A Visit to Hog Island
"You have visited several places not far from Accomac I have never seen and I was raised on the Shore," said a discriminating lady when we returned from a recent visit to Hog Island. Yes, we have scarcely begun to explore that God-blest, sun-kissed part of Virginia, called the Eastern Shore.
The typical Peninsula folk consider Hog Island as part of the "Shore", although like Chincoteague (which is connected with the mainland since the toll road was opened) it is surrounded on all sides by salt water. There is something fascinating about these islands near the Eastern Shore, something that has charms not only for the inhabitants, but for explorers like the writer, who like to get away from the beaten pathways once in a while.
All aboard the preacher's Ford for Hog Island! Free ride all the way! From Accomac on the stone road to Keller and then on the dirt road to Exmore and Willis Wharf we travel -- sweet potato fields, and ever-green sweet potatoe fields, and ever-green pine trees. The green carpets all had a different hue. Can any painter record on canvas the landscape of the Peninsula at this time of the year after a refreshing rain?
When we neared Willis Wharf, we were reminded very pungently that fish, crabs, clams and oysters are an easy prey to the skillful fishermen of the Wharf. The man who has a sensitive nose had better not get too close to the fish fertilizer factory for that institution certainly advertises itself. We braved it, inspected the whole works and saw how the finny tribe was boiled, pressed, dried and bagged, ready to make the desert places blossom like the rose. The Indians who placed a fish under each hill of corn, knew. We have tried it in our garden. Fish fertilizer is a wonder when all else fails. Try it.
Packing houses, with the latest facilities for sipping iced fish as soon as the boats return from the pound nets, marine railways in miniature for the construction of the sturdy boats that ply adjacent waters, oysters and clam shipping houses, facilities to tar and mend pound nets, anchors, large and small, a capstan dating back to the days of windjammers and tea clippers, a jib drying on a green bit of lawn, a colored colony of "workers in the water", a sportsmen's speed boat, the typical pound boats, a scow loaded with clams, hands standing on a crab boat baiting their lines, pound nets, traps and all, hoistered on block and tackle to the tops of pine trees, and at the end beautiful white-painted homes with contented inhabitants. That is Willis Wharf, a fascinating place loved by men who adore the sea and all that is therein; men who have salt as well as sand, men who have heard the call of King Neptune from their boyhood days.
When we arrived at the Wharf, the mail boat that connects the main land with Hog Island had just left, for the schedule was set ahead in order to be able to two trips. The traveling Mutt and Jeff Show had pitched its tents in Exmore and that was the reason, for some of the young fellows from the Island wanted to take it in. So we missed it and had to wait until the next boat, which left at midnight.
The young men and the young owner-captain were good company. They all knew the channel and the shoals, they all knew how to handle a boat, for these islanders make their living in and about boats. When toward the end of the two hour trip the fog set in, excluding even the penetrating beams of the light house, the young chaps were all ear and eye and in a way the landlubber does not understand, we reached the landing in one of the numerous creeks that penetrate the island like so many veins.
Following the white shell road and across a cow path we arrived at the home of the kind lighthouse keeper between two and three in the morning. After sufficient sleep and breakfast we once more followed our avocation and began to explore. Seated in one of the 21 Fords of the island we were driven on a rather bumpy road through bushes and gnarled and twisted pine trees to the glorious beach. The road was in reality a track through the inevitable sand that covers the bulk of the place, for garden soil is found only in spots and faming on the usual Eastern Shore scale is out of the question. The glistening sand, the salty air, the trees, twisted and warped by the storms of the years, give the spot a ruggedness that can only be appreciated by the true lover of nature.
It was one of those rare July days, when all nature is on dress parade. Every now and then we passed huge fish hawk nests, as grotesque as the long necked creatures that build them. Then a few sheep, a cow, some ducks and some chickens would greet the eye. After a while the beach. We said glorious? Yes, that beach is glorious. That beach, if transplanted by magic to the outskirts of New York, would become another Atlantic City Boulevard. And the surf bathing!
Our driver approached the beach cautiously, for what can a Ford or any car do on a sandy road in a deep track. Then the beach drive! It was low tide and we found ourselves on a solid driveway of white sand, as smooth as glass. Hog Island is seven miles long on the Ocean side and this driveway is the play ground of picnickers from the mainland. No wonder. The dense undergrowth of bushes furnishes natural dressing rooms for bathers and seats are furnished a la rustic by broken branches and tree trunks washed ashore by the restless sea. We passed the old lighthouse, built in the fifties, with the keeper's house hard by and both in ruin. On the inside of the hollow, brick tower, about eighty feet high, were the names of the traditional fools who get a thrill out of writing their names on walls and doors. We have a notion that this is for want of checks to sign. The old lighthouse needs no such decorations, for every brick has a tale of mariners who at one time or another found their haven because of this lighthouse that served its time so well.
We had a taste of drum fishing, casting a line baited with half a crab, weighted down at the end with a lead sinker into the surf. Alas, the big fellows were not biting and most of the time the line twisted and kicked until we had to admit that casting a drum line is not for the uninitiated. Perhaps it is just as well, for had we caught a drum, (is that only a popular name for a channel bass?) we would never have stopped telling the world about it. In ten years that fish would have graduated to the school of whales.
While driving down the beach and enjoying the grandeur o the roaring Ocean on the one side and the wild undergrowth on and around the sand dunes on the other we came upon a herd of half wild cattle and a little later we met a good size herd of half wild horses. They looked at us, seemingly insulted as we stopped to get a snapshot. One of the sights of the island is a view of these roaming beasts bathing in the surf. As we took our picture the stampede began, the long-legged colts crowding close to mother and the big-eyed calves seeking shelter. The fact is that the owners of these cattle turn them out to feed on the marsh grass sometimes for a year or two and while the stock degenerates in the wild life and inter-breeding, there is no feed bill and no care whatsoever to worry over. Some of these half wild horses and cattle return to the old home place once in a while for a sweet morsel or to be petted. The island being only seven miles long and three-quarters of a mile wide, the marsh grass furnishes a free-for-all feeding ground. Some of the oxen are broken to harness and solve the transportation problem.
As we came to the end of the sand boulevard, the lighthouse keeper who took the ride with us, warned the driver: "Better be careful, it may be quickly." We were relieved when the car turned about, for quicksand has no allurements, even while seated in a Ford. Surrounded on every hand by salt water, the air is thick with salt. Metals corrode in no time. One thoughtful brother had painted his car with roof paint to protect the hide. We have seen Fords dressed up in every imaginable style and it all fits and is ever in style, but this Ford with its drab coat of roof paint made us sad.
A star attraction of the place is the life saving station with the adjacent radio compass establishment put there by the United States Navy. What a fine lot these unassuming men, who live the best part of their lives on these lonely stations, are. We had coffee with them and enjoyed mingling with them. We say with Paul the Apostle: "we are debtors." These men by eternal vigilance save lives by the score along the seemingly endless coast line of the Republic. The place looked spic and span, the boats fairly glistened in their white, green and battleship grey coats. And that life boat, self-righting and self-bailing with its polished 40 H. P. engine. One could cross the ocean in that 35 foot beauty. Anchored close by the rum chaser, capable of making 22 knots and more, waiting for the night when some of the men were to go on patrol duty within the safe confines of her fine hull. Eighteen thousand dollars, if you please, if you want a yacht like that. Uncle Sam, why don't you present every preacher who loves the water like this writer does with a chaser? He needs something like that to chase away the heart-aches when the burdens are heavy. We will not bore the reader with the technicalities of the radio compass, that newest of safety devices of the sea. The ether of the air plus man's ingenuity penetrate the mystery of the sea and in a moment the navigator can ascertain his position by wireless; degrees, minutes, seconds. What a boon this is to men who go down to the sea in ships was demonstrated by the radio man who was on duty. In less time than it takes to write this down, he located the battleship Texas. If she had been in a dense fog, that good ship could have found Hampton Roads or any other harbor without a sight of land, light or buoy. Dead reckoning, that nightmare of the navigator, is a thing of the past to all ships that carry wireless. We have been informed by a reliable authority that the radio compass has reduced the number of shipwrecks on this coast by eighty per cent. Slowly but surely science is conquering the wily deep.
Rabbit and duck hunting are the sports of the islanders. They are busy people, for the bayside with its clams, oysters, scallops and fish keeps them occupied most of the time. But they do fine time for sport and not only they, but sportsmen of the mainland have discovered this hunter's paradise. A fine clubhouse was erected some years ago by men who love rod and gun. One man has built a beautiful house on Hog Island to while away his leisure hours. One gets close to nature here.
A two room school house and a Methodist Church furnish the necessary mental and spiritual impetus. Higher schooling has to be obtained on the mainland. That Methodist preacher is all right. As we passed by the church, he was straddling the roof, putting the finishing touches to the painting of the House of God. It takes such a man to shepherd a flock like that of the 200 inhabitants of the island. Three stores and a fourth one on the way keep the population from hunger. That they have enough to spare, we can testify from personal experience. Hospitality is taken for granted. They are glad to have visitors share the joys of island life.
Now for a visit to the lighthouse and we will take our readers back to the place from whence they came. Let us look at it closely. Erected in 1852 and rebuilt in 1896, it towers 190 feet above sea level. The huge skeleton structure rests in eight concrete foundations. The dull black coat of paint gives the whole an appearance of tremendous strength. Let us climb the circular stairway with its 261 steel steps which leads to the top of the cylinder. Please do not put soiled fingers on the snow white paint of the interior, for the lighthouse keeper is proud of his record. He has passed a perfect inspection for years. At last we have reached the top, and we stand on the platform that holds the machinery and the lamp. One of the two assistants is already there, for it is exactly one hour before sunset. He is turning a crank and we are informed that he is winding up the weight that performs the same duty as the weight on a grandfather's clock. It makes the wheels of the light revolving machine go round when the sun sets. He has already lit the alcohol that heats the lamp. We are surprised to note that the lamp is not much larger than an ordinary table lamp. In fact the mantle of the incandescent oil vapor lamp is not more than about two inches wide. And that lamp, burning ordinary kerosene oil, sends forth a light that is visible twenty nautical miles. When one sees the cut glass prisms of the huge lens (made in Paris, France) and looking through notices the tremendous magnifying power of the same, one can understand how the little glowing mantle sheds its beams afar. The lens and top of the tower are so adjusted that when the lens revolves, making a complete turn in three minutes, there is a flash of three and a half seconds followed by an eclipses of forty one and a half seconds. Strange to say the oil incandescent lamp seems to be more satisfactory than electric light. A light of the mechanism and a view of the entire island from the top platform are wonderful. As one looks down on the creeks pressing their slimy fingers into the heart of the island, and hears the distant rumbling of old Ocean, there comes over one a new experience.
As we go down, it is nearly dark and already the sun has set. The light is casting a pale stream of light on the green grass surrounding the tower. Soon it is dark and looking up we see the wondrous beauty of the light. The machinery causes eight beams of light to revolve slowly like a huge wheel of white fire, its eight spokes creeping back to the starting point in exactly three minutes. Our eyes were riveted on it. When life becomes a monotonous humdrum, visit Hog Island on a clear night, stand underneath the lighthouse and feast your eyes and your soul. It will give you a new lease on life.
Weird, fascinating Hog Island, may you be kept from the cruel sea that tries so hard to wash you into nothingness. And may strong men and noble women continue to grace you!