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This fictional trilogy based on the real life exploits of legendary and decorated Coast Guard aviator, Malcolm Smith along with those of his many colorful comrades, takes you from the golden age of Coast Guard aviation, through it’s metamorphosis from Treasury Dept. arm to Department of Transportation and on to the Department of Homeland Security..
COASTIES, gives America’s oldest national service it’s long overdue recognition. Feel the rumble of the rotors, ride through hurricanes, the Mariel Boat Lift, drug interdiction and the war on terror.
Be swept into the tales of Coast Guard Aviation and its Aviators as their traditions and stories are passed down from the “Old Guard” to the new generation of intrepid Coast Guard Aviators at the annual gathering of the “Ancient Order of the Pterodactyl”.
These tales of adventure, heroism and humor will give you a “seat of the pants” ride from the launch ramp back to the hanger deck. And a belly laugh that will hurt.
Coasties
Revenue Bay
Prologue
At the end of the formal dinner marking the close to another annual gathering, the diners milled about the tables in the grand ballroom before slowly making their way to the hotel lobby. Husbands, wives, their guests, single men and their escorts comprised the crowd of 300. They moved in little spurts toward the main entry, some lingering in the grand ballroom to chat with those passing through its doors, others stopped in the lobby bidding last good byes to those already milling there. Little groups formed and splintered only to reform and splinter again. In this way, the throng said good-bye, each to the other, as it spilled from the ballroom, into the hotel lobby, before retiring to their individual rooms.
In the midst of the forming and splintering good-bye cells, a retired Lieutenant Commander dressed in evening attire, in his early sixties, moved slowly and methodically through the crowd. He was in no hurry. He had plenty of time. This would continue for some time before all dispersed. He could see each of his targets clearly. They were not going anywhere. Some awaited him. Some acknowledged his coming with eye contact, when they could make it. They would not leave without receiving his gesture of good-bye. Slowly and with enjoyment, he worked his way from the lingerers in the grand ballroom through the milling lobby cells. Every so often, he stopped to shake a hand and give a kiss or a hug. Every so often, he spoke to a man awaiting his good bye, followed by a nod from the listener. He moved on to the next departing diner, in no hurry. Some, he had not seen in fifteen years and he enjoyed their company now for as long as they cared to linger. Some, he was not likely to see again. He had plenty of time. Some of them had none. And in this way he moved among them and spoke to those who waited.
“See you in the bar –soon as they all clear out.” The man he spoke to nodded in agreement.
As the crowd of lingering diners diminished and made their way out of the lobby, a dozen United States Coast Guard first tour aviators (Nuggets), all Ensigns and Lieutenants Junior Grade, entered the bar and began to take their seats, 3 or 4 to each table, in the back, out of harms way. Slowly the other men who had greeted and spoken to the Lt. Commander in the lobby entered the bar. They took seats at it and greeted each other again. Eventually after some minutes, the bar was full of men from the formal dinner. The Lt. Commander was the last to enter. He greeted the bar keep and ordered a beer. While he waited for his drink, he looked over the crowd of forty or so of his old comrades and then gave a cursory perusal over the Nuggets seated in the back.
The bar tender served his beer. He took a long pull on the ice-cold brew, setting it back on the bar he called to the tables full of Nuggets,
“Gentlemen, come join us.” He said waving them forward to the bar where most of the others sat or stood resting their elbows on it. Slowly the Nuggets rose and moved forward to join the others. Small conversations broke out between little groups of men and drink orders were taken. As the Nuggets approached, the Lieutenant Commander signaled one of the JG’s to come closer.
“Yes sir.” The Lt. JG inquired.
“Lieutenant could I impose upon you to start a fire in that fireplace. I feel a bit of nip this cool October night.”
“Yes sir, be glad to.” The young JG Nugget responded, very glad for some recognition from the Lieutenant Commander. His apprehension and uneasiness about his first meeting was salved by the attention given to him in the assignment of a task. Even though he had met all the men here, tended bar the last 3 evenings, joked with the old timers and met their wives, he was still a little nervous. Nervous, because this was it. This was what they had been waiting for – the last evening before they all went home or, in the case if the Nuggets, back to their duty stations at Air Station E- City. This was the night when they would truly be inducted.
While the young JG started the fire, he listened to pieces of the various conversations among the other men.
“What I wanna know is how the hell Murphy gets out of the mud and up on the green with out any mud on his ball.” One said to a group of five or six at the bars end.
“You can’t see good enough to tell if there’s mud on my ball, Jerry. Hell I had to find your ball 5 times for you today and it was right in the middle of the fairway.’ Murphy retorted.
“I just can’t figure how you always have a clean ball, as much as you're in the water and the rough, is all I’m saying.”
“Buzz off! You couldn’t hit the fairway with a blunderbuss full of balls and your fat”.
Those who heard the exchange laughed. They were always pimping each other, these people. They had done it for the last thirty years. Why should they stop now?
“Did you see the list this year?” One man asked another.
“Yeah.” The second man said. “Seems like there are a lot more guys filing their last flight plan, these last few meetings.
“Hell one of us is to many. Especially if it’s me.”, said the first man.
The Lieutenant Commander finished his beer and signaled the bar keep for another. They all had something to drink now, either beer or wine or decaf. He took this as the sign of time to begin.
“Hey George. Let’s get started.” He said. All heads turned his way. “I would like to welcome our new members to their first meeting of the Ancient Order of the Pterodactyl. Gentlemen, welcome. You make us all proud and thanks for taking the duty on bar tending and signing all us old Pteros in”
“Smitty remember when we were Nuggets.” George yelled from down the bar.
“All to well George so, at least for tonight, let’s give these young guys a break and not razz them to bad. Hell, maybe they’ll keep their membership up for more than this first complimentary year.” LCDR Smith said.
“Yeah, we can use the additional dues since our donation for the Kitty Hawk memorial put a real ding in our coffers.” George agreed. “You wanna’ do the honors, Mal?”
“Sure.”
LCDR Malcolm Smith, USCG (retired) Aviator # 1189 stepped away from the bar to center of the room and raised his beer in salute.
“Gentlemen a toast, if you please." He said. “To all those who have gone before us and to all those who have filed their last flight since last we gathered.”
“Here – Here.” The group replied in unison, glasses, bottles and coffee mugs held on high.
“And”, Smith continued, “to our wives and sweethearts. May they never meet.”
Hoots, howls and clinking glass filled the room. Bolstered by the obvious comraderie and his few words with Smith, the young fire lighting JG stood from his seat and addressed the LCDR.
“ Mr. Smith what was it really like back in the good ole’ days when you and Captain Kreitmeyer and Commander Murphy were Nuggets.” He asked.
“Are you making light son?”
“No sir, I’m not – it’s just that I heard some things, we all heard some things.” He waved at the other Nuggets. “ Back at flight training and well that’s why we’re here.”
“What kind of things?”
“Just things about you and Captain Kreitmeyer and Commander Murphy and the rest. About all of you, I guess. About what you guys did and what you flew. We’ve all seen your old cockpit down at the Naval Air Museum in Pensacola, sir.”
Malcolm Smith took another long sip of his beer.
“What’s you name again kid?” He said.
“Ezra sir. But every calls me, Ez, sir.”
The thick Ocrakoke dialect gave him away and Smith new him, instantly, for what he was, a “Banker”, born and bred on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. His family probably had some member serving since inception, some of them may heave even been lighthouse keepers or surfmen. No Question.
“ You a Beachum, Ethridge, Dough, Simpson, Midget or Scarborough?” Smith queried.
“Yes sir. One of those.” The young man teased. “You and my granddad, sir.”
“Well I’ll be damned.” Smith said.
He rose from his bar stool and gave the young man a
bear hug.
“Man that accent brings back some memories. Lemme’ hear you say hoiye
toiyde, “
The room erupted in a cacophony of laughter.
“Ez, you better call me Mal. It was a different Coast Guard back then. That’s for sure. You must have heard the tales”
“Well sure I did, but, they all true? I mean, did you guys really fly one back on kerosene and stay on that nudist colony island and all?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid we did. Let’s see. It was 1969 and we were stationed right here in Elizabeth City. Me, George and Billy Ed there, your grand dad and bunch a guys at this bar. Sure was a different Coast Guard back then.”
“Hey that reminds me Smitty. Did you see the news story about that old wreck out from Nags Head. You remember. The one we flew over that time.”, interrupted Billy Ed Murphy. “ The one with the big mast. You know what they found on that wreck?”
The bar tender slipped out of the room and closed the doors behind him. He taped a computer-generated sign to the door. It read, “Closed for the Private Party”.
As he turned to leave two hotel guests, a husband and wife arm in arm, approached the bar.
“Sorry folks. The bar’s closed for the evening. Having a little private gathering in there tonight.”
As the two guests turned to leave a loud chorus of laughter filtered through the closed doors. The 2003 annual meeting of the Ancient Order of the Pterodactyl was still under way.
Chapter One
The smell of the sea woke the Keeper from his light sleep. Not because it was just a few hundred yards outside his room, but because someone covered with it’s scent had entered the building. He smelled the sea on them before he heard them. He lay on his side with his back to the door, ignoring the interruption to his slumber. He knew who it was and what he wanted. It was Surfman #1 Tanfield Midgett back from his beach patrol and not early. He could hear the thud of his heavy gum boots plodding towards the door to his quarters. If Surfman Midgett was coming to wake the Keeper it meant only two things – that Surfman Midgett had been the full extent of his beach patrol range and there was a wreck.
The Keeper was not surprised. The wind had howled for days and the seas had continued the rise since early into the blow. A nor’easter was upon them.. The Keeper was not surprised, at all. He knew someone had not come to wake him for breakfast. Breakfast today would be hard tack and coffee – if that. Slowly he rose from his repose, swinging his legs over the side of his rope slat bunk and horse hair mattress. He sat upright and ran his meaty fingers through his thick mop of disheveled hair. As he sat there gathering himself the creak of a lantern door warned him to close his eyes against the harsh flood of light. Slowly he opened them to the silhouetted figure of a stout man in full nor’easter standing in his doorway. His arm held out the lantern .
Through the open door behind him the Keeper could see the other Surfmen busy about their own preparations.
He reached for his wool trousers and started to pull them on while he sat on his bunk. The horse hair mattress rustled under his weight as he wiggled them up to his knees. He stood to pull them the rest of the way up.
“ What is it Tan?”, he said.
“ Ship ashore Cap’in”
“ I surmised that much Number One.. What kind of vessel man!” demanded the Keeper.
“ Merchant packet by the look of her Cap’in.”
“Very well carry on.”
“Oiye Oiye Cap’in.”
“ And leave that light.”
Surfman #1 Midgett set the lantern down on the old salvaged ships hatch the Keeper used for a desk. The Keeper rose and stuffed his wool socked feet in a pair gum boots by the bedstead. He stepped the short distance between his bunk and desk. He squinted in the yellow light at the ships chronometer on the shelf above the desk. He opened his log book to the last entry. Below it he wrote – “13 December, 1878 – 3:20 A.M. awakened by Surfman #1 Midgett – ship ashore.”
He picked up the lantern and snatched his nor’easter off the peg on the wall and stepped into the main room of United States Life Saving Service Station – Kitty Hawk.
“ Ship ashore lads. Look lively now.”, boomed Keeper Josephus Pugh over the roar of the pounding wind driven surf that siffed through the clapboard siding of the new Life Saving Station.
“Mr. Midgett where is she?”
“About a quarter mile north of Nags Head Station Cap’in.”
“How far off the beach man?”
“Maybe 400 yards Cap’in”
The Keeper had some decisions to make. The Nags Head station, although new like the Kitty Hawk station, was unmanned. The service was not be able to find qualified Keepers and Surfman as fast as they were building new stations. The station at Nags Head was also, only partially equipped. The Keeper knew this because he and his men had been the last relay in the shuttle of equipment and supplies down the chain of stations from Elizabeth City. The Nags Head station had a surfboat, canned provisions, heating and cooking fuel and dry blankets. It had everything except a Beach Apparatus, Cart and Lyle Gun. If the wreck was only 400 yards off shore it was well within range of the Lyle Gun’s 675 yard range and of the Beach Apparatus capabilities. Since that equipment was lighter than the surfboat and it’s cart and less risky to the life and limb of the rescuers, he decided to have the men pull the Beach Apparatus Cart to the scene. It was four and three quarter miles away. If they needed the surf boat they could use the one at Nags Head. It would be only a quarter mile from the scene and the Keeper had the key to the station.
“Mr. Beacham! You and Mr. Gray make ready the Beach Apparatus. Load extra shot line and powder. We may need both before this day ends. Mr. Scarborough some breakfast if you please- however meager will suffice. Mr. Ethridge get your nor’easter, light and ferry pistol. You and I will take a little stroll after breakfast.”, the Keeper ordered as he paced about the great room.
He donned his wool Keepers jacket that hung on the peg by the main door. Then he cast his keen eye about the room while he sipped from a tin mug of coffee Surfman Scarborough had provided. His gaze was dark and menacing like an owl searching for prey from atop his perch. But it did not fall upon the object he sought.
“ Where in the cornbread hell is my glass.” , he bellowed.
“Smith ‘as it in the tauwer Cap’in. t’ought he mioyght spot ‘er in the risin’ lioyght”. Came the reply from the adjoining boat room.
“Get him and it.”, barked the Keeper. “God save that boy! I”ll have him diggin’ sand anchors ‘til he’s in China - if he’s fowled that glass.”
After gobbling a biscuit and guzzling a cup of coffee Keeper Pugh and Surfman #2 Ethridge made the almost five mile walk in just over an hour and half. The crew with the Beach Apparatus cart left the station about twenty minutes behind them. The five surfman with the 1,000 pound cart load of gear would moved infinitely slower along the beach than the Keeper and Ethridge.
They found the Fedora May where Midgett had indicated, just a quarter mile north of the Nags Head station. She was indeed run a ground some 400 yards off the beach. Her bow to the northwest, they could see her silhouette in gray light of dawn just appearing on the horizon, where sea meets sky. The Keeper instructed Ethridge to fire a flare and under it’s brief but better illumination they could see that she was heeled over to seaward, her keel was broken and her crew was in the rigging. Hher foremast was gone but much it’s rigging and sail dangle from her deck into the sea.. That much they saw before the flare was spent. The Keeper instructed Ethridge to build a drift wood fire that those aboard might derive some measure of comfort from it and that the crew might sea their position. With that he trod the quarter mile to the dark and vacant Nags Head station. It would be awhile before the other men arrived. He had time to prepare the station for guests.
He fumbled in the half light with the key and lock. He wished he had not left the lantern with Ehtridge. Once inside he lit the station and started a fire. He put on a pot of coffee for the men. He new they would be wet and drained from there long pull and drag of the cart. His last task was to check the surfboat to ensure it was properly provisioned if they needed it in a hurry.
Satisfied with the station’s readiness Keeper Josephus Pugh pulled the collar of his oil skin up around his neck and under his hat brim. He stepped through the station door and bent his short powerful frame head long into the rain and wind. He plodded back toward the beach to relieve Ethridge. At the crest of the dune, between station and beach, he stopped to pull his glass from inside his foul weather coat. The light had come up a great deal while he prepared the station and although the sky was dark from the storm he could clearly see the ship and crew in the rigging. He put his glass upon her and panned to the bow for a name.
“ Fedora May.”, he said under his breath. “Well then Madame, quite a spot your in.”
The rain gradually distorted the view so he panned her length toward the stern, on past the dangling flotsam of rigging that once dressed here foremast. Two bodies were caught in it. Her deck was rent amidships just abaft of the foremast’s broken stump. As the sea rose and fell about her the Keeper could see what appeared to be the upper section of her broken foremast, jammed through the rend in her hull. He panned on to the main mast which still stood. The sail and rigging where but tatters. The crew clung to it for half it’s height. The sea savaged her broken deck and at times rose to the lowest of those who clung desperately to the rigging, submerging them momentarily and then withdrawing with a ferocious sucking under tow. Then the glass was fowled. He could not see clearly. He collapsed it and stuffed it back through the side slit in his oil skin Up the beach he could see his men with the cart about a quarter mile from the site. They made good time down the long wind and surf ravaged strip of sand.
He went back to the station and put two grappling hooks with line and a small oil skin tarp in the boat. One hook beneath the stern rowing thwart, the other and the tarp he placed under the bow thwart.
He went back down to relieve Ethridge and stopped atop the dune for one last look at the Fedora May.
“She’s a good deal out”, he thought to himself.
He sent Ethridge to the Nags Head station to fetch a bucket of hot coffee for the men. He was back with it by the time they arrived. Despite their iron constitution the men needed to rest briefly and warm them selves with something hot, before they began the rigorous task of setting up the Beach Apparatus.
The Keeper stood at the waters edge studying the ship. She was a good deal out. He could make the shot if it were timed to the wind – high trajectory between gusts. When he felt the men had ample time to drink the coffee and recover from their slog, he turned to walk up the beach to their position. They were already busy at work. All the drill and the practice had paid off.
“The incessant and repetitive - how they pissed and moaned about it – well they weren’t pissing and moaning now.”, he said aloud under the din of the gale.
They were working as a team and a damned efficient one. He turned back to the sea. If they were to get a line out to that ship, he needed to study the shot.
The surfman unloaded the cart of the apparatus and begun digging a pit for the sand anchor. It would be placed well back from the waters edge. The sand anchor would be crucial in securing a line to the stricken Fedora May. Several men set up the Lyle gun and the shot line, in it’s faking box, was canted toward the sea. Other surfman made connections of the heavy hawser to the sand anchor block and tackle so it could be hauled taught over the top of the collapsible wooden crotch when finally pulled to the ship. This would ensure the line remained above the sea.
“Ready on the beach Cap’n.”, came the call from Surfman #1 Midgett.
His robust voice was barely audible above the sound of wind, rain and surf. The Keeper more sensed the call as a muffled disruption to the sounds of the gale. He turned and walked to his men above the surf line. He inspected the set up. He paid particular attention to the intricately coiled shot line in the faking box. To the untrained eye the line looked like a mass of tangles in a 2 foot square wooden box, but in reality it was a very precise pattern of coils and layers designed to allow the shot line to follow it’s projectile without tangling. The lid of the box held a set of long pegs which went to the bottom. A rope or shot line was wound in a precise pattern around the pegs. It was this pattern that kept the line from tangling. When the line was faked around the pegs, the box was set to fit snuggly on the pegged lid and flipped over. The pegged lid was removed and the line was faked for shot.
“ Mr Midgett your faked line is wet”
“We took a large swell while coming through the surf sir.”, Midgett said
“I trust you powder is dry”, the Keeper asked.
“Oiye sir ‘tis”.
“Mr. Ethridge, you and Smith take that box lid up to the station and fake a dry rope onto it. You’ll find ample in the boat room. When you bring it back down cover it with a tarp. I want that one dry. I‘ve a notion at this distance, a wet line may be to heavy to reach that ship. Or worse yet, it may part.”, the Keeper instructed.
“Mr. Midgett
make ready another projectile and charge for the gun. I want to be ready the moment Mr. Ethridge returns.”
“Oiye Oiye Sir.”
The Keeper satisfied himself that the Lyle Gun and faking box were both properly elevated. He gently picked up the firing lanyard on the Lyle Gun.
“Fire in the hole.” He yelled at the top of his lungs.
His men stepped behind him. He held the lanyard taught against his hip and slowly turned until the hammer released and struck the percussion cap. The little gun spit out a thunderous belch of noise and smoke, kicking itself back deeper into the sloping sand at the base of the dune. The projectile and line hurled towards the stricken ship. As the projectile traveled so did the wet shot line becoming ever longer and heavier. The heavy wet line began to pull against the projectile but this did not slow the iron cob one bit. It only stretched until it finally parted in the middle, falling into the sea. The projectile continued on it’s coarse undeterred and smashed through the rigging of the main mast, showering the survivors with bits of wood and rope. The covered themselves as best they could. The Keeper cursed.
Surfman #1 - Midgett immediately, and without word from the Keeper, busied himself reloading the Lyle Gun. Mr. Ethridge returned with the dry faked line. They quickly set the box atop the faked coils on their pegs, turned the box over, removed the pegged lid, aligned and canted the box for the shot and attached the end of the line to the iron loop on the end of the projectile Midgett inserted the oblong projectile and gently rammed it down the muzzle of the little cannon. He sighted the piece to his satisfaction.
“Ready on the fiorin’ lione Cap’n.”, came the cry from Mr. Midgett.
“ Fire in the hole.”, said the Keeper.
This time the dry line made all the difference. The projectile carried well over the main mast. The line snagged in the rigging within easy reach of four men.
With unexpected speed and vigor two of the men converged on the line above the deck in the rigging. Bracing themselves as best the could against mast and spars to give their exhausted bodies any additional purchase, they began to haul the line out to the ship.
The instant the shot left the Lyle Gun the surfman sprang to action. Once the sailors had the line in hand they connected it’s tag end to their heavy hawser and breeches buoy tugger line. The sailors began to haul the lines to them, but as they came closer they got longer and wetter and they to became to heavy for the two men to haul alone. Others joined in and soon the heavy hawser and tugger line were to the Fedora May. Again with the urgency of men in eminent danger of death, the able seaman of the Fedora May made the hawser and tugger lines fast to the main mast of the ship. They hoped it would be high enough to keep them over the sea on the treacherous ride to shore, when pulled taught by the Life Savers.
The Surfman quickly rose the wooden crotch under the three inch hemp line. It rose some from the sea but still dipped it’s belly well into it. Not until they winched up the slack with the block & tackle on the beach, did the slack come out of the heavy hawser. With the final pull on the winching tackle the line snapped taught and flicked it’s water off like a dog shaking itself dry.
While this transpired other surfman put a carriage sheave on the main hawser for the breaches buoy to hang from. Then they attached a snatch block to it with an instruction placard in French and English, detailing the proper fastening and use of the equipment. The sailors aboard did not need it.
The men on the beach gave the signal and quickly the crew hauled the sling out to the ship. One man got in and the surfman hauled him to shore along the swaying hawser. Once out of the sling the ship’s crew hauled the breeches buoy back and the next man rode in. In this manner all 14 souls aboard the Fedora May were brought to safety.
The process of transporting survivors to shore took almost seven hours. Several times the bedraggled survivor was dipped and hauled under water for a shot time where the hawser sagged in the middle or a large waved rolled over the passenger in the breeches buoy. That was the signal for the Surfmen to winch the hawser up tight with the sand anchor block and tackle before transporting another survivor. It was just after 1 pm when the last survivor stepped on the beach. The two dead still caught in the flotsam of her foremast rigging could not avail themselves of the breaches buoy. They would have to be retrieved, but first the survivors had to be cared for and rescuers needed some rest and food. If the sea did not rise or claim the victims while they supped and rested, they would attempt a retrieval with the surf boat afterwards.
The Keepers efforts to prepare the Nags Head Station had paid off, as they found it warm and dry. The men busied themselves stoking the fire and heating some canned rations. Once fed they left the survivors to their own devices and began the brutal task of hauling the surfboat to the beach without a horse to pull the cart. The Keeper considered enlisting the survivors to aid but all had only strength enough to feed themselves and bring a mug of hot coffee to their lips. No, the men would have to haul the fifteen hundred pound surf boat and cart to the beach.
The Keeper and Crew of United States Life Saving Service – Station Kitty Hawk had done the job they were paid for- saving lives. Though that pay was meager and seasonal, they could not in good conscience leave the dead without at least one attempt to bring them, if not back to their families at least to a decent burial. And so despite the rough seas and driving wind and with the hawser still tight to the beach, the Keeper and his crew launched the lap strake yawl that was the Nags Head surf boat into the roiling surf. The Keeper stood in her stern, feet apart, knees braced against her gunwales, with the long tiller oar tucked tightly under his arm. The six surfman sat two abreast on three thwarts, each man at a long oar. Again the repetitive drills in boat handling served them well for the experienced and rugged Outer Banks waterman, that were the crew of Life Saving Station – Kitty Hawk, let the sea do their work. Over the tops of breakers that nearly stood the small stout boat on her stern they made their way with the confidence of men who had spent their lives upon the Atlantic’s furrowed brow. The Keeper used the back of large breaker and the seaward movement of it’s under tow to bring the craft along side the Fedora May.
With a long powerful stroke of the tiller oar the Keeper turned the surf boat broadside the stricken ship. The crew shipped their oars and made ready to grapple. At the Keepers command Surfman Smith in the bow and Surfman Ethridge on the stern thwart threw a grappling hook and line. Quickly before the sea could do it for them, the surf boat was hauled tight against ship’s heeled over hull. The two Surfmen, bow and stern, held fast while the four others began the dangerous and gruesome task of removing the victims from the tangled mass of flotsam, that was her foremast sail & rigging. This was no time to dally. The Surfmen franticly cut away rigging and sail clothe. Once free of their entanglement the victims were gently laid in the space between the mid and stern thwarts. They covered them with the tarp the Keeper had stowed early that morning.
The Keeper gave the command and Surfman Ethridge released his stern grapple. The starboard oarsmen pushed away from the Fedora May with the blades of their oars. The Keeper gave a deep powerful stroke on the tiller timed well to the rhythm of the sea. Surfman Smith in the bow held fast his grappling line and the little craft swung around by it’s bow 180 degrees until the stern was under the heavy hawser attached to the Fedora May. While the boat made it’s arch tethered by the bow line,. Surfman Midgett retrieved a small hatchet from under the stern thwart. By now the heavy hawser had sagged greatly and it lay across the Fedora May’s gunwale. Midgette stood in rhythm to the rising sea and when it brought the yawl up with in reach of the hawser he cut it with one fell swing of the hatchet. The Hawser and breeches buoy line fell into the sea. The Keeper gave the command and Surfman Smith in the bow released his grappling line and the surf boat was free of the Fedora May.
It was when the port oars men began to push off her hull that the Keeper noticed the broken foremast that still pierced the Fedora May’s rent hull was not hers at all. It was the mast stubb of a much larger and older wreck. It was to large, to old, to weathered as though it had been in the sea for hundreds of years. It was not of the Fedora May. The surf boat was quickly away. The Keeper’s undivided attention was required on the tiller oar if they were to make the beach, he gave the old mast no more thought.
Back on the beach the spent life savers began the tedious task of stowing gear.. They loaded the surf boat back on it’s cart with the two victims still reverently stowed under the tarp. They enlisted the now partially recovered survivors to assist in hauling the surf boat back up the dune to the Nags Head Station were the bodies were removed with the same reverence and stowed in the boat room under the same tarp.
Once the boat and bodies were secure the Keeper and crew returned to the beach to finish stowing the Beach Apparatus. The hawser had to be abandoned to the sea. It was too heavy with sea water. Even with the help of those survivors who were able, they could not retrieve it. It may have become tangled in the wreckage of the Fedora May, while they ran for shore. Reluctantly the Keeper let the line go. He would have to note that loss in his report. The entry would take some shine off the rescue but he had to substantiate the loss to garner a replacement from the Quartermaster Corps.
While the men finished with their work the Keeper returned to the Nags Head Station to gather up the survivors and shut it down. By this time the survivors where much relieved at the prospect of life over a watery death and much revived by the food, coffee and warm confines of the station. On the five mile walk back to Kitty Hawk they pulled the beach cart, giving the Life Savers a much needed respite, from their near twelve hour ordeal, and offering their thanks by the only means they posessed
Keeper Josephus Pugh’s log entry noted – fourteen survivors, two victims retrieved from the wreckage,– in the rescue of the Fedora May run a ground a top old unknown wreck - quarter mile north of Hags Head Station – 400 yards out - approximately 1500 feet / 3” heavy hawser line lost to rescue.
He closed the log book to the sound of Surfman Smith barreling through the station door.
“Ship ashore Cap’in. Two miles north. Saw ‘er from the tauwer, sir.
The Keeper rose from his desk and stepped into the main room of the station.
“Ship ashore lads. Look lively now. Mr. Smith where in the Cornbread hell is my glass?”, he boomed over the din of surf and wind.
