Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1909-08-07
FIRE ISLAND.
About tho Worst Section Of the A..
lantio Coast For Wrecks.

'e"Vo Soso' NToCrb.
No other section of the Atlantic
coast line, not even the shores Of
Cape Cod, Nantucket and Block
island, can offer a record of disas-
ter surprising the roll of shipwreck
and death which is inscribed on
the shifting sand dunes of Fire is
land.
For the last ESQ years vessels
have been going ashore on the
beach, and every now and then you
come upon their bones, rearing up
gauntly out of the sand. OF course
the great majority of the wrecks
have gone the way of all things
earthly. But the sight of half
dozen huge timbers projecting from
the face Of dune, making an ideal
shelter for a brief rest, suggests
"reminiscences of a tragedy Of the
past. Occasionally, too, the waves
wash up some odd relic that the
sands have been toying with for
generations, and the old inhab-
itants of the coast, standing at their
cabin doors, with shaded eyes, will
point up and down the dreary per-
spective to the places where ships
and steamers and any number of
other gallant craft came to grief on
the sands.
There are peculiar charm and
attraction about Fire island beach
that are only to be accounted for by
its desolation and the grim events
connected with its history. This
does not apply to the settlement
clustered about the lighthouse and
the observation towers, but to the
long stretches, monotonous in their
apparent sameness, that run east
ward toward the sheltered waters of
Shinnecock bay. It is almost unbe-
lievable that such barren, primi-
tive landscape can be found within
fifty miles of New York city.
At certain seasons of the year
you can walk for hours and never
see human being. The only noises
that break in on the solitude are
the twittering calls of the sand
pipers that fit overhead. At dis
tant intervals family marked trails
lead up the lows and bluffs inshore,
tending toward the huts of lonely
baymen, tucked away in the shelter
of the dunes, scantily clad in dune
grass and underbrush; otherwise,
save for the wreckage that clogs
the beach, you would not be aware
that human beings existed any
where. The sand covers everything,
obliterating footprints as fast as
they are made.
All the flotsam and jetsam of the
sea come to Fire island. Bits of
woodwork, parts of small boats,
matches, spars, balks of timber, wa
ter casks and chicken coops, bits of
all sizes, from a matchbox to a
derelict's shattered hull, are washed
over the outer bar. If the ghosts
of all the ships whose bones have
been bleached on Fire island sands
could be mustered they would tell
the country's maritime history in
chronological order.
Bluff nosed Dutchmen out of
Amsterdam, stout English ships
from Hull and Plymouth town,
rangy Frenchmen, stately Span
iards, like the last victim of the
beach, and many goodly Yankee
crew have listened to the thunder
of the breakers and seen the white
sand through the spray, stretching
Tor miles beyond their ken, bare of
human soul. But that was in the
days before the establishment of
the life saving service.
Many q storied ship has met her
fate on Fire island beach. Mer-
chairman and privateer, frigate
and SLAYER, coaster, fishing schoon-
er, yacht and liner have pounded
themselves apart on the treacher-
Gus bar that scarcely shows be-
meath the gentle swell on a pleasant
day. A rapacious destroyer, Fire
island.-New York Post.