A Reminiscence of Cobb's Island
JUST an old brier pipe, but I would not part with it. Why? Look at its honest old bowl; read the inscriptions thereon: Crusoe Island, Powhatan, Norfolk, Buck River, Assateague, Chincoteague, Cobb's Island, Del[aware] Breakwater.
Some "dime novel hero" I have read about used to notch the stock of his rifle every time a "painted varmint" bit the dust with one of its bullets in his "brain case." Robinson Crusoe made his record of time by notching a post, and I have carved a few reminders of my outdoor life with rod and gun upon the shining face of my dear old brier.
Your columns have contained from time to time items of interest from Cobb's Island. As we have been there I trust a reminiscence from my pen will be in order.
May 7, 1894. -- On Board the Good yacht Celeste. -- Fred Montgomery (better known among his friends as the "Bald Eagle of the James"), builder, owner and captain. The crew: Sidney and Archie, both bronzed piratical looking fellows, with an air of "deep sea" about them, Willum the cabin boy and expert gull charmer, and lastly "Pardner," myself, and this old pipe.
A fresh breeze was rushing our white craft over the long seas, the Virginia coast lay away to leeward hidden in purple haze; only the boundless ocean with its heaving swell, so resistless, so merciless when aroused, swinging up to us, then under and away, with a smother of foam at the stem as it left. Well forward I sat, in perfect content, listening to the creak! creak! of the booms as we rose and fell upon the following seas. Hour after hour we bowled along, the salt breeze singing in the canvas, the rush of foam under the bow.
Far ahead we catch the gleam of a snow white object as it rises on the crest of a wave. Soon it resolves itself into the form of a seabird as we draw nearer, and -- well, as usual, a tragedy was enacted, and we found ourselves in possession of a superb gannet, an old male in immaculate plumage. Eight miles or so from shore, he was resting on the ocean when fate overtook him amid the waves.
Dark, smoky clouds have been gradually working up the western sky, and an occasional growl of thunder mutters ominously, though the ripples still sparkle on the sunlit wave crests. Blacker grows the sky shoreward, the sunlight now comes feebly through the intervening scud, already flying over head. The foam roars with a louder note as our course is changed, and we bear away for the inlet.
All is gloom about us as the squall comes raging onward, now the breeze has left and we are tossing on the troubled waters. Not for long. With a roar of angry winds, whose mighty voices strengthen as they near, it rushes toward us. Under the sting of its lash we drive wildly on through the whirl of elements. A fleeting glimpse of low-lying shores with their pounding breakers, a cluster of cottages, then blind rain envelopes everything. Quickly the yacht points into the wind and we feel the shiver of the hull as the anchor chain is payed out; a gentle rocking motion follows; we ride safely. Such my introduction to Cobb's Island.
Clad in oilers we walk the deck as the downpour lessens, trying to make out our surroundings. Fifty rods away on the beach a tall figure in hip boots and rubber coat stands watching us through the driving rain -- the only sign of life on shore. We tumble into the yawl and pull for this lone individual, finding him to be none other than the genial Capt. C. H. Crumb of the life crew at Cobb's; a "crumb from the Master's table," he styles himself, and further acquaintance has convinced us that if the quality of the crumb be any criterion, the whole loaf must be something unusually good. A few words informed us that we had unwittingly secured a fine berth for the schooner, and we then and there captured this "Crumb" and took him aboard, where he soon became one of us.
A bright morning followed the night of squalls, and we were early ashore, inspecting the collection of mounted birds, collected and mounted by the "Captain," who, in addition to being a skillful taxidermist, is an authority widely quoted on the shore birds of Virginia.
The settlement at Cobb's numbers some eighty-five residents. During the summer transient visitors largely predominate. The Rev. Thomas Dixon, Jr., has built a cosy cottage near the Life Station, and although this was unoccupied at the time of our visit, I felt that I knew the man already, for high on its front that faces the restless ocean I read the inscription, "Ye Curlew's Nest," and curlew came softly across the water from the meadows of Bone Island and filled the twilight with sweet wild music. Prettily named this little home, may time deal gently with its inmates.
The island is being surely but slowly devoured by old ocean. Originally some 500 acres in extent, it has dwindled to less than ninety, as I am informed. And when one sees the ceaseless movement of the tides which rip and tear thereabout, he will easily accept the statement. Ebb and flood, they are constantly on the go, slack water seemingly lasts but a moment, when round swings the yacht's head and the tide is running.
Of the brant shooting the captain speaks in glowing terms, and a sweep of the glass about the broad waters reveals the remnants of scores of last autumn's blinds. Of the boats with their leg-o'-mutton sails too much cannot be said in praise. They are great sea craft, point finely, and will "turn on their heels" almost, so quickly do they respond to skillful handling. We enjoyed a glorious sail with the Captain in a gale of wind to New Inlet, eight miles dead to windward. It was wild but exhilarating in the extreme.
What? Pipe out? I must close. Go there, friends. You will find more than a Crumb of comfort. The air is balmy, sport is good, and the sea breeze will drive the clouds away and let sunshine into your lives.
WILMOT TOWNSEND.