radio to listen to the news once a week. Obtaining food necessitated a trip to the mainland by boat, then a fifteen-minute car ride into Chester, where they kept a post office box and where the Shamrock Food Store supplied their groceries on a running tab, as it did for local fishermen. Phone calls for the family came in to a service station. Dad collected messages each time he went ashore. Return calls were made from a pay phone. Often letters or phone calls were of vital importance to their work. But whenever a call out was placed, it might be necessary to wait by the phone for the return call for long periods of time. Sometimes communications were missed. All of this was time-consuming and frustrating.

Large shipments of supplies were ferried to the island by a hired boat (usually Gerald Stevens’s Fury), but smaller supplies of lumber, machine parts, gas, and oil were brought to the island in the family’s outboard motorboat. Every journey to the mainland resulted in valuable time lost from what they considered to be their real work of searching for treasure. Once on the beach at Smith’s Cove, supplies needed to be carried up the steep hill to the flat grassy plateau that held the Money Pit.

After the first six months on the island, Bobby began a daily journal of the work. Many of us would try to keep a journal in circumstances as extraordinary as these, but most of us would eventually miss a day or two, and then another, until gaps outnumbered entries and we finally gave up. But Bobby never gave up. There is a journal entry for every day from March 20, 1960, to August 17, 1965, the end of his search.

The rhythm of island life comes through clearly in Bobby’s journals. The following entries were written that first winter, when my mother was in Ontario with Rick, and Dad and Bobby worked alone on the island.

Sunday, March 20, 1960

Gerald Stevens brought fuel oil and gasoline to island, and planks and barrels to Grandall’s Point. Made barrel bungs tight.

Monday, March 21, 1960

Built raft in 2–3 hours with 12 barrels, 6 logs, 27 planks, wire and nails. Loaded Plymouth and it floated like an iceberg (sank to plank level) to Smith’s Cove with speedboat. Very slow going. Towed it back to Grandall’s Point and staked it down so it floats at high tide and is dry at low tide.

Tuesday, March 22, 1960

Got 8 more barrels from Mader and trucked them to Grandall’s Point. Extra buoyancy needed for 5,000 lb. compressor. Did odds and ends rest of day.

Wednesday, March 23, 1960

Cleared everything out of compressor that wasn’t nailed to the floor. Fixed barrel bungs to be watertight. Sudden wind and we beached boat and puttered around with odds and ends that needed attention.

Thursday, March 24, 1960

Rigged braces for hoist at beach. Took hoist car from main pits and mounted in beach hole. Pumped out hole and started clearing ice and snow. Made record run to Chester. Uncovered and launched boat, scooted 2 1/2 miles to Chester by water, got mail, some groceries, newspaper and pics at drugstore, roared back and pulled up and covered boat in 45 minutes flat.

Friday, March 25, 1960

Cleared out beach hole. Set up generators and charged batteries.

Saturday, March 26, 1960

Put eight barrels under raft. Went to Chester by boat. Nearly drowned and froze coming back in 4 to 6 foot waves. Cold today. Seawater froze to deck.

Sunday, March 27, 1960

Cut poles to crib beach hole. Took them to Smith’s Cove.

Monday, March 28, 1960

Moved raft from Grandall’s Pt. to Government Wharf in Western Shore. Stored planks for loading it in gas station by dock.

Tuesday, March 29, 1960

Loaded compressor and towed it over and unloaded at Smith’s Cove. Took raft apart and stacked up barrels, planks, and logs.

Wednesday, March 30, 1960

Went to Chester and here and there. Got winch welded up. Rained all afternoon, got completely drenched coming back.

Thursday, March 31, 1960

Took barrels to Andy’s. Built runway and platform over hole and cleared out three wheelbarrow loads of sand, using hoist and winch.

Friday, April 1, 1960

Cribbed one end of hole after cutting up poles and clearing sand and building loading platform in hole. Rained most of afternoon.

Saturday, April 2, 1960

Went to Chester and returned barrels. General running around used up the day.

Sunday, April 3, 1960

Cleared out stones and sand (about ten hoist loads) and cribbed far end of beach hole toward the point.

Monday, April 4, 1960

Dug hole 6” deeper for pump.

Tuesday, April 5, 1960

Fixed part of caved-in cribbing near pump. Briggs and Stratton got a seized valve and we fixed it (luckily). Found two old beams just seaward of our cribbing. They are vertical, about 6” or 8” by same. Very old and rotten. Apparently part of an old cribbing. Later noticed 8” x 1” boards in a square shape at least 5’ long. Some kind of hollow post or trough.

Wednesday, April 6, 1960

Dug beach hole deeper. Went to Chester and wasted day getting Chappell [on phone].

Thursday, April 7, 1960

R.E. [Dad] went to Halifax to see Chappell. Met Harris [R.V. Harris, author of The Oak Island Mystery] and others.

Friday, April 8, 1960

Went to Chester. Learned a lot about the Teazer. One fellow will show us where it went down. Finished fixing cribbing.

Saturday, April 9, 1960

Deepened hole about 4”. Checked pump in Chester and bought it. [This was a huge pump previously used on the island to pump water from the Money Pit.]

Sunday, April 10, 1960

Fixed carburetor on compressor and tested it. Fixed carburetor on Lawson mill. Dug out about 1 foot in hole. Found it will be necessary to crib at least part of hole. Added one tier of planks.

Monday, April 11, 1960

Added two tiers of plank cribbing to hole. Total depth 11 1/2 feet.

Tuesday, April 12, 1960

Reached 13 feet in hole. Had considerable sliding in. Will have to abandon horizontal method of cribbing sides.

Wednesday, April 13, 1960

Went to Chester and ordered planks and beams for cribbing vertically. Worked on sump pump for awhile.

Thursday, April 14, 1960

Got planks over. Went to Chester and dropped coupling into machine shop. Put cribbing into place and tacked frame in temporarily.

Friday, April 15, 1960

Hole is just over 14 feet deep. It is cribbed to the 13 1/2 foot level.

Sunday, April 17, 1960

Reached about 15 1/2 feet in hole. Still previously dug.

Monday, April 18, 1960

Put gas tank from Fargo on Chappell’s pump. Went to Chester for flexible gas line. Went down about 1 foot in hole.

Tuesday, April 19, 1960

Reached total depth of 17 feet. Clay spongy. Encountering more rocks. We are roughly 6 feet below low tide.

A car was needed on the island because drums of gas and oil, lumber, and equipment of all kinds had to be transported from the beach, up thirty-two feet to the plateau, and across to the Money Pit area. With back seats removed, the car served as a truck and towing vehicle.

The compressor made the same journey across the bay on a raft. My husband, an excavating contractor in Hamilton, had sent down his air compressor and power tools so that Dad and Bobby could work in the frozen earth on the beach and deal with other heavy-duty digging.