Yours very truly
M.R. Chappell
It had slipped from Dad’s grasp. But, as Mom always said, Dad had the persistence of a bloodhound. He kept on writing. On October 4, 1957, while responding to a letter from Dad, Chappell made no mention of those New York friends and cohorts, but this letter referred to two Ontario mining men finalizing their arrangements with him and proceeding with the search.
In a letter dated August 22, 1958, Chappell described difficulties with the work now in progress and indicated that he would be in touch with Dad if the present crew abandoned their work.
In February 1959 Dad wrote to Chappell again. He referred to a six-month interval between letters and mentioned that it was time for him to begin planning his season of travelling with the Globe of Death. In his letter Dad stated, “I would very much like to make the next attempt when the present agreement ends or if the brothers abandon it. There would be no running around for financing, I can guarantee to start within thirty days and give it my undivided attention.”
What happened next is not among the papers I inherited (perhaps Chappell and Dad used the telephone, rather than writing), but suddenly Dad had his opportunity to search for treasure on Oak Island. His contract came not in spring, as he’d hoped, but in October 1959.
Just heading into winter, it was the worst possible time to undertake such an enterprise. But in his letters to Chappell, Dad had always declared he would be able to start immediately and had implied that winter was not a problem, so now he could scarcely suggest a delay. It had taken him four years of correspondence to get this opportunity, and he could be sure that if he failed to take action at once, Chappell would never give him another chance.
Mom, Dad, and Bobby, now eighteen years old, moved to Oak Island. Rick, just nine years old, stayed with me in Hamilton to continue school; the rest of the family would get settled before sending for him. They had no idea what hardships they might face through winter on the island, but Dad knew it was necessary to demonstrate to Chappell that they were prepared to work in all seasons and conditions. They arrived on the island on October 15, 1959, with all the equipment and savings that they could muster, a total value of $8, 000.
Their Oak Island adventure had begun.
Facing Reality
CHAPTER 4
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,