The tragedy of Monomoy Beach

by Clarkson P. Bearse

So this day, sixty years ago, the wind was to the westward and schooners were passing through Pollock Rip Slew all day. At sunset that night the head of the fleet was up off the highlands. From the highlands down to the tip of the end of Monomoy Beach, they were scattered along. At dark the wind had died away to a dead calm. At nine o’clock that night the wind breezed up to the northeast. At twelve o’clock there was a living gale of wind with snow sweeping down across the back side of Cape Cod and Monomoy Beach. Whatever became of that fleet of schooners that passed over the shoals that day nobody knows. How many of them were that far advanced that they rounded the Cape and reached their destinations—how many of them shortened sail and jogged off into the channel and saved themselves—how many of them turned back and tried to get down through Pollock Rip Slew into smoother water—how many of them went ashore on the back side of Cape Cod and Monomoy Beach—how many of them founded on the spot, nobody knows. But the next day the back side of Cape Cod and Monomoy Beach was strewn with wreckage. Remember, sixty years ago there were no telephones connecting one station with another, so the news leaked down through to the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station, Captain William F. Tuttle of Harwichport, either by gunners or by fishermen, that there had been some terrible wrecks off the back side of Monomoy Beach and Cape Cod, and to look out for bodies. So every surfman who stepped out of the threshold that night was warned to look out for bodies.

The first watch down to Point Rip from 8 to 12 was a man by the name of Almond Wixon of Dennisport. He was walking down the “Bend,” halfway down from the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station to the old Monomoy Lighthouse was a bend in the beach they referred to as “The Bend”, so walking down the bend that night he saw an object washing in the surf. A sea would break, run up the beach, and the object would roll over and over; the sea would recede and the object would roll back. In telling the story, Almond Wixon admitted that for a minute he had the jitters, but he waded in, kicked the object, and it was nothing but a bunch of seaweed rolled up in the shape of a man, washing in the surf. He went on five minutes more—ten minutes more—then he saw another object in the surf. This time a sea would break, run up the beach, the object would roll partly over, the sea would recede, and the object roll back. Wixon wasn’t concerned this time for he said to himself, “It’s nothing but another bunch of seaweed.” So he waded in again and kicked the object. As he did, he had the sensation of kicking an old decayed pumpkin. Remember that in those days they never carried lanterns so he bent way over and looked, and, there at his feet was a dead man washing in the surf. Poor Almond Wixon, standing there that night at nine o’clock, two miles from the Station with a dead man washing at his feet! Thirty-seven years after he perished in the sea himself as one of the crew of the ill-fated Cross Rip Lightship which was torn from her moorings by drifting ice, floated off into oblivion and was never heard from again.

Previous to this, a surfman found a body in the surf and hastened away to the station for help. When they returned, the body had floated away and was lost. After that, the orders were that whenever you found a body in the surf, before going for help, to haul it up over the high-water mark. So Almond Wixon bent over, turned the dead man on his back, put his hands down under his armpits, raised up, and as he did, the dead man fell against his stomach. In that position he walked backwards—up, up, over the beach, up over the high-water mark, and laid the body down. He hastened away to the station and notified Captain Tuttle. The captain, in return, called out every surfman and put them out on the beach to hunt more bodies. At daylight they had found four. They found two to the north of the station, and two to the south. Then the orders were to assemble those bodies over on the inside, on the bay side, ready to take them across to the mainland. The two they found to the north of the station they took over on an improvised stretcher. With two men carrying a stretcher, they went over the sand dunes, down the hollows and through the sand, ankle deep. The two they found to the south of the Station they pushed over in a pushcart, wheels with wide tires, over the sand dunes, down in the hollows, and through the sand. At last they were assembled on the inside.

Sixty years ago there were no automobiles coming and going down the beach with semi-flat tires, as there are today. The only way those men could get across to the mainland in winter was in dories. So they loaded the bodies into a thirteen-foot dory, two in the bow and two in the stern. A surfman named Bearse took the forward thwart, and Captain Tuttle himself took the after thwart, and they started for Harwichport. It was the intention of Captain Tuttle that morning to take those bodies across to Harwichport because he lived there. He intended to deliver them to the medical examiner and the undertaker and then go home and spend a few hours with his family before starting back. After they started, the wind breezed up to the west. The sun rose in the east and the wind increased from the west until there was a strong westerly wind. Heading up for Harwich Port, they could make no headway so they eased her off a bit to make headway. In two hours and a half they arrived in Deep Hole, South Harwich. They landed at the foot of Deep Hole Road with the bodies. What a predicament they were in! Sixty years ago there were no automobiles, no telephones, no bicycles—only a few men owned horses. In order to contact the medical examiner and the undertaker, it was necessary to walk. Captain Tuttle left the bodies in charge of surfman Bearse and started for the undertaker, who at that time was a man named Levi Long, who lived on Long Road in the house now occupied by Jeffrey Delorey. From the undertaker’s, Captain Tuttle walked up to Harwich Center. At the corner of Main and Bank Street where the gas tanks of Mr. Mulcay are now there was the office of the medical examiner Dr. George N. Munsel. From there he walked down by schoolhouses, down Forest Street to Harwichport, down Sea Street to his home. He was late and had but a short time to stay. Then he walked back to South Harwich, down to the foot of Deep Hole Road. He and surfman Bearse launched the dory and, in a strong westerly wind, rowing in the trough of the sea which is the most difficult course to row in a heavy sea, they went back to Monomoy Beach. They landed below the station just before dark. I am telling you this part of the story to show you the tremendous energy of those men and I tell you men and women, too we’ll have to cease our dissipation, we’ll have to turn our backs to the sparkling highballs, we’ll have to cease our late suppers and late hours if we intend to match the physical energy of those men of iron.

That very afternoon, not the next day or the third day, but that very afternoon with those mothers somewhere, someplace in some land, still standing in the doorway, still waiting, still hoping, still longing for those promised letters that never, never came—that very afternoon those young fellows were buried over in South Harwich Cemetery, on the west side of the Cemetery something like ten feet in from the west fence. They were buried in boxes, common pine boxes, no caskets, no services, nothing but a simple prayer. At the head of each one of those graves was placed a marble marker. They are there today, almost concealed in the grass. They were placed there to protect, preserve, and perpetuate the identity of those graves. For over sixty years the remains of those young fellows, some mother’s boys, have been resting there almost in the shadow of the church, unknown and unnamed, the victims of the back side of Monomoy Beach, once branded the “Graveyard of the Atlantic” because of episodes like this.

CHAPTER IV

Now we’ll go back to 1902. Time had passed on. William F. Tuttle, captain of the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station had passed away, and Marshall N. Eldredge of South Chatham was now the keeper. In 1902 halfway down from Chatham to Point Rip stood the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station. Four miles from the Chatham Station, four miles from Point Rip, where it stands today discarded and deserted. There it stands today amid the sand dunes and the hollows, a grim reminder of the tragedy of Monomoy Beach. In 1915 the Life Saving Service was absorbed by the Coast Guard and today if a young fellow wishes to become a coastguardsman even though he has never been out over the surf in an open boat, he sends in an application. Then there is the physical and mental examination and if he obtains the required percentage, everything else favorable, he is accepted. Then there is a brand new uniform. But in 1902, the captains of those stations had the privilege of selecting their own crew, and listen to me, they picked the very best, men who had been down to the sea in ships, men who had served their time on the Grand Banks, on Quero, and on George’s stormy shoal, men who had been called out of their bunks in the dead of night, men who had crawled aloft ratline by ratline during dark stormy nights and smothered topsails, men who had weathered the gales of winter on the Atlantic sea board. With due respect to the coast guardsmen of today, they are nice fellows, their duties are altogether different, they look fine in their new uniforms, but those men whose only uniform was their oil cloths and boots, flannel shirts and khaki pants, those men who had been down to the sea in ships, those men who had been over the surf in open boats, as surfmen, were the very best the world produced. In 1902 the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station was manned with that caliber of men. It was the duty of a lifesaver to patrol the beach, protect property, and save lives. Their watch started at sunrise and ended at sunset. From sunset until eight o’clock was what was called the “dog watch”. Then the regular watch began. Two men were called out of their beds, they dressed, went out down to the surf half-mile away and separated. One went north and the other, south. The man who went north went until he met the surfman from the Chatham Station. They exchanged checks, told a few stories, discussed the news of the day, and then started back. The one who went south went down to Point Rip four miles away where there was a little shanty. In that shanty was a board seat and, hanging on the wall, was a telephone connected to the station. Nailed to the side of the wall was a chain and a key. He punched his time clock with the key that was nailed to the wall and started back. The two men met below the station at twelve o’clock. They went in, called two more men who dressed, went out down to the surf and separated. One went north and the other, south. So the watch continued.

Now the tragedy develops. It was on the fifteenth day of March, 1902. A tow was coming down over the shoals, a tug boat and two barges. The outer barge was called the “Wadena”, the inner barge, the “Fitzpatrick”. Coming down over the shoals in the fog and mist, the captain misjudged his position just a little and was too far in. The tide running in swept the barges onto Shovelful Shoal and they grounded hard and fast. To clear up the situation and untangle the mess, the tug boat signalled the “Wadena” to let go her hawser. After a time the “Fitzpatrick” was floated, towed off into the channel in deeper water, anchored to await further orders. Because the tug boat could be of no assistance to the “Wadena” hard and fast on the shoal, because of shoal water and treacherous tides, she steamed away to Hyannis to report to the owners and underwriters. Because of that report, the next day, the sixteenth, a Mr. Mack—William H. Mack, the agent and part owner of those barges arrived at Monomoy Station and requested Captain Eldredge to put him aboard the “Wadena”, Captain Eldredge and his crew launched their lifeboat, took him aboard, went down on the inside, on the bay side, out around Point Rip, across the channel, and put him aboard his barge. They came back, secured the lifeboat, went up to the station, and established a watch, and the time wore on. As time wore on Captain Eldredge sensed there was bad weather coming. Remember in those days, they had no radio to give them advanced information about the weather, they had to judge for themselves. Captain Eldredge judged there was bad weather coming and he was concerned because he felt responsible for those men aboard the barge without protection. So, in the afternoon, he mustered his crew, launched the lifeboat once more, went down on the inside around Point Rip, across the channel, went alongside the barge, climbed aboard, went down into the cabin and talked with Mr. Mack. He advised him about the weather and urged him and the crew to come ashore and stay at the station until better weather. But Mr. Mack replied, “No, I refuse to desert my barge. It is nice and warm down here in the cabin, we have plenty to eat, and plenty to drink. She is laying very quietly here on the shoal and we will stay aboard.” After a while, Captain Eldredge and his men went back. They loaded the lifeboat on the gears, shoved her into the boat-house, closed the door, went up to the station, and re-established their watch, waiting for night.

But in the late afternoon the watch reported to Captain Eldredge that there was a dory going out of Powder Hole, now Powder Hole is a small boat harbor down on the inside of Monomoy Beach. So the watch reported that there was a dory going out of Powder Hole with one occupant. Since it was their duty to know what was going on they watched this dory as it went out around Point Rip. It headed off in the direction of the “Fitzpatrick” anchored off in the channel. It went way off alongside the barge. They saw the man climb up over the rail and disappear down in the cabin. Now the question was “Who was the man?” It wasn’t any of the crew of the “Fitzpatrick” who had been ashore—that was impossible because they didn’t understand the tide rips and the surf, and besides they had no dory. Now, who was that man? Just before dark it was seen that the men had hoisted the dory up to the davit, indicating that he was going to stay all night. The man of mystery! Why did the man of mystery leave the Powder Hole? Why did he leave a warm fire and row out in the face of an incoming gale to spend the night aboard the “Fitzpatrick”? The man of mystery! But, don’t lose sight of the man of mystery. He proved to be a hero in the tragedy which is about to transpire.

That was the picture at sunset that night, the “Wadena” hard and fast on Shovelful Shoal with Mr. Mack and four men aboard. The “Fitzpatrick” anchored off in the channel with her crew and the man of mystery aboard. Darkness settled down over Monomoy Beach and, as predicted by Captain Eldredge the storm came on. It was a southeast gale with rain. The seas rolled in from that tremendous expanse and pounded upon the shore. The surfmen went their distance, down to Point Rip, punched their time clocks, and back.