air bubbles came up in the Cave-in Pit, approximately four hundred feet east. In addition, all those shafts and tunnels were cribbed with timbers that had been lying under water for years. Who could predict how those timbers would react once the tunnels were emptied and relieved of pressure, especially with water rushing in at 450 gallons per minute, scouring passages with sand and clay? Dad and Bobby continued to doggedly search for that sea water inlet tunnel down at the beach of Smith’s Cove.
As the men laboured on, my mother and Rick enjoyed the pleasures of Oak Island.
End of Summer, 1960 by Mildred Restall
Skin-divers from far and near came to the bay. The water, nearly always calm and clear in the summer, is a wonderful place for underwater exploration. We had two skin-diving enthusiasts come all the way from New Jersey to try our waters. They arrived at the island early one Saturday morning intending to leave around 3:00 p.m. Long before then Ricky had become friendly with them. He kept an eye on their gear while they were in the water, and in return one of the divers lent him a mask and snorkel and gave some instruction on the correct use of these. By 3:00 p.m. they had decided to stay until 6:00 p.m.; it was such a beautiful day they wanted to enjoy every minute of it. They speared some flounder later in the afternoon, enough for all of us. I cooked it, and we all squeezed inside the shack to drink tea and eat freshly caught flounder. What a treat! What a different flavour fish has, when it comes right out of the water and straight into the pan. After we all had our fill, Bob took our new friends on a tour of the Island. It was dark by the time they left the Island, and this meant they would have to drive all night, as they had to be back at work in New Jersey by Monday morning. Just before leaving, one of them gave Ricky a mask and snorkel as a gift … This opened a whole new world to my young son.
For the balance of the swimming season Ricky spent hours cruising along by the beach, studying the fascinating sea animal life to be found among the rocks and seaweed. He collected jars and jars of strange looking creatures, and in spite of the fact that I loathe all crawly things, I found myself intensely interested at these oddities.
After the Labour Day weekend our visitors dropped off noticeably. Children have to go back to school and this included Ricky. I had applied for, and received, a correspondence course from the Nova Scotia Government to take care of Ricky’s education. Books, paper, and stamped envelopes were supplied free. The lessons came in blocks of six, being six weeks’ work in each block. Along with the work, an instruction book is sent for the teacher; me, in this case. Each day’s assignment for the different subjects is clearly explained. The first few weeks we breezed through the work during the mornings. Afternoons were recreation time, for the weather was so good. Evenings, now getting longer, were for study and reading.
The summer was over. “The best summer we’ve had in years,” said the natives. For me it was the best summer I had ever had, anywhere, anytime; so I was quite happy to stay on Oak Island.
Although the weather remained unbelievably warm, signs of fall were evident everywhere. The leaves were changing colour and thinning on the trees; we were able to see our small, red, squirrel friends much better instead of just hearing them. They were busy gathering cones and berries, dashing around, chasing one another through tree branches and all over the bridge at the pits. Now that the grass was limp and brown, the smaller furry animals were also more noticeable. Our brightly coloured song birds were gone, only the blue jays were left. The bees flitted from flower to flower in frantic haste and the ants scurried back and forth madly. All life was caught up in a tempo that seemed to say, “Hurry, Hurry, winter will soon be here.”
Ricky began to turn his interests inland. He collected frogs, toads, lizards, and even baby lemmings. He kept his zoo in cardboard cartons that we got from the food stores when we carried home our groceries. It got so that I was almost afraid to pick up a box, for I never knew what I might find inside. Needing a box one day, I looked them over carefully, and seeing one with only a handful of grass inside, I reached in and grabbed … To my horror I found myself holding a fistful of baby snakes along with the grass. “You’ve got to do something,” I shouted at my husband. “Get him a dog, anything, but do something.” So, a dog it was.
It was toward the end of October when we bought the dog. Bob Jr. was all set for a big, savage German Shepherd. Something that would keep people at a distance. I thought so too. We went to Halifax, taking Ricky, so that among other business, we could look for a dog.
By the time Bob had done all the things he had to do, there wasn’t much time left if we were to get back home before dark. We visited a couple of places, but no German Shepherds.
We wound up at one place where a man had a Belgian Sheepdog, but only six weeks old. I explained that we wanted a grown dog to be a watchdog and to be company for Ricky. The man said this would grow into a big dog and would be a good watchdog. He advised me to get a pup as it would be easier to train, told me what to feed it, said it wouldn’t cost much in food, so we bought it.
Later we realized we had the friendliest dog in all creation, with not a watchdog bone in her body; and eat … my God how that dog could eat … three times a day with the portions getting bigger each day.
But that day we hurried back to Western Shore with Ricky sitting happily on the back seat of the car with his pup. By the time we reached the place where we were to be picked up by Bobby, it was raining and getting dark. During our absence a storm had come up and the seas were really rolling. I felt sick at the thought of going in our small boat in such rough weather. We put on raincoats, put the pup into a cardboard carton, and took off. As we drew away from shore, the boat began to heave and roll. It bucked and reared like a wild horse. The waves sloshed over the deck, up over the windshield, right into my face. I had the dog on my lap in her carton, so couldn’t crouch down like the others. I sat bolt upright, getting thoroughly drenched every time we hit a wave. I daren’t put the box down for fear that the dog would be injured, for after each wave, the hull of the boat smacked back onto the water with a wallop that shook it from end to end. I was so occupied with trying to see (nearly impossible), and with the rain and the waves and concern for the dog that I forgot to be afraid. I had never been out in such rough weather. Since that night, I have been out in far worse weather, but somehow I am not afraid anymore.
We called the dog Carney, taking the name from Carnation milk. She didn’t see a person other than our family members until she was about six months old. When she did, she was so frightened that she whined and shook until I thought she was going into convulsions. Around that time she also saw her first dog. Someone came over to the Island hunting, and had a beagle at his side. Carney looked at this other dog and was smitten. She trailed after the dog (at a safe distance) and was oblivious to our calls to her as she followed, star struck, down to the end of the island. Bobby had to go after her; he came back about an hour later with the dog in his arms. She had refused to come back with him, so he had to carry her the length of the island. She weighed around forty pounds by then.
As for Ricky, he was delighted with his companion. The dog attached herself to him and they had a great time. He took her tobogganing, skating, and rambling through the woods, where they tracked the different animals. Boy and dog were inseparable.
In the meantime, Dad and Bobby were busy digging on the beach at Smith’s Cove. They rigged an A-frame, hoist, and bucket to carry excavated earth out into the water of the cove. They had to contend with huge stones as well as various qualities of soil, ranging from oozy, previously dug earth to hard clay.
The central part of the beach work put down by those who buried the treasure was thought to be a large reservoir that held water ready to flow into the Money Pit when needed. Later, Dad and Bobby would disagree with this interpretation of the reservoir. But for now, they believed it to be accurate.
More than once, their work was completely destroyed by storms during high tide. Occasionally they were
