air when cement had gone down because of bumps in cement. As we had cement down now with Quick Set, had no alternative but to continue.
Took float valve out and put next load (about 3 cu. ft.) down by balanced air pressure. No go. The sand was so sharp it packed in casing. This load the casing was already full and pressure did no good. Spent 3/4 hr. clearing casing with 3/4 pipe and 125 lbs air; got it clear at last (also a cement bath) put balance down no sand. Very tricky with balanced air pressure; however, got it all down, each load taking a little more pressure than the one before, showing by the gauge that it was packing in great. However last load was trouble as by this time pressure needed was greater than the seal around the casing would stand. Our seal was canvas around the casing then spread flat with 5 ft of sand and gravel to hold it down. We actually had it, but it blew up through our seal on the last half of our last load.
Nothing we could do about it. Impossible to know how much pressure the seal would take (blew at 55 lbs). We now could pull the casing, wash it out and try again or because it blew upward the chances seemed good that the bottom 2/3 of the cement would be OK and do the job. Decided to let it set and see. Let it set 48 hrs. Pumped the water down 37 ft and 7 ft came back in 1 hour. That is about 350 gal. a minute and right exactly at that pressure difference. So now we knew the air had penetrated it all and the cement had gone out the drain at low tide with 3 lb of pressure, approximately, to help it along.
Now our casing is full of cement (bottom half and has a lump of cement on the end large enough so we could not budge it with a hydraulic jack. Bobby got a bad whack when the jack slipped. [He chipped a front tooth and split his lip.] Managed to get the top half of the casing by screwing it apart at the coupling.
Our whole effort was shot through such a small trifle. Who would ever think that they have lumps in all their cement down here. When they want some smooth, they sift it.
We can, of course, get another casing down and now we have the levels, and the pressure the seal will take is another story. Instead of a flat rubber to close the float valve I will have a metal needle about 45 degrees on the face that will close every time, lumps or no lumps.
It was discouraging after going to so much trouble to have everything right.
The telephone I was using has been moved from the booth, and everyone in the restaurant can hear what you are talking about.
If you have any of those people show a little interest, try to get them to come in on the thing.
When I found this stuff I just couldn’t take the chance of making a single all-or-nothing attempt. I am trying everything that I can from this end.
By, the way, send me down [name withheld]’s proper address, would you. … Would be glad to get all these addresses as soon as is possible.
It seems to me incredible that after 156 years of searchers working here, it has been possible to get all the real facts so straight, and separate the misleading records that caused such confusion.
Best regards to all from all of us. Never thought it could take so long, but we’re getting there.
Yours truly,
Bob
As he had been convinced that the Vertical Shaft was the shut-off point where the pirates planned to stop the sea water to recover the treasure, Dad was palpably disappointed. Despite his best efforts, most of the cement that should have sealed off the intake water tunnel had instead, under pressure, blown out to sea.
Next they brought Professor Hamilton’s drill rig over to the island and began to probe into the Vertical Shaft. Work did not go easily. Bobby’s journals report more than a month of drilling in the shaft and adjacent ground. Exceptionally hard stones played havoc with the drill bits. Ultimately, the drilling bore no fruit.
Fred was already on the island working with Dad and Bobby on the Vertical Shaft when my husband, Doug, and I and our three children arrived on August 5 for a two-month stay. Dad described the Vertical Shaft to us. He was clearly disappointed that his attempt at cementing the shaft had spoiled that location. Cement could not be tried there again.
During our time on the island, Doug and the kids and I slept in the tent trailer that Dad had built and took turns — the five of us, then the four of them — eating in Mom and Dad’s cabin. Our daughter, Sandy, was four, our son Barry three, and our other son, Brook, just two. The kids and I played on the beach, dug for clams, dove for mussels, and picked buckets of huge blackberries in the overrun gardens of farmers many years departed. This was Shangri-la.
Meanwhile, Doug enjoyed his own version of paradise as he laboured alongside the men on the beach and down the pits.
I expected solitude on the island, but tourists were everywhere, taking pictures and asking questions. A steady stream of locals also came to the island to picnic by the famous rose bush. Some expressed disapproval at all the activity on what they considered to be their private island.
Media-wise, Oak Island had never had so much attention. The CBC crew with Lloyd MacInnis started it all off with their documentary. Cyril Robinson and photographer Louis Jacques kept the excitement alive with their Weekend Magazine article. A reporter from the Chronicle-Herald came over to take pictures and gather information for an upcoming article. Several others followed, including a reporter and photographer from the International Harvester Truck News. That piece contained an excellent photograph of Dad and Mom in front of the A-frame over the Money Pit with Mom holding the 1704 stone.
Dad was delighted with all the publicity. He was confident that sooner or later it would generate interest from someone in a position to invest in his search.
In spring, Dad had written to Fred telling him that he feared that if he were unable to raise adequate financing, Chappell would insist on him taking in a moneyed partner. After this much work Dad did not relish the thought of giving a large, perhaps major, portion of the booty to some latecomer. One side effect of all the publicity was that after years of being besieged by enthusiastic treasure hunters with virtually no money, Chappell now was being courted by very wealthy adventurers.
Dad’s fears came true when Chappell connected with a wealthy man from Boston who offered to back Dad’s search. But as discussions progressed, the newcomer revealed that he wanted to direct the recovery operation. At that, Chappell balked, telling the man that he wouldn’t hear of anyone having any say in how Bob Restall did the job.
Dad was grateful for that vote of confidence, but his reprieve was short-lived. That summer, Chappell introduced yet another prospective treasure hunter. I will refer to him as Mr. Z. He was a multi-millionaire who arrived on the island in his twin-engined Beechcraft airplane, accompanied by his son and his pilot/bodyguard.
This affluent interloper was prepared to finish the job, but not in any partnership; he wanted control of the island to conduct his own search. However, after seeing the island, he said that he would prefer to set up a big dragline and screening plant and open-pit the whole end of the island. Chappell blanched at the thought of his beloved Oak Island being destroyed, and that was the end of that … for the moment.
Finally, the summer was over and the tourists vanished. The work continued. On September 12, Dad wrote to Fred describing the current work:
We got nowhere on the hole we were starting when you left. We couldn’t get through the mess of boulders. We got cribbing and built a bucket to use with the power winch and put an 8 ft. extension on that shaft on the beach. Made really good progress and got down as deep as the other one. Eleven feet below Zero low tide, 23 ft. below the ground where we drive the Plymouth back and
