by Lee Lamb
Mr. Chappell received his share of this frenzied activity, as well. He soon tired of all the telegrams and letters — and the phone calls in the middle of the night — from people eager to replace the Restalls. His appetite for change had vanished. He told everyone the island was already under contract to Bob Restall. He provided Dad with details of all those who contacted him, and sent along copies of his responses.
All this attention, but no new investment money was coming in.
As mentioned earlier, when the treasure was reached, the government would get five percent of it and Mr. Chappell and my father would split the remainder 50/50. Through the years, Dad had sold investors parts of his share to keep the treasure hunt going. Some contracts were for as little as one quarter of one percent.
Now, to pay for future work, they needed a substantial investment. They contacted people who had invested in the search and asked them to give back a sliver of their percentage so there would be something to sell to raise new money. Fred Sparham told his son, Eddie, “Ten percent of something is still better than twenty-five percent of nothing.” Even Mr. Chappell contributed by generously donating 30 percent of his share.
And just to set the record straight, the rumour that my father sold percentages until he had nothing left for himself is untrue. Through all those years of hardship and sacrifice, Dad vowed that no investor would end up with a bigger share than he did. He never budged on that.
Second-to-last beach shaft (spring, 1965). Each new shaft was larger than the last.
Anyway, by January 20 this was the new playing field: the Oklahoma man had run out of money and no longer had interest in Oak Island; Chappell was rumoured to be on the verge of bankruptcy; Dad now possessed a contract that ran until December 31, 1965.
All they needed was someone to come in with a bankroll.
Then suddenly, late in May, a new investor came in with $2,000. He also spent some time on the island and worked alongside Dad, Bobby, and Karl Graeser, who was visiting for a few days. The money was enough to pay off some debts and to keep the beach work going.
On June 29, Mr. Chappell wrote to my dad, telling him that a California geologist, Robert Dunfield, had contacted him asking for the contract for 1966. When Dunfield learned he could not get the island for himself, he approached Dad directly, with Chappell’s approval.
And so, on July 3, Robert Dunfield wrote to my dad, introducing himself; on July 13 they met face-to-face; and on July 15 a contract was signed. Dunfield was in for $5,000. Soon after, Dan Blankenship offered to invest the same amount, but was turned away. My father had enough money. He knew precisely where the bypass tunnel could be blocked — it was at that spot where the oozy earth, “like porridge,” had been encountered. Now was the time to put this hard-won knowledge to work. He was ready to block the tunnel and go after the treasure.
A new shaft was dug, and arrangements were made to bring a bulldozer to the island to strip down the earth to the clay level on a path leading to and beyond the new shaft.
On August 11, the bulldozer arrived on the island.
Through all his years on the island, Bobby had gone to the mainland on Saturday nights. Only the severest weather ever kept him away. By now he had made many good friends, and had become a regular participant in the popular, regional, Saturday-night stock car races. Aided by tips and advice exchanged through letters from his Hamilton high school shop teacher, Michael Farrell, Bobby put together a white Ford stock car that some dubbed “the tank.” Now, at last, in August 1965, Bobby left the island on a Sunday, and with his trusty white Ford tank, he raced and earned two first-place finishes. Bobby’s first. Ever.
On Sunday, August 15, his journal reads, “Dozer hitting more soft material. Down about 10 feet. I went racing. Two firsts.”
That Bobby would write anything so personal in the Oak Island journal was rare. It was an important moment. He was pleased. Things were really going his way.
Two days later, on August 17, Smith’s Cove was abuzz with activity. The bulldozer was scraping a deep pathway from the beach, past the beach shack, heading up toward the Cave-In Pit, and the pump was pulling water from the bottom of the freshly-dug shaft located partly up the hill. Bobby was working near the beach shack with Andrew Demont, Leonard Kaizer, and Cyril Hiltz — young, local men who were helping Bobby to clear brush and burn it in an empty 50-gallon drum that sat on the shoreline. Both Dunfield and Karl Graeser were also on site.
The air was electric with optimism and urgency.
My father needed to take the boat over to mainland so he could visit his bank in Chester before closing time — papers had to be signed before Dunfield’s funds could be released. Dad was running late, but before he went up to the cabin to change his clothes for the trip ashore, he decided to take one last look in the new shaft to see how well the pump was getting rid of water.
This newest shaft was behind the beach shack at a point where the land had started to rise to go up to the clearing. The shaft was large and deep (10 feet by 30 feet by 27 feet deep) and had three or four feet of water in the bottom.
Dad peered down into the shaft, and without a sound, he tumbled in.
Bobby saw it happen, dropped the bushes he had in his hands, and raced over to help. Others did, too. Bobby started down the ladder, but suddenly fell into the shaft. Karl Graeser was right behind Bobby, and began to climb down, but he lost consciousness and slid into the shaft, too. Cyril Hiltz followed Karl, and Cyril’s cousin, Andrew Demont, was close behind. Leonard Kaizer was the last man to rush in to help the others.
One-by-one, as each man tried to climb down the ladder into the shaft, he lost consciousness and fell in.
Ed White, a fireman from Buffalo, was visiting the island that day with a group of friends. He heard the cries for help and rushed to the shaft. His wife pleaded with him not to go down, but White tied a handkerchief around his face and had someone lower him into the shaft. He was able to get a rope around Leonard Kaizer, so that those at the top could pull him out. Then White went after Andrew Demont, who was unconscious with his arms locked around a steel pipe, which supported him above water.
Even in his unconscious state, Demont lashed out and punched White. But the fireman prevailed and got the rope harness around him so that he could be pulled from the shaft.
Ed White was a hero. He saved Leonard Kaizer and Andy Demont that day. But he could do no more. By then, he, too, was feeling the effects of the invisible gas.
On that fateful day, August 17, 1965, Cyril Hiltz, Karl Graeser, Bob Restall, Sr., and Bob Restall, Jr. all lost their lives. The coroner’s ruling was “death by drowning.”
Later, while Andrew Demont was in hospital in Halifax, Ed White visited him and told him that the water had been up to Demont’s lips by the time White was able to secure him in the rope-harness.
Demont told me that at the top of the shaft he could smell nothing, but that as he started down the ladder, a foul-smelling odour had overwhelmed him. As he looked into the shaft he could see Karl Graeser sitting underwater, with only the very top of his head showing. Andrew said he saw Bobby, his eyes closed, supporting his dad’s head just above the waterline. Andrew said he placed his hand on Bobby’s shoulder, and then he, too, drifted into unconsciousness. Apparently he stayed like that as the water slowly rose around him, until Ed White came to rescue him.
Many years later I was told that the gas that overwhelmed the men was probably hydrogen sulphide, a lethal gas that can form when rotting vegetation is combined with salt water. Apparently, it can be odourless or have a foul rotten-egg smell, depending on the concentration.
There is no doubt in my mind that there was salt water in the ground near the new shaft. Right beside it were two tall apple trees. The apples that grew on those trees looked like a type we call “Transparents” in Ontario. Those two trees looked exactly like others on the island, but they bore delicious, crisp, tangy fruit, whereas apples from similar trees were tasteless. A local woman told me that when
apple trees grow near the sea in a mix of fresh water and salt water, they produce juicy, sharp, flavourful apples.
Could the salt water that nurtured those apples have reacted with the coconut fibre, eel grass, and other old vegetation that had lain dormant for so long in the pirates’ beachwork, producing the deadly hydrogen sulphide? Could the “porridge-like” earth that was encountered only at this location on the island be in some way related to this toxic combination?
We may never know.
I find it ironic that my father should die this way. He was so safety-conscious that everything he built was two or three times stronger than necessary. We joked that his carnival rides were likely to sink through to China if a heavy rain ever hit. And everything he built was grounded, vented, and had backup systems.
On the other hand, my father was so obsessed with Oak Island that I had remarked to my husband as we left the island three years earlier that the only way my father would ever leave Oak Island was “feet first.” I had meant that he
Carney, waiting at the death pit. Photo by C. Prazak.
would find one way or another to hang on and keep trying until he died from old age. I certainly did not mean this.
Karl Graeser was a fine man with a wife and two daughters who deeply loved him. He was a successful businessman who was enthusiastic, adventuresome, and always ready to lend a hand. A terrible loss.
And Cyril Hiltz. He was no treasure hunter. He didn’t sign on to risk his life. He came to the island that day only to earn a few dollars. But when that crucial moment came, he rushed in to help the others. He was only 16 years old. His loss is especially cruel.
My father, Robert Ernest Restall, had lived a rich and varied life — the life he wanted. He was 60 years old. Not nearly enough time, but they were 60 good years.
My brother Bobby, Robert Keith Restall, is another matter. Twenty-four is too young to die. Bobby was smart and funny and always upbeat. He never had a chance. My brother deserved better than this.
But, of course, they all did.
Chapter Sixteen
The Aftermath
A lot of time has passed since that fateful day in August of 1965.
I visited Oak Island a few months ago. Surprisingly, it felt really good to be there. Parts of the island, untouched by the lust for gold, are still beautiful. As I walked, I thought to myself, This is a good place. More than good. It is a wonderful place.
But at the far end of the island — the Money Pit end — everything is different. The beaches have been scraped bare. The clearing, no longer a high, flat expanse, has been gouged out and re-formed into lopsided, jagged terrain. The Money Pit, once part of a 32-foot-high plateau, now sits on misshapen, uneven land, almost down to sea level. That end of the island is ugly, ruined.
At home I pull out old photographs and letters and journals. I want to remember a time before the accident, before the deaths, a time when all of Oak Island was a beautiful and happy place; the time when my father, mother, and brothers first came to the island.
They had been brimming with enthusiasm. They were embarking on a wonderful adventure, and the Restalls just might be the ones to solve this baffling, centuries-old puzzle. Here was a shot at fortune and fame. They lived in a bubble of good wishes, good cheer, and boundless expectations. It was an extraordinary time, when anything seemed possible.
Of course, there was also the back-breaking labour and the endless frustration, but after all, what’s an adventure without adversity?
I try to hang on to the good memories of Oak Island, but darker images keep creeping in — the disappointments and obstacles, one-by-one, year after year, that gradually wore the family down. In time, the hunt for treasure crowded out all else in their lives. Nothing mattered but Oak Island and its treasure — at least for my dad.
Oak Island does that. Men go there seeking riches and fame, and forget who they are. During my family’s final year, only my father was still steadfast in his belief in the Restall hunt for treasure. By that time, conversations among the four of them were strained. Doubts, disagreements, and long silences had settled in.
The hunt for treasure was like a job that took every thought, every bit of energy, every cent. Day after day, nothing but drab, drone-like hard work — no glamour here. It seemed to my mother and brothers that this job was one that would never be finished.
Until it was finished — but with such a horrible ending.
After the Accident
Before we run out of pages, I want to tell you a little of what happened to my family after the accident.
My mother moved to a small house in Western Shore. Her first concern was finding a way to support herself and Ricky. Being an ex-dancer, motorcycle rider, and treasure-hunter was not likely to open any doors, so she decided to go back to school. She enrolled in a business course in Bridgewater and began her first studies since she was 12 years old.
Soon she earned a diploma in typing, shorthand, and accounting, and was hired to work in a medical clinic.
Ricky had been on the island from age nine to 14, mostly in the company of adults — family members and visiting tourists — but hardly ever with anyone his own age. Life on the mainland, with the give and take and bumps and bruises of high-school life was a challenge. But he survived. In time he became a carpenter, and is alive and well and living in Ottawa.
My mother made a new life for herself. She remained fiercely independent, but between a job she loved and her neighbours, she formed friendships that were deep and lasting.
Of course, she missed Dad and Bobby terribly. My mother and dad had been a perfect match, and my mother and brother had always shared a special bond. Bobby’s death was especially hard on her. My mother felt responsible. One day, before the accident, Bobby had taken all he could of Oak Island. After a heated argument with Dad, Bobby packed up and left. My mother had gone after him and convinced him to return — his dad needed him. She rarely spoke of it, but that weighed heavily on her for the rest of her years.
My mother never left the east coast. She was 90 years old when she died. For the last 38 years of her life, she lived in a small house on a hill, in the community of Western Shore, where, from her living room window, she could look out and see Oak Island.
Treasure Hunters Who Followed the Restalls
When I started this book, I intended to tell the full Oak Island story, including those treasure hunters who came after the Restalls. But space will not allow it, so we will have to be satisfied with the briefest of highlights.
Robert Dunfield was the first treasure hunter after the accident. He had a causeway built connecting the mainland to Oak Island. It allowed mammoth equipment to be moved over to the island.
Down at the Money Pit end of the island, no work was done to stop the sea water, but the huge machinery moved soil from this place to that in search of the treasure. The work gouged out part of the clearing so that the Money Pit, which had been 32 feet above sea level, was reduced to just 10 feet. His work drastically changed the terrain, giving free rein to the incoming sea water. It turned that end of the island into a huge heap of slippery mud. No treasure was found.
Dan Blankenship and David Tobias formed Triton Alliance Limited, the next treasure-hunting company. After drilling countless exploratory holes, they put down a mammoth caisson; Dan climbed down inside, but the caisson began to slowly collapse, threatening to crush the life out of him. He barely escaped. Before this near-fatal event, Triton had located and videotaped what many believe to be evidence of treasure within a huge cavern beneath the bedrock of the island. Their video also revealed what appears to be a human hand.
Oak Island Tours Inc., the final treasure-hunting company, is still at work on Oak Island. In fact, they have only just begun. This company includes a previous Oak Island treasure hunter, Dan Blankenship, and four newcomers from Michigan — Craig Tester, Marty Lagina, Rick Lagina, and Alan J. Kostrzewa. It is reported that they possess adequate financing to see the job through to a succe
ssful end.
I’ve exchanged emails with one of these men from Michigan and met face-to-face with another, and I’m convinced that they respect the island and the searchers who went before them and that they will give their search for treasure their very best effort. I wish them every success.
But if these men are not successful, well then, I have to ask —Would YOU step in? Could YOU be the one to solve the mystery and find the treasure of Oak Island?
Appendix 1
Timeline
1795
Daniel McInnis, John Smith, Anthony Vaughan
1804–05
The Onslow Company
1849–50
The Truro Company
1861–65
The Oak Island Association
1866–67
The Eldorado Company of 1866 (a.k.a. The Halifax Company)
1878
Mrs. Sophia Sellers accidentally discovers the Cave-In Pit
1893–99
The Oak Island Treasure Co. (Frederick Blair)
1909–11
The Old Gold Salvage Company (Captain Henry Bowdoin)
1931
William Chappell
1934
Thomas Nixon
1935–38
Gilbert Hedden
1938–44
Professor Edwin Hamilton
1951
Mel Chappell and Associates
1955
George Green
1958
William and Victor Harman
1959–65
Robert Restall
