An Island Lost in Time on the Chesapeake Bay

The “Miss Tangier” crew loaded the deck of the small supply ferry with large boxes of flour, frozen hamburger patties, cartons of milk, diapers and other miscellaneous goods. A few tourists and locals piled into the passenger cabin below as the boat churned across Chesapeake Bay for a 45-minute trip to Tangier Island.

Everyone’s attention focused on a tiny infant whose mother said he was four days old. She had come to the mainland to give birth, and was returning home. “We have no doctors on Tangier, only a registered nurse. When I went into labor I was afraid the ferry wouldn’t get me to the hospital in time, but we made it,” she said.

When we reached the island a small group of family and friends were waiting to greet the newest island resident and his mother, who soon were whisked away in a motorized go-cart. The tourists broke into groups, and those of us who planned to spend the night walked the short distance to Chesapeake House, the only inn on the island.

Tangier is a flat, marshy enclave midway between Virginia and Maryland--2 1/2 miles long and one mile wide. From many points you can see from one end to the other. Virtually no trees offer refuge from the sun on steamy Chesapeake summer days, and the island has no bars where you can pop in for a tall, cool one (Tangier is a dry island). It is a place stripped to the essentials; pure, simple living.

As our small group entered the front gate at Chesapeake house, cats scattered in all directions. A plethora of well-fed felines roam Tangier Island. Many probably descended from ancestors brought on early ships to control the mice population.

Inside Chesapeake House a middle-aged woman shuffled into the lobby and assessed our small group. We mumbled the usual rhetoric about having reservations, but she paid no attention and continued shuffling toward another door.

“Who’s with who,” she asked brusquely. After we partnered ourselves, she said, “Follow me.” Like school children on a class trip, we traipsed behind her in pairs; out the front door, across the road and into another house. The stairs squeaked and the handrail wobbled as we made our way up the narrow staircase.

At the top we packed together like sheep and awaited further instruction. “This is your room, this is your room and this is your room,” she said to no one in particular. “Dinner’s at 5. If you need anything, just holler.” We giggled nervously and slid into our small, basic rooms.

Back outside, I soon discovered that on Tangier there are few applications for the overused adjectives “cozy” and “charming.” Fancy homes with beautiful flower gardens do not exist, and many of the aging frame bungalows have been replaced by newer prefab structures.

All are unpretentious, a reflection of the people who have inhabited the island since Capt. John Smith discovered it in 1608. The first permanent settlers, John Crockett and his large family, arrived in 1686, and were soon followed by the Pruitts, the Dinses and the Parks. Today the island has fewer than 900 residents, most descendants of those original settlers.

When John Smith arrived the island extended about three-quarters of a mile farther west. Until the 20th Century wooded fields provided ideal conditions for agriculture, but erosion has turned the fields into marshland. A severe storm can wash away six feet of land in a day. The government, finally showing concern, plans to construct a bulkhead in the near future.

With little available land, a major problem is what to do with four centuries of departed loved ones. Because there is no room left in the island cemeteries, front yard family plots proliferate. Glancing at tombstones, I was impressed by the islanders’ longevity. An 80-year life span was not unusual a century ago.

“Folks here certainly live long lives,” I said to a woman pulling weeds from one of the plots. “That’s because we’re happy and relaxed,” she said matter-of-factly.

As I walked up and down the narrow roads I soon realized that there isn’t much canned entertainment here, no movie theaters, cars (the only motorized vehicles are three-wheeled carts and motorcycles) or clothing stores. Shopping is limited to a few tiny gift stores and a small general store, dining to Chesapeake House, a small restaurant and two sandwich shops. Walking, looking and chatting are the favorite pastimes. Thus, a whole lot of chatting goes on.

During the days, with the men out fishing, the island becomes a population of women and children. After the housework is finished, the women gather in small groups at yard’s edge for small talk.

News travels fast on Tangier. My friend and I were exploring the island separately. At one point I was photographing bicyclists on the small road when a woman, erroneously believing I was photographing her run-down home, reprimanded me.

I explained that I wasn’t, apologized for the confusion and moved away. Later I ran into my friend who said: “I hear your camera got you into trouble.”

The verbal wire service had passed along the juicy story, which quickly made its way to my friend, who was on the other side of the island.

Tangier Island has not changed much over the years. Islanders still speak with an Elizabethan accent that today is mixed with a slow, Southern inflection. They do not waste words, and the brevity of their sentences can be misconstrued as unfriendliness.

As in the past, the islanders’ livelihood comes from Chesapeake Bay, and their life style is steeped in tradition. The men rise at 3 a.m. to fish for blue crab, oysters and finfish, and the women work at home.

They are deeply religious, and church (there are two, Methodist and Independent) is the core of their spiritual and social lives. Morals are strict and values strong.

Their wealth comes from bonds they share with family and friends, not from material possessions. Freed of the need to compete, they are not impressed by outside enticements. Many visitors consider the Tangier way of life old-fashioned, but who can argue with an environment free of crime and drug abuse?

They are proud people, and do not take well to people who make fun of their simple life style. They offer no special treatment to visitors, and if you don’t like their ways, you can leave.

But most people do like their ways. During the summer, small ferries are filled with tourists willing to brave the infestation of mosquitoes and humidity for a glimpse of this simplicity. Because there is little to do and few accommodations, many visitors arrive on the morning ferry and leave on the afternoon ferry.

In the late afternoon I headed for the pier near the boatyard to watch the watermen ( wudemen as they pronounce it) unload their catch. On the way there, Navy jets flew over and appeared to be firing at ships way out in the bay. I found out later that the Navy had hauled the wrecks there for target practice.

On the pier, crabs of all sizes squirmed menacingly in chicken wire crab pots. “Looks like a good haul,” I said to a waterman. “Yep. There’s lots of ‘em out there this time of year. Why don’t you try it, Sis?” “You mean go out in one of the fishing boats?” I asked. “Nah. You can do it right offshore. Get yourself one of those long-handled fishing nets and wade out a bit. You’ll catch plenty.”

“What do you use for bait?” I asked. “Chicken necks and fish heads,” he answered. I quickly lost interest, but not my appetite. It was close to 5 p.m. and I rushed back to Chesapeake House, not wanting to miss dinner.

Even visitors who don’t spend the night usually end up at Chesapeake House for a meal. Renowned for its fine home cooking, the inn employs island women to cook. On a summer weekend they may prepare as many as 2,000 crab cakes, 200 pounds of potato salad, 150 pans of biscuits and 500 clam fritters.

Other side dishes include a divine corn pudding made from the sweet corn grown on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, country ham, fresh greens, cole slaw and homemade applesauce. Dessert is usually a delicious pound cake.

If you are looking for elegance, this is not the place for you. Meals are served family style on long vinyl-covered tables with mismatched dinnerware, but no one cares. It is the excellent fare that holds everyone’s attention. The table atmosphere is companionable and fun, a place where tourists and locals break bread together.

“What’s for breakfast?” asked Bob, a portly, good-natured Texan whose humor, Texas drawl and sweet perky wife, Joan, had quickly endeared him to everyone. “Eggs, bacon, sausage, juice, coffee and frud bread,” the waitress replied. “Frog bread! What’s frog bread?” drawled Bob.

“ Frud bread, not frog bread,” giggled the waitress. “You know, you put the bread in a pan and you fruy it.” “Fried bread,” Bob. “She’s saying fried bread,” laughed Joan. Whenever we ran into Bob after that we couldn’t resist asking him if he’d had any of that frog bread yet.

The after-dinner hours are often spent socializing. Some of the men head for the general store where they sip coffee and sodas and pass the time talking about the day’s catch, and discuss the plight of the Eastern Shore oyster population, which is being destroyed by pollution.

Teens race up and down the tiny roads on bicycles and small motorcycles, or take in a game of pool at a relic of a house that was converted to a recreation hall.

If there is no church activity, many of the islanders gather at one of the sandwich shops or at Crockett’s Double Six for dominoes.

About 8 p.m. everyone heads home; 3 a.m. arrives very soon. Before retiring, families relax a while on the front porch glider, fanning themselves and listening to the music of the night insects.

The sun disappeared below the horizon as I strolled along the narrow street. People waved and smiled from their porches, and I reflected on the words of Virginia poet Sonny Forbes:

“ ... Upon these shores have walked men of God, made of fiber woven close for age ... and inside these dwellings laughter and love have flowed to make mansions of our homes ... time is abundant here and we wish it not away.”