Chincoteague Island Lures with Myriad of Waterfowl: Judge Shay and Courier Man Find Great Sport with Feathered Quarry and Enjoy Hospitality of Real Southern Flavor

The ship's clock on the 58-foot cruiser Curtis A. Taylor tolled eight bells -- the hour of midnight -- as the craft poked her nose away from her berth at the dock of the Conant Lumber Company, and headed down Chincoteague bay from the city of Chincoteague, Va. She was on her way to the best duck and goose hunting grounds on the Atlantic Coast.

Peering through the glass windows of the pilot house, watching the guiding lights in the channel, stood Captain Frank Taylor, of Camden, owner of the craft and an enthusiastic duck hunter. Softly the big Pierce-Arrow motor in the hold purred as the boat cut her way through the salt waters, at 15 knots an hour.

Down in the fo'castle on air mattresses Judge Samuel M. Shay, Judge of the Common Pleas Court, Camden, N. J., and the writer were soundly sleeping. An hour later they were awakened by the sound of the anchor and chain going overboard, at a spot where the bay and sea meet. Up and down, back and forth the boat rocked in the choppy sea. The main cabin was flooded with light when the "skipper" lighted one of those famous "Coleman lamps." Freddy Bowden, the mate, dragged a coal scuttle noisily across the galley floor and started to shake down the coal fire. No more sleep on that boat that morning, even though dawn was several hours away.

Judge Shay yawned and arose, followed by the writer. A toilet made in cold water. From the galley came the odor of Virginia sausage and scrapple. One could hear the crackling in the pan.

"The duck blinds are a mile away," Captain Taylor said. "We want to get out there before daybreak, so we'll eat now."

Down we sat in the cabin, which measured 20 by 11 feet. The lamp swung to and fro, keeping motion with the motion of the boat. What a breakfast for hungry men.

That pork sausage and scrapple is only made in Virginia. Soon the platters are empty. We gunners start to climb into our hunting clothes, sweaters, wool-lined hunting caps, leather jackets and woolen stockings.

Pump guns are taken from closets and racks. The table is piled high with boxes of shotgun shells. Fred brings a 13-foot yawl alongside of the craft and puts the guns, cartridges and decoys aboard. Then Taylor, Judge Shay and the writer pile aboard, and the pull is made for the blinds off the coast of Assateague Island.

Dawn is breaking as the blinds are reached. This 58-foot craft has moved back into the bay, to prevent scaring the ducks. Dawn has now arrived and with it come the ducks and geese.

Not a few ducks, not thousands, not hundreds of thousands, but millions, flying high and circling. Every kind of duck and goose imaginable are in the air, heading for their favorite feeding grounds surrounding the blinds. Off they go in a massive cloud that nearly hides the sky. Too far away to shoot. It is daylight now.

A black ball appears in the sky coming rapidly. It gets bigger and bigger.

All Kinds of Ducks

And still they come, and come, black ducks, brant, bluebills, golden eyes, bullheads, redheads and shell ducks.

The bullhead and sprig-tail geese are still flying high.

The guns keep barking and the ducks and geese keep falling. In several hours the legal catch of 25 each is obtained. Each of the geese average about eight pounds. Then back to the cabin cruiser, which has been signaled to, and a hot lunch and coffee aboard and an hour's trip back to the city of Chincoteague. Then ashore on the island of 4,000 population, an island that lies four miles off the Virginia coast. An island from whence the famous Chincoteague salt oysters come. Where every male resident is engaged in taking his living from the sea.

Chincoteague, the city that makes you feel at home.

Word has already spread through the town that "Captain Frank has some city visitors aboard." When the boat returns to her dock Mayor Conant and his five brothers come aboard and offer the visitors the key to the city -- and oysters. That is one of the best things they do down in Chincoteague, offer you oysters -- and what oysters.

A motor trip over the island, which is seven miles long and three miles wide. Thousands of the famous wild Chincoteague ponies roam the lower end of the island like the buffaloes of yesteryear.

High on the docks on the bay front are piled thousands and thousands of bushels of oysters on the way to be opened, canned and shipped to midwestern cities. Capt. William Bunting, one of the best liked and wealthiest oystermen in Chincoteague, takes the visitors in hand. The visitors must sample at least half a dozen of every kind of oyster in the shucking house. Lines of men are at work opening the oysters. Outside on the docks the empty shells are piled high as a two-story house and some of the piles are more than 500 feet long. Then Captain Hill and Captain Matthews take the visitors in charge. They must come over to see their oyster houses. More oysters. What great men.

Whoever first found Southern hospitality must have discovered the mold in Chincoteague and then destroyed it. There is only one place where such hospitality abounds.

Leather-skinned and basso-voiced men of the sea welcome you with a Southern "Howdy" as you walk along Main street, facing the bay.

Back on the tied-up cruiser again, and visitors start to arrive to meet the "city folks" and to shake hands and to see if you are being taken care of.

But such questions are not necessary when you are the guests of Capt. Frank Taylor. Eh, Colonel?

The night shadows fall, still visitors come aboard. Every visitor bears an invitation to "come up and eat some oysters." Judge Shay whispers into the writer's ear that if he gets off the island alive he'll never look another shellfish in the face. The lamp in the cabin is lighted and the oystermen spin yarns and whittle with jack-knives, and how those fellows can whittle!

You stand out on deck and hear the "hon-honk" of the ducks and geese as they fly overhead -- probably just joy-riding. Inside the big cabin there are sounds of laughter and a radio playing. City visitors are few and far between in the winter months in Chincoteague -- 220 miles south from Camden.

Then, when the clock points to the hour of 10 the visitors depart. The air mattress bunks are made up by the skipper. Lights are doused and so to bed. At midnight the craft pokes her way out to sea for another day's shooting at the blinds. Residents say that never in the history of these gunning grounds have wild fowl been so plentiful. You wonder where the millions of birds come from, and where they go.

Chincoteague Island is a gunners' paradise. It is an island that has not felt the cold hand of the depression. It is a beautiful, law-abiding community where robberies, hold-ups and such stuff are unknown. It is an island where everyone believes in that Biblical saying of "I am my brother's keeper." There is no hunger or coldness at Chincoteague. They burn wood. Potatoes at 20 cents a bushel.

That little gem of land that lies in the salt waters of the broad Atlantic is one glorious spot to visit. The residents are proud of Chincoteague, and Chincoteague is proud of her hospitable residents.

But as we said before, if they ever want a slogan for that island city, we can think of no more fitting one than --

"Chincoteague, the City that Makes You Feel at Home."