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Village Craftsmen 
 170
Howard Street
PO Box
248
Ocracoke Island,
NC 27960
252-928-5541
info@villagecraftsmen.com
Ocracoke Newsletter
June 21, 2010
Remembering Island Character Don Wood
Text & Photos by Guest Columnist Robert (Jake) Thornbury
It was a dark, moist, windy
morning as the four of us boarded the 38' Polynesian Concept catamaran, better
known as the “Pasado Manano,” in Barnegat Bay, N.J. I couldn’t help but
feel a certain trepidation about sailing on the open ocean, something that I
had never done before. The uneasiness was compounded by the fact that I
didn’t know any of the crew members and only the captain, Don Wood, for
a short time. Yet the spirit of adventure created small bursts of
adrenaline in my system. We were leaving at four a.m. in the
morning to enable the boat to clear the bridge south of us with our
forty-four-foot mast.
Don Wood's "Pasado Manano":
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
In preparation for the trip,
Don and I stayed on Sandy Island, N.J., his residence at the time. Don
was the sole inhabitant of the small island. He gladly assumed the
responsibility of being a caretaker since it afforded him the opportunity to
live peacefully. The cabin he lived in had spartan furnishings and yet
there wasn’t a need for anything else. The windows were always wide open
to allow the constant sound breezes to infiltrate the cabin, filling one’s
nostrils with aromas of the sea. The cabin’s building was
situated so that you had a view of the rising sun in
the morning hours, and a view of the setting sun in
the evening. It’s foundation was an insulated ice barge that
supported a wooden rectangular cabin with a bedroom with bunk beds to the north,
and a living room that housed a sturdy wooden rocker and an oil heating stove.
The only plumbing consisted of hot water supplied by a black painted tank
on the roof and an artesian well outside for fresh supplies of drinking and
bathing water. The cabin’s lighting was supplied by the soft glow of
kerosene lamps. A narrow deck to the south provided ample pilings from
which to hang a trap to catch blue crabs. Outlying islands, salt water
marshes, and sound waters supplied mussels, oysters, and flounder. All of
this suited Don’s fierce independence and wishes for solitude. His C.B.
radio, his only contact with the outside world, was seldom used. Numerous
visits from curious strangers were not taken kindly. One such occurrence
saw Don running from the cabin au-naturel, brandishing a shot gun over his
head, while yelling expletives at the approaching strangers who made a
fast retreat.
Don's Other Retreat -- His Houseboat:
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
Gear was quickly stored in the
hulls, orders were given to release most of the cordage that held the
sails, and the Honda outboard motor was started. We cast our lines
off and slowly entered the blackness of the night. It was pitch dark on
the water despite the lights of the mainland to the west of us and the lights
of Long Beach Island that twinkled in the east. I hadn’t a clue as to how
Don knew where he was going since there didn’t seem to be any channel marker
lights. It had only been a couple of weeks before that he had asked me to
take his skiff from the marina and visit with him on Sandy Island. I had
been working as a bouncer for a college friend in an old cedar shake two
story bar that once was a rum runner’s establishment during prohibition.
By the time I had reached the marina it was 3:00 in the morning. His
instructions were “just head out the inlet, make a right and go to the buoy
marker, make a left, and enter the channel to my cabin.” I followed his
instructions, but soon found myself immersed in total blackness trying to
locate the buoy marker light. Feeling uneasy I proceeded north as
the sound waters seemed to engulf me. I later realized that Don never
gave me anything that I couldn’t handle. He knew of my inexperience as a
waterman, my lack of knowledge of the sound waters, and most of all my lack of
confidence in my own abilities. Don had unbridled confidence in his
ability to be “very competent” at most things he undertook. He did not
have the air of a professional person, like what we see today. In fact, his normal appearance
consisted of bare feet, hair, full beard that was often trimmed by himself,
bleached corn yellow and white by the sun. His
Nordic blond hair was often covered by one of the numerous selections of different
caps, or hats that he had in different vehicles, skiffs, his boat shop in Ocracoke,
or his log cabin in New Mexico. The majority of the hats were purely
pragmatic in design to keep the sun out of his eyes,
not for special group allegiances, or product labels that people identify with today. He did, however, have a special selection of
hand made hats that had been given to him that marked memorable occasions, or
gifts from individuals that Don held in high esteem, but were never worn. His
confidence was always overshadowed by his seemingly endless thought processes
that immersed him in periods of long self absorbed quiet. Although his
mind seemed to be constantly at work, he often exhibited the inquisitive nature
of a child in the way he used his right index finger to bend at the first joint
and examine whatever it was that he was focused on at the time...the latter was
contrary to the appearance of his hands and feet that were calloused, cracked,
and yet powerful with fresh signs of what he had just finished working on . . .
he was definitely not one to be concerned with the day to day peer group
pressure of what his appearance was, how he was dressed, or concern for whose
company he was in. He was always Don. If you didn’t approve,
it was of no consequence to Don, you were either with him, or you
weren’t . . . no gray areas there.
Captain Don Wood:
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
Humorous examples of the latter were
an everyday occurrence, but two special ones went something like this.
One day Don was working in his shop at the marina on an outboard motor
when he casually made mention of the fact that he had a wedding to attend that
afternoon. A very quick wipe with a dirty rag fulfilled his need to
clean his hands, while a quick “quaffing” of his hair with his hands sufficed
for a comb. Finally, rummaging about in various nylon sail bags in the
sail loft brought cheers of delight in that he had found his sport coat.
Indeed, and what a prize it was. In the late seventies a madras sport coat was not at all in vogue. Not
being deterred by this, he pulled the badly wrinkled coat out and immediately
put it on to see how it fit. The coat had speckles of very dark green
mold that stood out despite the varied colors of the coat. A quick rush
to the wooden counter to obtain a bright red flower from the Salvation Army was
proudly placed in the lapel and presto the outfit was complete His
obvious delight was accompanied by a broad smile and a quick two step of his
feet. His addition of a badly wrinkled white shirt and wrinkled khakis
from his Bronco completed the outfit. In the years that I knew Don, I never saw
him consult with a mirror to confirm his appearance, nor do I remember him
having one. As he departed the marina, still in his bare feet, he let out
a whoop of cheer with the Bronco’s fiberglass mufflers resonating their sweet
sounds as he shifted through the gears disappearing down the road.
Another hilarious episode consisted of Don and me on the ferry
from
Hatteras to Ocracoke on a bluebird day. We were traveling via an
older
Saab that had been obtained by building a sea wall for a friend.
This type of bartering, without money exchange, was commonplace
for Don
. . . The Saab’s body was rusted off at the bottoms of the
fenders, doors, and
quarter panels, and its brown paint was faded to the color of sand
after
spending a great deal of its life at the beach. The Saab’s
floors had long been covered by a thick layer of sand that
contained various pieces of
equipment such as oar locks, cordage for boats, various boxed filters,
screws
and bolts. The driver’s sun visor and head
liner contained various hand written quotes by Don such as, “The sun don’t shine on the same dog every day,” and “Peculiar
travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God,” Kurt Vonnegut.
Nonetheless the three speed column shift, front wheel drive, and four cylinder
motor made it an excellent vehicle to travel cheaply and on the beach.
After a day’s hard drive we were lying back in the reclining seats
waiting for the ferry to dock . . . Don was behind the steering wheel when a
lady, who was walking between the cars, looked down at Don and gave a very
disparaging look and comment about the entire entourage. She said,”Does
that car still run?” Don, always quick on his feet immediately stated,
“Yeah, and we will pass you going down the island.” Her dubious looks confirmed
the fact that she thought we would most likely have to push the car off the
ferry, and we sure as hell wouldn’t pass her. Needless to say, as we
departed the ferry and gained speed, we spotted the lady ahead, and the chase
was on Don shifted into third and put the pedal to the metal . . .
gaining speed, we safely passed the lady while Don gave her the high sign as
cheers of enthusiastic laughter reached her ears and we pulled in front of her.
So much for the “Dingbatter,” Don would later exclaim.
As dawn’s first light appeared
on the horizon, we passed underneath the bridge with all eyes looking
up to
assure that we would clear. From our perspective, it appeared
that we
"just made it” under the bridge structure, but in reality we
had plenty of room.
Don, in the time I knew him, never “second guessed”
anything. He
knew and had already thought the process through. In a short
period of
time, I gained immediate comfort in his abilities and never once felt
at risk .
. . The sail from the sound and into the blue waters of the
Atlantic
went smoothly. Despite the fact that there were three crew
members on
board, it almost seemed as if the crew were “paying
passengers,” out for a
day’s sail. Don never moved with haste while steering
the cat with
a tiller that controlled both rudders. Complaining about the
noise, he
shut the motor off as soon as we gained steerage from the dock that
morning.
The thousand square feet of sail between the main and the jib
effortlessly pushed the cat through the water with the hulls only
drawing 19 inches of water when unloaded and four and a half feet when
the dagger boards were
down. The boat had been designed for Buddy Ebsen, the actor, for
the
Trans-Pac Race from Los Angeles, California to Hawaii. Don was
excited about
the boat’s attributes . It could be beached without hauling
at the
marina. Its speed and minimum draft enabled it to reach many anchorages
close
to islands. The boat had an overall roominess on board, and you
could lounge
or stand straight up while under sail. Its jib furling was
controlled
from the cockpit, and the main sail and motor controls were within
easy reach.
Don originally had the two symmetrical hulls and cabin shipped
separately
on rail cars from California to New Jersey where he assembled them. Don
completed all
interior wood work, wiring, fiberglassing, and rigging with
help from a few friends.
Don on His Bicycle:
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
One of the crew members was
“Funk”, or as few knew him, Jim Callahan. No one thought much about Jim’s
absence before departure until we were underway and sailing on the ocean’s
waters. While steering the vessel and surveying the coastline from afar
with binoculars, Don stated that he wanted to triangulate our position to
establish our progress for the day. Jim quipped from nearby that
he would do it . . . Jim had quietly and unobtrusively been studying
navigation from one of the many books in Don’s cabin. To everyone’s
surprise, except Don’s, Jim notably established where we were, our average
speed over the water, and the effect of the currents on our progress. Jim
was from New Mexico, and had never been on the ocean before, much less sailed.
Actually, he had spent the majority of his slumber time under the stars
during his formative years, and he could recite almost all of the constellations
and names of many stars by heart.
Sailing with Friends:
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
The sail through the night went off without a hitch. All watches
fulfilled
their duties with only occasional appearances by Don to assess the
situation.
I later wondered when he slept, if at all. The following
day the
winds picked up and storm clouds were quickly developing from the west.
We still had all the sail up, but now the port hull was knifing
through
the water with constant water spray flying through the air. Some
of it
was going over the cabin roof despite the high free board of the hulls,
and
wetting the bottom of the main sail. It was exhilarating and my
adrenaline was pumping. We hadn’t installed a speed
indicator, but we
estimated that our hull speed was at least ten to twelve knots, if not
more
I went below to make a sandwich when all of a sudden a sound
like that
of an explosion occurred outside. I rushed up the companionway to
see
what had transpired. One of the stainless steel wire ropes that
supported
the mast had parted, and thankfully, no one was hurt. In spite of
the
worsening weather though, we had to make repairs, and our current
location in
the ocean was not the place to do it. We hastily checked our position
with the charts and ascertained that we were off of Hog Island,
Virginia,
just north of Norfolk. We duly noted that there was a deserted
Coast Guard station situated at the north end of the island. It
appeared to be
a place with a secure anchorage, and hopefully a dock where we could
commence
with repairs while waiting for the storm to subside. We decided
to
immediately change course toward the island as we hastily lowered the
sail, and
started motoring. With further consultation, the charts noted
that
shoaling was prevalent on either side of the entrance to the island.
This
was later confirmed when we saw small waves lapping over sand as we
approached.
Since we had hastily departed New Jersey, we had installed the depth
gauge in the cabin wall, but had not installed the transponder in the
hull.
As a result, Jim our now capable navigator, had to hang over the
stern of
the boat while someone held his legs, dangling the transponder in the
water,
while another read off the depth of the water to Don as he steered the
boat. It
appeared that, despite the Coast Guard station’s location, the
approach to the
island had shoaled in with sand. It was with a great deal of
relief that
we negotiated our way in, and the fact that we had a shallow draft boat
made
our accomplishments much more satisfying.
We tied the
“Pasado Manana” up
to the Coast Guard dock and celebrated with a long overdue meal.
Our
food supplies were minimal to begin with. Don’s initial
exploratory
forays into the island’s bountiful wild food supplies were
eagerly accepted by
the crew who helped forage. Don found oysters, clams, blue
crabs,
mussels, and flounder near the Coast Guard docks, and in the small bay.
This was complemented by the fact that a gunny shack was
located on
a small inland pond. It was early fall then, so the natural
migration of
birds on the Atlantic Flyway had already started taking place.
One of the crew members decided to explore the deserted Coast Guard
station where he gained entrance through an open window into the
kitchen.
He explored the bottom floor of the two story building that
revealed
unmade beds that appeared to be slept in only once. Various
pieces of
crumpled up paper, and magazines had been left on an otherwise clean
floor.
Nothing was taken from the establishment by us other than a half
gallon
of “Rebel Yell.” Eventually, all the debris was
cleaned up by the crew to
say “thank you” for our “borrowing” of some of
the large stainless steel pots
and pans that we would use to steam our clams and mussels, and to fry
fish.
The latter action was to prove very beneficial to all of us later
on . .
. The inclement weather continued to make it dangerous for us to
depart
via the very shallow channel that we had entered, despite the fact that
we had
already fixed the mast rigging. This delay never bothered Don.
He
said, “we must have died and gone to heaven,” what with the
abundant supply of
oysters, clams, flounder...and the possible addition of a goose for
dinner. We feasted like kings every day. Try as we would, our
success in
obtaining a goose for dinner was unsuccessful. Don and I would
wait with
unflinching muscles in the gunny shack for hours at a time. Geese
would
spot the already placed decoys in front of our shack, circle in their
flight as
if to land, but at the last moment would fly to the other end of the
pond, out
of gunshot range. Don’s frustration was assuaged by the fact that
plentiful oysters succeeded in quelling his hunger. Oftentimes,
while
savoring the taste of the raw oysters, he would make a comment about
how much he
would like to take a bucket of these to one or another of the older
watermen on
Ocracoke Island. The weather cleared and we made plans to depart
on the
morning’s high tide.
Just as we were boarding the cat, an
older fishing
boat appeared and tied up at the dock ahead of us, somewhat blocking
our
attempt to leave. Three very rough looking men jumped onto the
dock, two
brandishing sawed off shotguns, both aimed at us. “Where
you boys going,”
the one individual said as he spat a long liquid spray of tobacco juice
on the
dock in front of us. Don immediately stepped in front of us all
and
stared the man squarely in the face. Don explained what had
transpired
and that we were due to depart on the high tide. Don asked who the men
were and
what their purpose was. The man stated that it wasn’t any
of our f- - - -
- g business what they were doing there, and that we weren’t to
move a muscle
until his two crew members examined the Coast Guard station. He
continued
to keep a shotgun pointed at us the whole time. He didn’t portray
any compassion for our plight, or concern for the fact that our
departure time
was now greatly compromised. Don was not at all affected by this,
but
grew silent waiting for the men to return. He seemed to have been
in this
arena before with men of this kind. The two fishermen returned
and
conversed silently with the captain of the fishing boat. The
captain
turned and told Don that we were damn lucky that we hadn’t
vandalized the
building, or stolen anything except the half gallon of “Rebel
Yell.” A
slight smile then crossed his weather-beaten face and with a slight
adjustment
of his watchman’s blue wool cap, and a lowering of the shot gun,
he approached
Don with his hand offered in friendship. He then told Don that
they were
the caretakers of the Coast Guard station that belonged to “them
fellas in Washington” and used the
place for hunting in the fall. His smile widened as he shook Don’s hand.
He said that we were welcome back anytime we wanted. His last
comment was “How'd that Rebel Yell treat yuh?” With that they departed
and a sigh of relief from all of us reminded us how precarious
our situation could have been.
The departure from Hog Island
was a relief and yet it saddened all of us. We had experienced the quiet
windswept vistas for days with the smell of the sea strong in our memories.
The vistas granted us uninterrupted views of active bird life,
native trees, and grasses growing on the island unaltered by shopping malls, cars,
or people to disturb our quiet thoughts.
Don On the Mast:
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
Don changed our plans for sailing in the
Atlantic because of worsening weather conditions.
Don’s original plan to enter the Outer Banks via Oregon Inlet into
Pamlico Sound was scrapped. As it turned out this was an excellent
decision in that the weather conditions continued to deteriorate which made sailing
in the offshore waters of the Outer Banks very dangerous. We changed
course headings with our new destination being Norfolk and eventually the
inland waterway that would take us through the Dismal Swamp and into Albemarle
Sound, North Carolina.
Since our departure from Hog
Island had been significantly delayed, our approach into Norfolk was
compromised by the out going tide and the unfavorable change in wind.
We
kept noting our progress in comparison with landmarks, and it
seemed like we were just holding our own. This was frustrating
for Don since he did not want to be near the shipping channels at night
with all the
traffic into that major port. Our concerns and thoughts were
suddenly
interrupted by the roar of an approaching large four engine plane that
swooped down over us and then gained in elevation only to circle twice
more.
Its large red and white bands on the side indicated it was a
Coast Guard
plane. The plane turned again, while behind us, losing elevation,
until
it seemed like it was right over our mast. Don picked up his C.B.
mike
and looked upward at the plane’s trailing black exhaust fumes and
deafening exhaust
noise from the four motors. Radio transmission commenced with the
following
message; “If you are the sailing vessel “Pasado
Manana” and your crew and
captain are safe, please remove your horse shoe life preserver from
your
stern location and hold it in the air.” The removal
was completed,
and radio transmission began again. “Thank you captain, we are
glad that all
are safe and sound. Your vessel and its occupants had been reported
lost at
sea recently, with vessels and aircraft having been assigned to the
search. “Is there anything else we can do to help you or
your crew at this
time,” the plane’s radioman stated. Don, with his
normal control over all
the incidentals that surrounded him, and with his need to make a
potentially
serious situation more lighthearted, respectfully stated,
“Thank you
Capt’n. You guys wouldn’t happen to have a spare six pack
up there that you
could drop to us would ya?” There was a slight pause in
transmission and
then laughter erupted from the flight crew members with a follow up
"Negative
on that request Capt’n”. As it turned out one of the
crew member’s Dad
was a retired Coast Guard man. His son had only told him part of
Don’s reply,
when Don was asked how long it would take to sail from N.J. to N.C.
Don
had said that "it might take a week if all goes well, or it might
take a month
depending on how many stops we choose to make along the way.”
At that
point we had been gone over a week so we were reported lost at sea . .
.
Had the son conveyed the entire conversation to his
father, the worry and the efforts of the Coast Guard could have been
eliminated.
Our trip through Norfolk was
made extra special since we had a much different perspective of the variety
of naval warships as seen from the water. The aircraft carriers,
destroyers, troop ships, and submarines were immense in size and shapes, but we
were glad once again to taste the serenity and quiet of the inland waterway.
Our trip through the Dismal Swamp should have been uneventful, but it was
not. The new Honda outboard motor continued to give us problems at the
worst possible times. Invariably as we approached the draw bridges we
would signal our intent to pass underneath them with a blast from our air horn.
Several times as we were motoring underneath the bridge, with
automobiles waiting on either side of the upraised bridge, the motor would
quit. This elicited many frustrated comments from Don who had repeatedly
tried to find the problem. At best, all of the crew were asked to create
ways to help pull the vessel out from under the bridge. Needless to say,
the operator of the bridge and the traffic were not happy with us. Inevitably,
we reached Albemarle Sound and Don anchored the boat for the night. He
stated the next morning that if the wind did not pickup, we would stay there
until it did. He was not running the motor again. True to his word, we
stayed at anchor for the better part of a week. During that time I was
awakened one night by the sounds of music and scuffling of feet on the cabin
floor. I crawled out of my bunk and peered around the corner.
There, in the dim light of the kerosene lamp, I saw Don playing the
harmonica softly against a backdrop of blues music on the radio. With
his blond hair matted against his head, and his shoulders slightly hunched
over, he danced a jig. He was dressed in a three quarter length
herringbone, dark gray wool overcoat, it’s collar turned up, without any
clothing on underneath, that he had purchased from a garage sale. It’s
a colored 8" x 12" image in my mind that I will never forget....
One morning the breeze
freshened, sails were raised and off we went to the south. Throughout the
majority of the sailing I almost never saw Don review the charts. He
seemed to know where he was at all times. Two of the crew disembarked in
Manteo, N.C. The three of us continued sailing south to Ocracoke.
with constant comments from Don about how he couldn’t wait to see the
“boys” on Ocracoke....
Don Wood's Home on Ocracoke:
(Click on photo to view a larger image.)
In closing, despite the tales of
adventure and camaraderie that we shared, Don’s thoughts were never far from
the love that he shared with his daughters and his friends. Despite his
gruff, often times succinct statements, his compassion and understanding of life’s
difficulties were always in the forefront of his mind. His foresight into
events that were going to happen was oftentimes uncanny in all facets of life.
Although I desperately miss his presence in my life, I feel happy in that
I know he lived life to the fullest and on his own terms...
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