You remember the boat that used to lay off there on the south side last summer. Nobody seemed to know just what they were doing, who they were; well I have just learned what was going on. Apparently, a couple of skin divers were operating the boat and looking for the entrance to the tunnel to the money pit; and they claim they discovered it. So far as I can find out, they are both local boys, that is from around Halifax, and they have three or four Halifax men, some of them fairly well off, who are interested with them. I do not know any of the men, in fact, I do not know the names of them, but they have asked me to meet them on Monday, the third of April, so I expect to be in Halifax, Monday morning, and meet them and learn what they have discovered and what their idea is. Of course, I suppose I have no jurisdiction over them doing work out in the water, but so far as coming in beyond the shore line, apparently, they realize that my licence protects me fully. So, it will be interesting to find out what they discovered and what they have in mind; that is if they will tell me.
The discoveries that you have made during the past season are certainly interesting. I am hoping that the weather will clear before too long so that I can get down and look things over and have a chat with you.
Yours truly,
M.R. Chappell
It is obvious that Chappell kept up a running correspondence with many other would-be treasure hunters, as he had with my parents before awarding them the contract. Déja vu. It sounds as if Chappell considered some of these correspondents to be possible replacements for my family, and others, like the man from Boston, to be a possible source of financing to help Dad’s operation. The comments about the entrance to the Money Pit refer to previous searchers who had speculated that there was a walk-in tunnel from South Shore Cove. These 1961 skin divers were claiming to have located it. Even if that were true, they needed Chappell’s permission to proceed because under the Treasure Trove Act only Chappell had the licence to recover treasure. This is an example of the intrigue that constantly swirls around Oak Island.
But the only thing my parents cared about was their contract. In Chappell’s letter to them just before this one, he indicated that he was highly satisfied with their work. This informal extension to only May 10 must have driven my parents mad. They needed a contract so that they could use it as a basis for raising capital. Who would sink large sums of money into a recovery operation that could be out of business in thirty days?
Raising operating funds relied on having a contract. In their less than six years on the island, my parents had twenty-five investors who, altogether, put in $57,883. Some invested large sums, some invested as little as $100. 1961 was a very bad year, as a formal contract for the entire year never materialized. And although investment money came in during every other year on the island, in 1961 not one cent of investment capital was secured.
Money raised by Dad went exclusively for the recovery operation. My parents lived in self-imposed penury, but the big pump in the Money Pit virtually inhaled money. Equipment and services had to be purchased. Workmen had to be hired. It would have been unsafe to run the big pump with Dad and Bobby working down the Money Pit together. One of them had to be on top to deal with emergencies.
For the recovery operation to have a chance, it needed a steady flow of capital. And that could be raised only with a contract of reasonable length. But Chappell was not one to give long contracts. It seemed he needed to wait until the end of one contract to be sure that work was progressing vigorously. Then he would entertain an extension. Even when he did promise a new contract, bad weather or the state of his health could delay the signing for weeks. More than once Dad had an investor, cash in hand, unwilling to part with it until the next contract was signed. Contract renewal was a serious source of concern for my parents, and delays resulted in several periods of time lost from the recovery operation.
Attempting to get contracts signed in a timely fashion was such a challenge that all else seemed trivial. Yet there were other frustrations. Chappell was continually contacted by people who promised to unlock the secret of Oak Island, and he seemed compelled to hear them out. He was bewitched by the idea that someone somewhere might come along with a unique idea that would instantly solve the mystery and yield results. He even expected Dad to play tour guide to these wannabe treasure hunters or to let them camp on the island. Sometimes he wrote asking Dad to provide measurements of certain landmarks so they could make more accurate drawings. Chappell seemed to need to inform Dad of all of his correspondence with these people. It was hard to take.
There were other players. A number of adventurers had theories that involved locations on the island that were not near the Money Pit. For a time Chappell entered into contracts with these people in three-way deals that obligated them to share any findings equally with Chappell and Dad. Later, Chappell divided the island for purposes of contracts. Dad had rights to only the Money Pit end of the island. Dad didn’t care about the other parts, but he would have much preferred no other presence on the island while he went about his own work.
It must have been very difficult to work so hard, make so many sacrifices, and then have to listen to Chappell’s enthusiasm for someone else to come in and raise the treasure. In the 103 letters from Chappell written between October 1959 and August 1965, Chappell’s comments and questions indicated that he was wholeheartedly behind Dad’s recovery operation. And yet in sixty-two of those letters he mentioned other people who wanted a chance at the treasure once the Restalls were finished, or while they were still working.
The Grip Tightens
CHAPTER 8
Breakup by Mildred Restall
It was well into March before the breakup came. I think everybody we knew was glad to see the end of winter. “Worst winter we have had in years,” the natives said. It was certainly the worst for me.
As the ice began to break away from the mainland, it floated past our island. Great slabs, some big enough to put a fair-sized house on, went floating by, and many swirled around the end of our wharf to lodge in the cove. They piled up on the beach where the receding tide left them, making miniature cliffs from four to ten feet high.
The western side of the island, on down to the gap, was clear of ice in no time, as was the part of the mainland lying to the west. So by docking at that part of the mainland, we were able to use the boat once again.
Before the men could put the boat into the water, it was necessary to clear away some of the ice that was floating in the cove. To the boys, this was great sport. Taking long poles, they jumped from one ice mass to the next until they were nearly at the outer edge. Then pushing with all their might, they forced the ice out to where the current would take it past the island. Often, when they got back, they would find ice right back in the path they had cleared, and would have to go through the whole business again. Some of the slabs were nearly three feet thick. Hard work.
While living on the island, Bob and I had made it a custom to go for a long walk every Sunday. At present, it was best to walk through the woods, as the whole shore was ice-covered, but this particular Sunday, we decided to go down to the cove to see what effect the rough weather was having on the ice. From the top of the hill we could see the white caps dancing on the water and we knew that this would really make an impression on the ice still left along the mainland coast. Down at the cove waves were flinging themselves over the ice ledge on the beach, and huge cakes were ramming against the dock. The cove was full of floes that dipped and bobbed with the waves.
Ricky and the dog were with us, and we all huddled under the apple tree by the boys’ shack, out of the wind. Suddenly I saw a dark brown object moving along the beach. I nudged Bob and we all watched as a little brown animal hurried with an undulating movement over the ice. It stopped by the wharf, right in front of where we were standing, then began to poke among the seaweed. We stood very still and quiet, studying the animal bobbing up and down