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