Pendleton Island and Sardine Fishing 100 years ago

Eastward across Passamaquoddy Bay laid an island which was also part of Canada. It snuggled next to Deer Island , a larger and longer island which borders the southeastern side of Passamaquoddy Bay. We anchored offshore this island, Pendleton Island, and went ashore to see what we could see. (Just like the proverbial bear....a main theme in my life to this day) Mom and Dad found the salt water pool which warms up as the tide seeps in over the warm rocks. With a Bay of Fundy tide fall of 29 feet, this does not take too long. We were too early for any measurable water so the four of us kids left Mom & Dad to wait it out while we hiked around the hills and found a plethora of wild blueberries. Every pocket and bag was filled as well as our mouths, continually. We were intrepid explorers as well as pickers. Our poking around finally brought us back to the salt water pond in which we found Mom & Dad skinny dipping in luxury. Pam had the presence of mind to document this event with her Brownie camera, and it is a mainstay of laughs in the Harris book, our large family photo album started by Nana. My favorite quote about life on Pendleton for children was this from Hazel Pendleton, " Living on Pendleton's Island made the children very self-reliant. They could entertain themselves, learned to be useful around the place and to take care of themselves on land and water. They learned early to handle a dinghy and understand the tides and the best route to follow across the passage to suit the time of tide. None of them ever learned to swim. " The Harris kids were much like this but we all could swim like fish.

Historically, Pendleton Island was occupied by the what else, Pendleton family at the turn of the 19th to 20th century. A good perspective is documented in “Life on Pendleton” by Hazel Pendleton. The following brief description of sardine fishing in the early days is recollected after reading hazel’s account:

To get an idea of the area from Pendleton Island to Lubec,ME see NOAA chart 13398 or the Google map * displaying from South to North, Lubec and Eastport, ME, to Pendleton Island, New Brunswick. Historically, the sardine fishery occurred by American law from April 15 to December 1st but Hazel’s grandfather said that the first sardines came into Passamaquoddy Bay on or about April 15th anyway. In the early 1900’s, the population of Eastport reached 10,000 in sardine season. There were many sardine factories and one can company, American Can, which supplied the stock to the canneries. Entire families migrated from Deer Island to Eastport for the season. The Petit Manaan gang went to Lubec instead. The canneries gave each family a one room cabin next to the harbor with an outhouse which hung over the water. All the amenities like stoves and bedding were brought from home. Everyone over 10 worked all day and sometimes into the night until the job was done. Kids younger than 10 gathered wood on the beach and tended the little kids and babies. When the season was over, everyone packed their things and went home to Deer Island or Pendleton and the kids started school again. The money earned in the sardine plants would have to last till next April.

The sardine boats were not too big. The sardines were trapped in weirs and then scooped into open tenders or later were seined by larger boats. These boats had no wheelhouse, just a wheel and sometimes a crate on its end for a seat. In rough weather the skipper often had to tie himself in. The fish were carried in hogsheads and sold anywhere from $3.00 to $10.00 per barrel depending on the quality.

Later on the seiners filled their holds with larger amounts of sardines. One particular Eastport character was Captain Guilford Mitchell who was the boss of several factories and boats. He had ample lungpower and could holler down the channel “how many hogsheads?” to which the approaching skipper would hold up his fingers. Captain Mitchell would then direct him to the particular cannery he wanted him to go.
The seiners all hired a “scooper” who donned hip boots and oilskins. He worked in the hold, netting the sardines into barrels. These were hoisted out of the hold up into the pickling shed. He was paid by the skipper and seemed to have the glory job.
Many of the skippers were Canadians from Deer Island and Pettit Manaan but the boats were registered in America. No one cared much because the islanders went back and forth from the mainland to the islands with impunity.

One area to be avoided on a big tide was a whirlpool known as Old Sow. Almost everyone in the area had a near escape from the clutches of this dangerous phenomenon.
Dad avoided it but we were hoping to glimpse the vortex in the innards of Old Sow.

* Click the "up" arrow in the upper left hand corner to scroll to Lamberts Cove which is directly south of Pendleton Island.

We Cruise Way Down East

Difficult as it was, we pulled anchor and headed NE, or down Maine, past the Libby Islands which have the second most vocal fog horn on the Eastern Coast of the US, honking for close to 36 days and nights per year. Only the West Quoddy Head moaned longer (941 hours a year). We ran along the shoreline in deep water until we came to this very same lighthouse marking the entrance to Quoddy Narrows. It wasn’t foggy or we would have been blasted by the horn when rounding the head.

Our older sisters had recently joined us after a summer at Camp Wabunakee.
They taught John and me all the camp songs.”A Cannibal King with the Big Nose Ring,” “Peace I ask of Thee oh River,” and others in unknown dialects. My sister Lee reminded me that she and Pam were not interested in out of the way islands and wild coasts after roughing it at camp. Give them the sociable harbors like Northeast Harbor. Lee was in 7th and Pam in 9th grade, and they liked civilization. The dynamics of our family life changed as did the sleeping arrangements. All four kids slept on air mattresses in the cockpit under the steering shelter. Mosquito netting hung down to keep the buggers out. In this era, you had to blow up your mattress every night. We raced and almost passed out. We pulled the plug on anyone being a brat.

NW of Quoddy Narrows (what is a quoddy?) is the fishing town of Lubec. Where there’s fishing there’s seagulls galore and gunky water too. We continued up Lubec Narrows to Eastport. Both towns claim to be the easternmost town in the US. Mom’s practical notes about Eastport remarked of an A&P and an excellent meat market, but no ice. We had an old ice box requiring a diet of two blocks every three days. Eastport was good for an ice cream cone. Sardine canneries dominated the harbor. Our boat, the Phyllis, was too clean to be a bona fide fishing boat around Eastport and Lubec. My Mom and sisters voted in a block for more civilization so we were forced to go north again to St Andrews.

St Andrews by the Sea ought to tell you something about the nature of the place. We anchored off a pier which looked hopefully close to the mercantile area. The extreme tides of 29 ft. rise and fall worry a conscientious skipper. Dad let out “tremendous amount of scope on the anchor line” according to Mom’s notes. She also remarked that there were “two wonderful china shops with all the English patterns; two tweed shops, plus many gift shops with delightful people.” Lee said we all bought wool hats, probably at the tweed shop. John and I could do without the delightful people. I begged for maple sugar of course. I still crave it. Lee, Pam, and Mom traipsed around the stores and we younger ones succeeded in conning all into ice cream cones. We slurped them all the way to the pier. We all exclaimed at once how much the tide had dropped.

At first we didn’t see the rowboat. Upon further inspection, we gazed at the spectacle of a high and dry rowboat dangling from its painter. Dad picked his way down the slimy ladder and lowered her down. It was the gooiest ladder in all of New Brunswick. We had our ice and some fresh groceries and a tummy full of ice cream. Mom had her culture, Pam and Lee saw people. Now we were headed for a deserted island in the morning. St Andrews was Canada, a foreign country, with lots of English stuff. Pendleton Island, across Passamaquoddy Bay, was uninhabited and had a special little swimming cove we desired to explore. We were to find much more.

Backtracking from the Mudhole to Jonesport

The area around Moosabec Reach is clearly shown by this chart: The Mudhole is under the "E" in Eastern Bay. In the upper right hand corner is Great Spruce Island, which anchors the eastern side of the Thorofare. Dad had a fascination with the name Great Wass Island. What was a "Wass"? Mom like the New Englandy towns, their architecture, their stores. Dad liked the wild islands offshore with their deserted coves, dangerous rocks and all. John and I favored Dad's view of things that summer although we never turned down a chance to skull ashore for an ice cream cone.

Dad loved the sleak Beals Island lobsterboats, reportedly the fastest in Maine. Boatbuilding on Beals Island was a family tradition, the skills learned by doing, with an eye and an instinct for how she ought'a look.

These boats were fast and I know Dad was itching to give it a go to see if our Phyllis was at least competative. Lobsterboat racing in Moosabec Reach had begun in the early 1950's and was generally won by the Beals Island boys. John loved the noise these boats made at full throttle. I don't think Mom hung out any laundry from the rigging while we were in the vicinity of real lobstermen and their skookum boats.

A Cruising Guide's View to Roque Island

About Roque Island:
“To lift a phrase from South Pacific, this is a “special island.” The writer puts this island down as incomparable! With a long history, a fine beach, many acres of woodland, high cliffs, and a choice of several good harbors, Roque is an empire in itself.
It was purchased in 1806 by two partners, one of them Joseph Peabody of Salem, a famous merchant of that period who had at least three of his vessels built near the tidal Mill Dam at the head of Shorey Cove. On his death he left the island to his children. In 1864 it became the sole property of his daughter Catharine and her husband John L Gardner. Except for the years 1870-1882, when it was owned by the Longfellows and the Shoreys, it has been in possession of their descendants ever since…
The outstanding feature of this Roque group of islands is the 1 ¼ mile crescent beach of white sand on Roque itself.

Foote provides the following information on Roque Island:
…But in the night you may not think all is paradise. As likely as not you will awake in the wee hours listening to the low groan and grunt of Libby Island’s diaphone, announcing the arrival of a fog that may well last two solid weeks. And if you’re anchored off the beach ( in Roque Harbor) the prettiest place to be, you’re certainly going to know things if it blows up, for the holding ground is abominable..

Taken from "A Cruising Guide to the New England Coast" by Robert Duncan & Fessenden S. Blanchard: Fourth Edition, New York-1958;Dodd,Mead & Company.

Jonesport VS Beals Island

Mom loved Jonesport but I think our simpathies lay with Beals Island. We loved that fact that their boatbuilders designed the fastest lobsterboats in Maine. The fastest in the 50's were sleek 33-38 footers, quite stripped down compared to the Phyllis.

In fact Moosabec Reach was the scene of yearly lobsterboat races. In the 1950's, Bernard "Benny" Beal in his boat, Stella Ann, dominated the winner's circle to the extent the races were cancelled for a number of years. But in this new century, boats such as the Why Not, Chip Ahoy, Lotta Money, and Flying Toothpick vie at breakneck speed for the title of fastest lobsterboat.

Dad liked the boat called the Thoroughbred and secretly wanted to test our Phyllis against it. I suspect it was like Gary Cooper wanting to race his horse at every chance in the movie "Friendly Persuasion."

Here's some good links to articles about the races:

http://www.workingwaterfront.com/article.asp?storyID=20011210

http://www.explorenewengland.com/travel?article=maine/articles/2004/06/27/in_high_gear/

http://www.lowellbrothers.com/legacy.html

http://www.fishermensvoice.com/archives/0706resurrectionjonesport.html

Mom's log on Roque Island

August 19th, 1959

“Roque Island was our next destination and we hardly realized what a treat was in store for us. After obtaining groceries and the usual gas, water, and oil, we started out with a northwest wind and sparkling weather past the beautiful little lighthouse on Bear Island. We made remarkable time out to Petit Manaan and not knowing the waters, took the outside route around the lighthouse. Our next compass heading took the Phyllis towards the entrance to Moosabec Reach which leads to the interesting town of Jonesport. This is one of the few Down East towns North of Mt Desert which has gas and provisions. Much to my delight, I found the old fashioned cookie boxes in the local general store. It certainly took me back to my younger days at Bustins Island. I hope that Jonesport retains this old time simplicity because there is little enough left in our hustling world. Just for old time’s sake, I bought some “Pantry Cookies” and they couldn’t have tasted better to me!

Across from Jonesport is the famous Beals Island, where an exceptionally fast type of lobster boat is built. To our amusement, we discovered that Beals Island was also the hotrod center of lobster boating. Two boats which vie for the speed championship are the “Thorobred” and “The Boys”. A new fixed bridge has finally connected Beals Island with the mainland, and we scooted under that and on to Roque Island.

We approached our objective with great caution as many warnings had been given in our boating guides. Coming in at half tide around Great Spruce Island we were completely overjoyed to discover one of the most beautiful, half moon beaches, sparkling white, which we have ever seen. The next decision was where to anchor for the night and we decided upon Lakeman Harbor at the end of Great Harbor. The Phyllis looked completely at home…..” Her log ends here.

The Thoroughfare to Roque island

We awoke to pea soup fog. My brother and I rolled up our damp sleeping bags and collapsed the air mattresses. We slept in the cockpit under the steering shelter....canvas wind curtains up and mosquito netting hanging down. One could taste the weather and tide. I knew the clams were sticking there necks out on the beach and the seagulls were feeding on sand fleas and baby crab. Fog is good training for the other four senses, mostly hearing.

No radar, GPS, or radio beacons, just the sound of a bell bouy and the moaning of a "billy whistle". That's what Mom called a whistling bouy which only sounded as it drew up and down in a swell. Lighthouses were of no visual use in a fog, but they did have horns. On this morning we heard a caucaphony of birds and bells.

With the addition of some scrounged wood, our stove crackled to life, and the scent of coffee wafted up to the cockpit. My brother, John, and I lowered ourselves into the cabin to find our Dad cussing at the water pump. It's handle was cattywompus at times and gave him grief. He added a teapot to heat for our hot chocolate. Too foggy to row anywhere, so John pestered Mom and I read the Sailors's Guide to the Maine Coast. Dad studied the chart to Roque Island, our destination. We heard of its legendary beach, white sand untouched by civilization. One had to plan carefully with the tide running so hard at full flood and ebb. Best to go through " The Thoroughfare" at high slack.

I wrote out the simplest directions for gaining the Thoroughfare's advantage. Proudly I gave them to Dad, who with the grace of a patient father, placed them near his chart and the actual sailing directions for the Thoroughfare. With the fog lifting, we hauled anchor and were underway to discover this prize beach.

Dad wrapped John and I in blankets and sent us up to the bow to listen for a particular red bell bouy. The fog was up and down, so in the down periods, we listened over the hum of the Chrystler Crown for any ding or dong. At the bow's waterline the sea parted as if the boat had a moustache. We stared down and listened. Many minutes went by as we lay mesmerised by the bow wave. A seal breathed, and then a "Dong". We looked at each other for confirmation. Yes...listen closer. And another faint "dong". Two hands shot out pointing in the direction of the bell bouy and looked back to Dad. He nodded his affirmation and changed course slightly in the direction to which we pointed. Even though we were six and eight, our father believed us. We had been his crew from birth and he trusted in our abilities.

My simple directions for "the Thoroughfare" are included above.