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, shovels, picks, motors, and pumps. Our eldest son, Robert Jr., then eighteen years old, drove another car, towing a boat with an outboard motor, the inside of the boat filled with camping equipment and more tools. We made the trip in fine style. But several times I thought to myself, “Of all the cockeyed things we have ever done, this tops them all.”
On October 15, 1959, the day after we arrived at Western Shore, we rented a boat to get over to the island. It was a raw, windy day and by the time we reached the Oak Island dock I was freezing. Just as I stepped onto the dock, my husband closed the throttle with a firm twist. It snapped clean off. “That’s a good start,” I thought. An omen? Well we were here, so off we went to see the pits.
It had been four years since I last saw the pits, and standing there looking down at them I was shocked at their condition. One pit had partially collapsed, leaving broken and twisted timbers around; you could no longer see the water. In the other, the larger of the two, rotting cribbing was visible, as all the deck planking had been ripped off, exposing it to the weather. Even my son’s face fell momentarily. Looking across the slate grey sea at the black smudges of other islands, I felt utterly wretched. I don’t think I have ever seen a place so bleak and lonely as that island, that day. I just wanted to go home.
Soon Bobby’s eyes began to sparkle as he and his Dad walked around, talking. They walked here, they walked there, son asking questions, my husband answering … all about the history of the place. I trailed after them, ignored and unnoticed. Finally Bob said it was time for us to go back. Catching sight of my face with its woebegone expression, he started to laugh. “Look,” he said to Bobby, pointing to me, “the reluctant treasure hunter.” They both thought that was hilarious and went off down the hill, roaring with laughter.
We launched our boat the next day, a 16-foot molded plywood boat with a 35hp motor. Then we began to haul lumber over to the island to build a construction shack for our equipment.
The shack was built between the pits and the edge of the clearing on the west side. It stood facing east, about 15 feet back from the pits. The floor was laid across a small ditch, giving us space underneath to store some of the heavier tools. We extended the floor 2 1/2 feet in front of the shack to give us a platform so we could walk across the ditch. Behind the building, two small hillocks gave shelter from the westerly winds, and the circle of trees protected the shack from the northern blasts and the western and southerly gales. It was too cold for camping on the island, so we stayed on the mainland, going to and from the island every day.
When the shack was near completion, needing only the workbench, lockers, and shelves, we gathered our tools, camping gear, and other things that we didn’t need on the mainland, put them inside, and locked up. That night a storm blew up and for two days we couldn’t get over to the island; our boat was too small to weather such rough seas. When we finally did get over, it was only to find that someone had broken into the shack and stolen an assortment of stuff. Blankets, car radio, tools, and more were gone. About $200 worth, altogether. That is when my husband decided that we should move onto the island to live.
It wasn’t easy trying to get settled in an 8 foot by 12 foot construction shack, especially for me, but I suppose my years with Bob Restall had prepared me for this.
We bought a two-burner, propane gas plate for cooking (and for heating Bob’s soldering iron!), and a small used space heater for warmth. Now we had what they call here “stiddy heat.” For water, we had the big hole created when an earlier treasure hunter [Mel Chappell] used explosives. It was now a pond after years of seepage from the rains and snows. Drinking water was obtained by straining a pailful of water through cheesecloth and then boiling it. For groceries we went to the mainland once a week. And for the other necessity for civilized folk, Bob and Bobby built a traditional-sized dry water closet (outhouse) a little ways out back.
We made arrangements to leave our car with some people on the mainland with whom we had become friendly. Their
