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.