Chapter III: Part 2: A Great Arm in the Sea (1)

A Sliver of Sand

From the air the great curled arm of Cape Cod looks like a mere film of sand, a whimsical momentary shape floating on the vast ocean around it. Its flimsy fabric appears torn and rent by hundreds of holes, large and small, and dozens of slits at the edges, where the water shows through. So sheer and vulnerable does it appear that it seems as if the slightest push might sink it beneath the sea.

This somewhat fanciful impression nonetheless contains several grains of geologic truth, for water, in its various guises, permeates the Cape’s past, present, and future. Created by the frozen water of vast glaciers, shaped today by the water of tides, waves, currents, and storm surges, this prominent hook of land is destined to succumb at last to the steadily rising waters of the sea—all in the merest flick of geologic time.

Some 75,000 years ago, when the Earth’s climate entered a cooling period, the most recent of the vast continental ice sheets, known as the Laurentide, began to form across eastern Canada. As it spread and thickened, much of the oceans’ waters became trapped in its mass, lowering sea levels by several hundred feet. The visible bulk of Cape Cod is primarily the work of the Wisconsin Stage Glacier, a towering wall of ice 10,000 feet thick that moved south over New England some 25,000 years ago. Grinding forward in rounded fronts, or lobes, the ice sheared off the tops of mountains, gouged huge valleys through granite hills, and plowed up tons upon tons of rocks, material, and debris from what had been the floor of the sea.

Advancing, hesitating, and advancing again, the glacier moved as far south as Long Island, Block Island, Martha’s Vineyard, and Nantucket. Then, as the climate warmed, the front edges of the glacier began to melt; the ice sheet retreated north of the present outline of Cape Cod, dropping rocks and large chunks of ice as it went. Then, as cooler weather returned, it paused, and, as the flow of ice exceeded the rate of melting, the glacial lobes once more advanced. This time they pushed enormous amounts of drift material across the face of the Upper and Lower Cape, creating the Elizabeth Islands in Buzzards Bay and the rocky, morainal hills on the western and northern sides of the Upper Cape.

As the glacier began its final withdrawal about 18,000 years ago, water from the melting ice carried and sorted finer material, forming the gently sloping southern and interlobate outwash plains of the Upper and Lower Cape (see pages 26-27). Braided meltwater streams covered the ice chunks that the retreating glacier had dropped in thick, insulating layers of outwash material. Eventually, perhaps centuries later, the buried ice melted and the glacial debris above it sank, creating the hundreds of kettle holes that are characteristic of so much of the Cape’s topography.

As the great ice sheets melted, the sea level began to rise, forcing the Cape’s fresh groundwater upward. When the freshwater level intersected with these kettle holes, the Cape’s numerous kettle ponds, so clear and deep, came into being. In some places these meltwater deposits and kettle holes form a highly irregular landscape of hills and hollows, such as the “kame and kettle” fields of Eastham, which can be seen on the bike trail from the Salt Pond Visitor Center to Coast Guard Beach.

Farther north a prominent series of east-west valleys cross the high plains of Wellfleet and Truro, separated by the so-called “hogback” hills of Truro. Most of these valleys only partially cross the Lower Cape. An exception is the Pamet River Valley, which traverses the entire forearm of the Cape, separated from the ocean at its eastern end only by a fragile line of dunes that is sometimes broken through by major storms.

For many years geologists believed these valleys were carved out by glacial meltwater streams, but a more recent theory suggests a different origin, based on a phenomenon known as “spring sapping.” Spring sapping occurs when water emerges at the surface of a plain to form a spring, or seep, which then erodes back up the plain toward its head. There is evidence that during the final period of glacial retreat a large freshwater glacial lake existed to the east of Cape Cod. The surface of this lake may have been as much as 80 feet above present sea level, providing a powerful head of water that may have leaked through the porous outwash material of the Lower Cape, producing springs that created the valleys we see today. However they were formed, most of these valley beds are dry today, or else they carry only the small, sluggish streams that constitute Cape Cod’s “rivers.”

After the glacier’s final withdrawal, Cape Cod was only a rough sketch of its present streamlined form. Its moraines, high tablelands, valleys, and kame fields stood high and dry amid the surrounding coastal plain that stretched a hundred miles to the south and east, as far as the present-day Georges Banks.

The sea, however, continued to rise and advance, gradually filling the Gulf of Maine and covering the continental shelf. It probably reached the edge of the glacial Cape some 5,000-6,000 years ago. Now the rough-hewn shapes left by the ice began to undergo a process of planing, smoothing, elaboration, and elongation under the more subtle hands of the sea. Currents, tides, and storms began to chew away at the outer shores of the Lower Cape, creating in time what is surely the most impressive feature of the Seashore, and perhaps the quintessential Cape Cod landscape: the great marine scarp, or sea cliff, of the Outer Beach.

Stretching some 15 miles from Coast Guard Beach in Eastham to Head of the Meadow Beach in North Truro, this curved headland presents a nearly unbroken, undulating bulwark of bold, eroding bluffs, composed of clay and sand and ranging in height from 30 to more than 170 feet above the beach. From South Wellfleet to North Truro the smooth rim of the sea cliff is marked by a half-dozen pronounced dips or “hollows,” which are the eroded cross-sections of relict valleys. These hollows were later to play an important part in the human history of this beach.

To the casual observer the cliff face appears uniform, lying at a general “angle of repose” of some 27 degrees to the horizon. But look closely and you will see that, as the Colorado River has done through the Grand Canyon, the sea has cut open the geologic book of the Cape’s history, exposing thousands of years of history. Alternating layers of till—rock debris deposited by the ice—meltwater-deposited sand and gravel, and clayey silt tell of the glacial advance and withdrawal, of inundation and ebb by the sea. Large outcrops of blue clay, such as the 25-foot thick “Clay Pounds” just north of Highland Light, are the result of glacial lake sediments deposited during the last deglaciation.

The ocean also invaded parts of the land, creating estuaries and embayments at the mouths of these glacial valleys, such as those at Pamet Harbor and Blackfish Creek. Several of the Cape’s “salt ponds,” such as the one in Eastham below the visitor center, were originally freshwater kettle ponds that have been breached by the rising sea.

As Cape Cod was being smoothed, slimmed, and invaded by the rising sea, it was also being lengthened. Like a sculptor working in clay, the ocean currents took much of the eroded cliff material and, carrying it both north and south, created the elaborate forms of the barrier beaches, barrier islands, and sand hooks that give the Outer Cape its characteristic filigreed coastline. Monomoy Island, North Beach, Nauset Beach, Coast Guard Beach, and Jeremy Point are some of the more prominent of these post-glacial landforms, enclosing such important estuaries as Pleasant Bay, Nauset Harbor, and Wellfleet Harbor. Among the more unusual formations are the tombolos of outer Wellfleet Harbor: the series of short sand beaches that connect Bound Brook, Griffin, Great Beach Hill, and Great Islands.

Of all these sea-spawned parts of Cape Cod, however, the most impressive and extensive is undoubtedly the Provincetown Hook. These 3,000 acres of dunes at the northern tip of the Cape form a broad recurved spit of sand that encloses Provincetown Harbor, one of the finest deepwater harbors on the East Coast and the initial port for the _Mayflower_ Pilgrims in 1620. Some oceanographers believe that the hook began to form as much as 6,000 years ago and has built up in a series of roughly parallel ridges, or dune lines, widening out into the ocean.

In the protected bays and inlets behind these elongating fingers of barrier beaches and islands, salt marshes—one of the Cape’s most characteristic and important ecosystems—began to form 4,000 to 6,000 years ago. Composed of a few species of salt-tolerant grasses, primarily the stalky cord grass (_Spartina alterniflora_) and the finer salt hay (_Spartina patens_), these green salt meadows of the sea built slowly on the accumulating sediment deposited in protected areas of water by the tides and land runoff. Gradually, as the sea rose relative to the land, the marshes raised and spread themselves on a platform of their own decay, forming thick beds of peat underneath them. As the climate continued to warm, the Cape’s woodlands evolved from boreal forests to the mixed pine-oak woodlands we see today.

As the Cape’s post-glacial environment grew more diverse and complex, so did the culture of the people living on it. The first Native Americans on Cape Cod are now thought to have arrived at least 9,000 years ago. By the late Archaic Period, starting about 5,000 years ago, local Indian groups had developed a seasonal pattern of movement based on multiple resources. During the warmer months they settled on the shores of bays, marshes, and fish runs, trapping birds and collecting herring and shellfish. In winter they retreated inland to the more protected forested shores of ponds and other wetlands.

By the beginning of the Woodland Period, about 2,500 years ago, Indian settlements had grown even more numerous, larger, and more sedentary. About 800 years ago agriculture and a variety of new materials and tools had been introduced. One of the most important of these “tools” was fire; with it the Cape’s Native Americans changed the face of the land.

Many early accounts attest to the extent and scale of the Cape’s original woodlands. Even at Provincetown, which must have always been the most barren area of the Outer Cape, the Pilgrim leader William Bradford observed “The whole countrie, full of woods and thickets, wooded with oaks, pines, sassafras, juniper, birch, holly, some ash, walnut, the wood for the most part open and without underwood, fit to go or ride in.”

Archeologists now believe that the Cape Cod Indians may have practiced a form of low-level woodland management, burning underbrush, or wooded ridges, to provide browse for game and to make hunting easier. Such burns may have promoted the Cape’s characteristic pine barrens, tracts of open woodlands composed primarily of pitch pine, a tree adapted to periodic fires.

Some glacial lands, now vanished, still existed in historical times. There are many early references, for example, to Ile Nauset, or Nauset Isle, a point of land that lay off Nauset Beach, perpendicular to the coastline. It may have formed part of Cape Mallebarre, the place of “dangerous shoals and roaring breakers” that turned back the _Mayflower_ from its intended destination of Virginia. Nauset Isle had sunk beneath the waves by the 18th century, but another piece of early glacial real estate survived much longer. In the late 19th century, Billingsgate Island, off Jeremy Point in Wellfleet, was a flourishing 60-acre fishing community with livestock, a schoolhouse, and a lighthouse. By 1915, however, the island had been abandoned, and by 1942 it had vanished, the victim of gradual erosion by currents, storms, and rising sea levels. Today, at low tide, one can view the remains of this Wellfleetian Atlantis from the southern bluffs of Great Beach Hill: an extensive spread of granite boulders brought over on ships as riprap in a futile attempt to stem the tides.

To get some idea of the scope of erosion on the Outer Beach, consider this: in 1990 an ancient prehistoric site was uncovered at Coast Guard Beach; archeologists have estimated that at the time of its occupation, nearly 9,000 years ago, it was five miles inland. More recent evidence of erosion can often be observed on the Seashore’s ocean side. At Nauset Light Beach, a circular brick foundation from one of the former “Three Sisters” lighthouses (replaced in 1923 with the present single light) is frequently uncovered in winter at the base of the cliffs, having survived a 50-foot slide to the beach. Farther north, at the Marconi Site in South Wellfleet, Guglielmo Marconi constructed his original transmitting towers in 1901-1902, set back 165 feet from the edge of the cliff. Today only two of the foundations remain; the other two have fallen into the sea.

Few things remain in place on the edge of the cliffs or on the dunes. They either move or disappear. Cape Cod Light, first built in 1796, has been replaced twice; the current tower sits some 600 feet back from the site of the original one, though only a little more than 100 feet from the present cliff edge. The present Eastham Coast Guard Station, built in 1936, is a successor to the first one, which succumbed to beach erosion. When the Seashore was established in 1961, more than 80 cottages existed on its barrier beaches. Today, as a result of subsequent storms, less than one quarter of them remain.

Logs and other objects, including the remains of old shipwrecks, are frequently uncovered by eroding dunes and beaches. During a dramatic storm, while he was staying in the Outermost House in the 1920s, Henry Beston described how the blackened skeleton of an ancient ship that had been buried in a dune for more than a century “floated and lifted itself free ... thus stirring from its grave and yielding its bones again to the fury of the gale.”

One survivor of this coastal erosion is the Old Harbor Life Saving Station. Now a maritime museum at Race Point Beach in Provincetown, it began life in 1897 twenty miles to the south on Chatham’s North Beach. In 1977, in the face of imminent destruction, the station was cut in half and floated on two barges to its present site.

During the summer, the beaches of the Outer Cape present a generally peaceful and benign aspect. A wide, gently sloping shelf of sand lies between the base of the sea cliffs and a rhythmic, moderate surf. The summer shoreline’s peaceful countenance encourages the illusion that all this change and rearrangement of shoreline lies in the settled past. There is little indication to the summer visitor of the ferocity, violence, and transformation that visit this coast in the “off-season.” But if one returns in late autumn, when the prevailing winds shift to the north and the east, when the first northeasters of the season begin to chew away at the wide summer beach, replacing it with a short, steep winter berm, one begins to have a sense that this is still a land in the making, that, as Henry Beston observed, “Creation is here and now.”

In winter the ocean storms claw into the base of these cliffs, undermining them. Along some stretches erosion is gradual, with little rivulets of sand running down the cliff face into the sea. At other places, especially where there are large deposits of clay, the process can be dramatic. Whole slabs of the marine scarp may shelve off at once, and a single stretch of cliff may lose 30 or 40 feet in one storm. In still other areas the beach appears to be accreting, with wide terraces of sand covered with beach grass building out from the cliff base. But overall the Outer Beach continues to erode, losing an average of three feet a year.

On the barrier beaches the erosion process is somewhat different, though the overall effect is also retreat. Barrier beach dune lines are dynamic systems. That is, they retreat and maintain themselves by moving with, rather than resisting, the ocean’s power. Normally the foreslopes of the dunes flatten out during a severe storm, presenting a less steep face to the waves, which helps to dissipate their force. Meanwhile wind and occasional storm surges that break through the line carry sand into the estuary or marsh behind the dunes. These deposits are gradually colonized by beach grass and other beach plants, which begin the process of building up another dune line as the foredunes continue to erode. Evidence of this gradual retreat can be observed by the occasional emergence in front of the present dune lines of peat ledges, the remains of a salt marsh or freshwater bog that once lay behind a former line of dunes. In a healthy system and under normal conditions a barrier beach “rolls over on itself” in a smooth progression landward.

On occasion, however, even this process is overwhelmed by an unusual manifestation of the sea’s power. One such manifestation was the Great Blizzard of February 6-7, 1978, called “The Storm of the Century.” Carrying 15-foot tides and hurricane-force winds, this storm rearranged many parts of the Cape’s shoreline. Monomoy Island, for example, was severed in two, and remains so today. But nowhere were the effects more dramatic and visible than at Eastham’s Coast Guard Beach. Storm surges breached the dune line, flattening 90 percent of the dunes themselves, carrying off most of the beach cottages, including Henry Beston’s Outermost House, and totally destroying the Seashore’s bathhouse and large parking lot.

Provincetown has always been the Cape community that has had to contend most with change. During the 19th century the moving dunes of the Province Lands threatened to bury its houses and silt up its vital harbor. Subsequent erosion control and beach grass plantings have so far kept the dunes at bay, but a more implacable force may now be threatening the town.

Over the past few decades oceanographers have observed an acceleration in the rate of sea-level rise, possibly the result of global warming. The sea may now be rising as much as one foot every century, which on low shorelines translates into a loss of 100 feet inland. Nowhere on Cape Cod does thick settlement lie so close to the shore as along the low, narrow streets of Provincetown. If present rises in the level of the sea continue, or, as seems likely, increase, the ocean may well claim this ancient fishing community before the dunes do.

Meanwhile the bulk of the Provincetown Hook continues to expand outward into the sea. The dangerous Peaked Hill Bars represent, in current oceanographic theory, the next ridge of Province Lands dunes in the making, rising gradually from the sea. But regardless of such gains, or the pains taken by humans to stem the loss of land from the sea, the Cape is inevitably losing more than it is replacing. Oceanographers estimate that for every five acres of shoreline lost to erosion, only two are replaced with new land in the form of barrier beaches or sand hooks. There is little doubt that the Cape’s ultimate fate is to return to the sea that spawned and shaped it. At current rates of sea-level rise, Cape Cod has at best only another five to six thousand years before the Puritan preacher Cotton Mather’s prediction comes true, and “shoals of codfish be seen swimming on its highest hills.”

_Salt hay and cord grass_
_Sea stars_
_Lobster_
_Hermit crab_
_Moon snail_
_Fiddler crab_
_Anemone_
_Moon jelly_]

_Sea-lavender and honey bee_
_Bay scallop_
_Eelgrass_
_Rock crabs_
_Northern diamondback terrapin_
_Glasswort, or salicornia_
_Sea robin_
_Sea lettuce and mussels_]

The Bountiful Sea

The first English settlers who came to the Cape from Plymouth in 1639 were farmers, not fishermen. It took several generations for them to give themselves fully to the life of the sea, though they early saw the potential in it. In fact, even in their farming they quickly took advantage of what the sea had to offer. Alewives were gathered from local streams in spring as a seasonal source of food, as well as fertilizer for their cornfields, a practice taught to them by the Wampanoag Indians. Eelgrass from the flats also provided fertilizer, mulch, insulation for house foundations, and even stuffing for mattresses. Lobsters were so abundant that they were often blown ashore in deep windrows. They were more valued as fertilizer than food in colonial times, and in the 18th century a petition was filed with the General Court on behalf of indentured servants that they “not be fed lobsters more than twice a week”!

Even more valued by these early Cape Cod farmers were the salt marshes, or salt meadows. In a place of little natural grassland, marshes were prized for grazing. During the spring and summer cows were pastured on the marshes, with boys sent along to keep them from falling into the tidal creeks or potholes, called “pannes.” In fall the salt hay was scythed, stacked in ricks on raised wooden platforms called “staddles,” and hauled to the barns by oxen or horses wearing special wide wooden shoes to keep them from sinking into the peat.

The Cape’s numerous bays, inlets, salt ponds, and estuaries were also early recognized as marine cornucopias. Foot-long oysters, scallops, crabs, eels, flounder, diamondback terrapins, striped bass, mackerel, and other fish were taken for local use, and clam shells provided the lime for plastering colonial walls.

Still, despite the many uses these early settlers made of the marine riches around them, they did not truly become men of the sea until they were forced to by the land’s limitations and by their own mismanagement of it. The Cape’s once-abundant woodlands were cut and burned for farm and pasture land and consumed for a seemingly endless array of local uses and industries: heating homes; boiling seawater for salt; building boats, gristmills, houses, and barns; firing tar kilns; and trying out whale blubber, to name just a few.

The thin glacial soil, exhausted by repeated cropping and left unprotected by deforestation, soon blew away. In Provincetown, unregulated cutting and grazing in the Province Lands let loose the dunes, which threatened to bury the town and fill up the harbor. By 1800 dune ridges were advancing at a rate of 90 feet a year. In 1847 Massachusetts geologist Edward Hitchcock, visiting the Lower Cape, felt as if he were “in the depths of an Arabian or Libyan desert.”

Though the Cape’s soil was never very rich, the waters around it teemed with abundance, and in the sea Cape Codders found their true destiny. Thrust some 30 miles out into the Atlantic, the Cape partakes of two distinct marine environments. Cape Cod Bay is part of the larger Gulf of Maine ecosystem, a cold-water habitat influenced by the south-flowing Labrador Current. The waters of Nantucket Sound, averaging some ten degrees warmer, are influenced primarily by the northward-flowing Gulf Stream.

Such a range of temperature in its surrounding waters, combined with numerous estuaries of varying salinity, has produced one of the richest diversities of marine habitats on the East Coast. A National Park Service report states that the difference in flora and fauna “between Cape Cod Bay and Buzzards Bay is greater than that between Cape Cod Bay and the Bay of Fundy, or between Buzzards Bay and the coast of Virginia.” Warm-water species such as whelks, bay scallops, diamondback terrapins, blue crabs, striped bass and tuna inhabit the same waters as do more northerly species such as blue mussels, Jonah crabs, winter flounder, halibut, and, of course, cod.

Of all the creatures nourished by the sea, none has been more important to the history of Cape Cod than the Atlantic cod, _Gadus morhua_. In 1602, the English explorer Bartholomew Gosnold was so impressed by the schools of codfish surrounding his vessel, the _Concord_, that he named this peninsula after them, a name so apt that, in the words of Truro historian Shebnah Rich, “blow high or low, cold or hot, thick or thin, fish or no fish, it has hung on like a lamper-eel from that day to this.”

The cod has always been what Captain John Smith described in 1616 as “the maine staple” of the New England fishing industry. More than a century before the _Mayflower_ landed, fleets of small ships from Holland, Portugal, and the Basque region of Spain had braved the North Atlantic annually to fish the rich spawning grounds of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, salting their fish ashore and returning with their catch to European ports. It is more than likely that the first European visitors to Provincetown Harbor—originally called Cape Cod Harbor—were Portuguese fishermen who came ashore to cure, or “make,” cod on the long sandy stretches there. Some permanent European settlements may even have existed there in the 1500s.

If the Plymouth settlers were unskilled as fishermen, they were smart enough to sell the rights to fish to others, and in 1670 a tax on the Provincetown fisheries was established as a means of funding public schools in Plymouth. As Thoreau put it, schools of fish were used to provide schools for children. As early as 1730, however, Cape fishing captains were making voyages to the Grand Banks in a “triangle trade:” taking salted cod to the West Indies, exchanging fish for molasses and rum, and bringing them back to the mainland where they were sold to finance new and larger ships for more fishing trips. But during the 18th century most fishing remained inshore, or close to shore, and part-time. Cape Codders remained half-farmers, half-fishermen, and most took only enough for themselves and local markets.

The British embargo on shipping during the American Revolution was disastrous for the Cape’s nascent fishing industry, but after the war it began to come into its own. Shorter and more profitable runs were made in smaller boats, and lightly salted “fresh” fish was brought directly back for sale in Boston. Fish flakes—low wooden slatted platforms on which split cod was salted and sun-dried—became the common method of curing fish. Because of its capacious harbor, “where a thousand sail may safely anchor,” and its extensive sandy beaches providing ideal sites for fish flakes, Provincetown soon became a magnet for the Cape’s burgeoning fish exports. From a mere ten houses in 1755, it boasted a thousand residents in 1802, and by 1840 the Cape-tip community had become the preeminent fishing port on Cape Cod, harboring more than 100 cod trawlers. When Thoreau visited its narrow streets in 1849, he counted over 200 mackerel schooners alone.

One of the major events in the growth of the Cape’s fishing industry was the opening up of the Georges Banks in 1821. Much closer than Newfoundland’s Grand Banks, but just as fertile, this vast glacial deposit, the work of the same ice sheets that formed Cape Cod, had long been shunned because of its dangerous shoals and currents. But the rising price of cod and halibut tempted more and more fishing captains to its waters. By the mid-1800s a distinctive “banker” version of the Provincetown schooner had evolved, sleeker and faster than the old tub-hulled vessels, giving greater maneuverability on the shoals and greater speed in getting the fish to market first for the best prices. The schooners also began carrying dories aboard. These small, double-ended, highly seaworthy boats were launched from the mother ship with two-man crews, who set out hundreds of yards of hooked lines on floats, hauled in their catch by hand, and waited to be picked up at the end of the day. Deep-sea dory fishing, though it greatly increased the yield of each voyage, also increased the risks for the crews, especially if, as frequently happened, these small rowboats became separated from the schooners in fog or squalls.

After the Civil War the industrial revolution hit the fishing market. Greater concentrations of capital, larger boats, more expensive gear and faster transportation for landed fish were required. Most Cape towns did not possess the resources, the anchorage, or the facilities to compete. They turned instead to local handlining, trap, and weir fishing, or, as in Wellfleet’s case, began to develop local shellfish industries. But Provincetown, reinvigorated by the arrival of the railroad in 1873 and by an influx of Portuguese fishermen from the Azores in the late 1800s, remained a prominent New England fishing port until the end of the century, when the increasing demands of capital investment and labor forced the town to yield to the ports of Boston and Gloucester.

Today Provincetown, Chatham, and several of the other Cape towns still support small but tenacious fleets of local draggers, trawlers, and lobster boats. Declining stocks, smaller quotas, oil spills, competition from foreign “factory ships,” and ever-more-expensive gear have made it even harder for the small fisherman to stay in business. But the independence, challenge, the hope of a “big haul,” and the unexplainable lure of the sea continue to attract local residents to this ancient profession, and it is likely they will continue to do so as long as there are fish to catch.

Though whaling was never as important to Cape Cod as were its fisheries, it nonetheless formed an significant chapter in the Cape’s maritime history. In the early colonial days drift whales came ashore frequently enough that they formed a portion of some Congregational ministers’ salaries. Live whales were common in Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound, and a modest inshore whaling industry developed in the 17th century. In fact, in 1694 a Yarmouth captain, Ichabod Paddock, was invited to Nantucket to teach the Quaker residents the trade. He apparently did such a good job that Nantucketers soon became the preeminent New England whalers.

Try yards—areas where whale blubber was boiled down, or “tried out,” to obtain the oil—were established early in the 18th century on Barnstable’s Sandy Neck, and in 1715 that town boasted some 200 inshore whalers. But such intensive exploitation soon diminished the nearby stocks, and by 1750 the inshore whaling industry was dying out.

As in fishing, so in whaling, Provincetown with its unrivaled harbor became the Cape’s most important port. At its peak, in 1876, seventeen deep-sea whaling vessels sailed out of Provincetown. The last two Cape whaling vessels made their final voyages from Provincetown in 1920-21. They were the schooner _Cameo_ and the bark _Charles W Morgan_. The _Morgan_ is preserved at Mystic Seaport in Connecticut.

One species of cetacean has had a peculiar attachment to the Cape shores over the centuries. The pilot whale, or blackfish, is a medium-sized toothed whale, 15-22 feet in length. It tends to travel in tight groups, and large numbers of pilot whales frequently strand themselves in the tidal creeks and on the shallow flats of Cape Cod Bay, particularly in the labyrinthine channels around Wellfleet Harbor. Scientists are still trying to fathom the causes of these mass strandings, but to the early Cape Codders they were obviously a gift from God, providing both meat and high-grade whale oil from the rounded “melon” in the front of the whale’s head.

Before long lookouts were posted to spot pods of pilot whales coming inshore. Fleets of small boats would then be launched, and their crew members would circle the whales and beat their oars and blow horns to “help” the panicked herd ashore. In 1855 Thoreau witnessed hundreds of blackfish driven ashore at Great Hollow in Truro, and in 1880 a school of more than 1,300 stranded in South Wellfleet at Blackfish Creek, giving it its present name. Strandings of pilot whales continued to be a source of local income for Cape towns into the 1930s, when, for reasons not clear, they largely disappeared. But since the mid-1970s strandings have become common again; in November 1982, sixty-five pilot whales came ashore at Wellfleet’s Lieutenant Island.

In the eyes of many, Cape Codders attained their greatest seafaring eminence as shipmasters in the merchant marine. As captains during the early days of the Republic, they were, as Cape historian Henry Kittredge noted, “the first ambassadors of a young nation.” Later, in command of the great clipper ships of the mid-19th-century, they set a number of transoceanic sailing records that still stand today. They also made considerable fortunes for their owners, and for themselves. This monetary bounty was translated into the hundreds of substantial “captain’s houses” that still stand along the streets of their home towns from Sandwich to Provincetown. Brewster alone is said to have counted more than 50 sea captains residing there at one time.

But perhaps even more important than the fortunes and exotic souvenirs these ship captains brought home from foreign ports was the broad perspective gained by their experience. It was said that many a Cape Codder had been to China who had never gone to Boston by land. Wives and children often sailed with the shipmasters, and several of Cape Cod’s small villages boasted a cosmopolitan culture unusual among mid-19th-century New England towns. Many of the retired ship captains became selectmen in their towns, and, as Kittredge put it, “Narrow-mindedness found barren soil in a district where two houses out of every three belonged to men who knew half the seaports of the world and had lived ashore for months at a time in foreign countries.”

But the sea that brought such bounty and prosperity to Cape Codders during the years between the War of 1812 and the Civil War was not always kind. There was a dark side to the Cape’s relationship to the ocean, a side reflected in the numerous slate and limestone markers in the Cape’s small burying grounds that bear the inscription “Lost at Sea.”

The 30-mile stretch of land between the Monomoy Shoals on the south and Race Point on the north is one of several East Coast stretches known as “Graveyards of the Atlantic.” The Cape’s sandy outer shore does not look as menacing as, say, the rocky coastline of Maine or Nova Scotia. Its threats take more subtle shapes, in the form of submerged sandbars and treacherous rips, that can easily run a ship aground, and where in winter gales waves will pound a vessel to pieces as effectively as if it were on solid rock.

The first recorded shipwreck on Cape Cod was the _Sparrowhawk_, an English vessel that struck a sandbar off Orleans in 1626. Since then an estimated 3,000 vessels have been lost in the waters off the Cape, most on the stretch of open Atlantic from Chatham to Provincetown. One of the most famous of the early wrecks was the pirate ship _Whydah_, a 300-ton galley commanded by “Black Sam” Bellamy, which broke up on the bars off Eastham (now South Wellfleet) on May 8, 1717. More than 145 lives were lost in the wreck, and of the nine survivors, seven were tried for piracy and hanged on Boston Common.

Cape Codders early on recognized that those who went “down to the sea in ships” did not always come back. The most deadly areas were the shoals and rips off Monomoy—places known as “Cape Mallebarre” and “Tucker’s Terror”—and the infamous Peaked Hill Bars off the Atlantic, or back side, of Provincetown. Not all losses occurred close to shore, however. Once fishing vessels began making trips to the Georges and Grand Banks, entire fleets were sometimes caught in furious fall northeasters, winter gales, and hurricanes. Perhaps the worst single storm, in terms of its effects on local Cape communities, was the disastrous October Gale of 1841. Dozens of ships and more than 100 men were lost on Georges Banks. Truro alone lost 57 men. When Thoreau passed through Truro a decade after the storm, the community was still in mourning: “‘Who lives in that house?’ I inquired. ‘Three widows,’ was the reply.”

The first organized attempt to aid shipwrecked sailors was made in 1794, when the Massachusetts Humane Society began to build a series of Humane Houses, or Charity Huts, along the Outer Beach. Located at the “hollows” in the sea cliff for ease of access, these Humane Houses were at first no more than crude huts, irregularly stocked with straw, matches, and a few other items of survival that might see a shipwrecked sailor through the night. Later they were equipped with small boats and rope lines with mortars that volunteer crews might use to try to reach sailors stranded offshore.

Cape Cod, or Highland, Light, the first lighthouse on the Cape, was erected in 1796 atop the clay cliffs in North Truro. In the next 70 years others followed: the twin lights of Chatham in 1808; Race Point in 1816; Monomoy in 1823; Long Point in 1826; the original “Three Sisters of Nauset” in 1838; and Wood End in 1872. The establishment of these lights significantly reduced the number of wrecks off the back shore. But lighthouses and beacons were of little help during intense fogs or furious northeast storms when anchors dragged and sailing ships caught rounding the Cape could not manage to stay offshore. More often than not ships became trapped between the outer and inner bars, and Cape residents had to stand helplessly on the shore as men froze in the rigging or were washed overboard into icy seas only a hundred yards from land.

A major step in aiding these wreck victims was taken in 1872, when Congress established the U.S. Life Saving Service, the culmination of a series of federal measures that had begun in 1847 with an appropriation to subsidize the Massachusetts Humane Society. Nine stations were initially built, and eventually four others joined them. In 1915 the U.S. Life Saving Service was merged with the Revenue Cutter Service to form the U.S. Coast Guard.

Ironically, the sea disasters provided yet one more way of making a living for Cape Codders. Compassionate and selfless as they were in their efforts to save lives and aid victims of wrecks wherever possible, they were also pragmatic. Salvaging, or wrecking, as it was called, provided windfalls for the local populace. This practice gave rise to the legend of the nefarious “mooncussers,” men who deliberately lured ships to their doom with lighted lanterns on the beach on dark, moonless nights.

There is no evidence that “mooncussing” was ever engaged in by Cape Codders, but they were both philosophic and industrious about what the sea threw up on their shores, whether drift whales or freighters filled with useful cargo. During the 19th century wrecking became a true business. Salvaging crews were organized and hired by owners of wrecked ships to refloat or unload the vessels. Some local farmers spent as much time on the beaches as they did in their fields. E. Hayes Small of North Truro was one such man. On one occasion, using heavy block and tackle, cradles and eight horses, he hoisted 15,000 board feet of lumber off the beach to the top of the 150-foot bluffs north of Highland Light.

In 1914, however, a long-envisioned project finally became a reality and forever changed the history of wrecks, wrecking, and lifesaving on Cape Cod. A canal across the Cape, eliminating the entire arduous and dangerous outside passage for ships sailing between Boston and New York, had been dreamed of by Pilgrim leader Myles Standish, proposed as early as 1676, and approved in principle by George Washington. However, despite numerous government studies and the formation of at least four private canal companies, nothing substantial was accomplished until 1906, when New York financier Augustus P. Belmont took control of the Boston, New York, and Cape Cod Canal Company. Construction began on June 19, 1909, and the first vessels sailed through the newly completed Canal on July 29, 1914. The longest sea-level canal in the world, it was widened to 500 feet in 1935, and the present Sagamore and Bourne bridges were constructed. Today some 30,000 vessels annually sail through its protected passage.

With the canal’s completion, the number of shipwrecks off the back side of the Cape declined precipitously, and so did the need for the 13 manned Life Saving stations. In 1915 they were incorporated into the newly-formed U.S. Coast Guard. Today the Outer Cape has only two Coast Guard stations, one at Chatham Light, the other in Provincetown Harbor.

_Red-breasted merganser_
_American oystercatcher_
_Canvasback pair_
_Sanderlings_
_Lesser and greater yellowlegs_
_Ruddy turnstone_
_Ring-billed gull_
_Osprey_]

_Dunlin_
_Common terns_
_Great blue heron_
_Willet_
_Snowy egret_
_Spotted sandpiper_
_Green-backed heron_
_Common eider family_]

The Cape’s Transformation

The Cape Cod that Thoreau visited nearly a century and a half ago was a rural, semi-isolated peninsula with a distinct maritime culture. Villages were small; most food and materials were obtained locally; travel by land over sand roads was slow and difficult; and, although many a local shipmaster had visited Singapore and São Paulo, most native Cape Codders spent their lives within a few miles of their birthplace, except when they went to sea to fish. Language was local, not only in its flat Cape accent, but in a host of names and phrases attached to local plants, animals, and weather.

Off-Cape visitors were rare and often regarded with suspicion. Thoreau and his traveling companion, William Ellery Channing, were initially mistaken for bank robbers. Though a steamboat ran regularly from Boston to Provincetown, travel elsewhere on the peninsula was still difficult. Aside from a few hardy, curious souls like Thoreau, the only regular summer visitors to the Cape in the mid-19th century were those attending the Methodist camp-meetings, such as the one described by him at Millennium Grove in Eastham. “At present,” he said of Cape Cod, “it is wholly unknown to the fashionable world.” Yet Thoreau was perceptive enough to realize that “The time must come when this coast will be a place of resort for those New Englanders who really wish to visit the seaside”—though even he could not have imagined how complete that transformation would be.

After the Civil War, the Cape entered a period of economic decline that lasted for more than half a century. With the decline of the merchant marine, whaling, and fishing fleets, and the opening up of the rich western prairies, many of the Cape’s younger people left to seek their fortune elsewhere. Hundreds of acres of farmland were abandoned. The Cape’s population, which reached a high of 35,990 in 1860, reached a low of 26,670 in 1920. Wellfleet lost 65 percent of its population, and Truro nearly 75 percent.

Ironically, it was the railroad—which initially contributed to the decline in the packet boat and merchant marine trade—that subsequently helped revive the Cape’s economy. The Cape Cod Branch Railroad first arrived at Sandwich in 1848. Rails were gradually extended down-Cape, finally reaching Provincetown in 1873. The completed railroad linked Cape towns to the rest of New England and made inland resources such as coal and lumber widely available. More importantly, for the first time the Cape itself became accessible to the region’s urban population.

Oddly enough, the first railroad advertisements enticed Cape Codders to Boston, rather than the reverse. But it was not long before the “fashionable world” began to discover the charms of Cape Cod. “Summer folk,” including President Grover Cleveland, began building substantial homes with imported lumber along the shores of Buzzards Bay, Nantucket Sound, and Pleasant Bay.

Bird shooting became a popular sport on the Cape, and several gunning clubs were established for vacationing sportsmen from Boston and New York. These clubs, combined with the commercial hunting of waterfowl and shorebirds for the food market and millinery trade, took a tremendous toll on the Cape’s bird populations from the Civil War until the passage of the Federal Migratory Bird Treaties of 1916. According to one report, 8,000 golden plovers and Eskimo curlews were shot on the Cape in one day! (The former species is now a rare migrant, the latter presumed extinct.) At the same time, much of the most valuable shorebird habitat was being destroyed. Hundreds of acres of salt marshes were dredged to expand harbors or filled in for development, agriculture, and mosquito control.

A different kind of transformation began in Provincetown in 1899, when Charles Hawthorne opened his Cape Cod School of Art, officially initiating the emergence of the Cape-tip as a major art colony. By 1916 there were five art schools operating in Provincetown. That year also saw the formation of the Provincetown Players, one of the most important small theaters in the history of American drama. Its founders—which included George Cram “Jig” Cook, playwright Susan Glaspell, and author Mary Heaton Vorse—produced original plays in a shack on a harbor wharf, plays that included the early works of a then-unknown dramatist, Eugene O’Neill.

Since then the towns of the Outer Cape have been seasonal and year-round homes to a host of artistic and literary figures. Edward Hopper, Edwin Dickinson, Karl Knaths, Ross Moffett, Henry Hensche, Hans Hoffman, Ben Shahn, Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollack, Robert Motherwell, Alice Stallknecht, and Arnold Geissbuhler are a few of the influential painters and sculptors who have worked and lived on the Outer Cape. Literary figures have included John Reed, William Daniel Steele, John Dos Passos, Edmund Wilson, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Mary McCarthy, Elizabeth Bishop, Provincetown’s “Poet of the Dunes” Harry Kemp, Norman Mailer, Howard Nemerov, Alan Dugan, Stanley Kunitz, Marge Piercy, and Annie Dillard.

A particularly rich vein of the Cape’s creative activity has been the literary treatment of the landscape itself. Thoreau’s _Cape Cod_ (1864) was the first recognized classic of this genre. Others have included _The Outermost House_ by Henry Beston, _The House on Nauset Marsh_ by Dr. Wyman Richardson, _The Great Beach_ by Brewster author John Hay, and the poetry of Provincetown’s Pulitzer-Prize winner Mary Oliver.

After World War I the first paved roads were constructed down-Cape. With the arrival of the automobile, the second wave of the Cape’s transformation began. The weekender appeared. Cottage colonies began to spring up in the towns and on the beaches. Golf courses were built, including the Highland Links in Truro and the Nauset Links in Eastham. The Nauset Links fairways today are a cedar forest through which the visitor can walk on the Seashore’s Nauset Marsh Trail.

The Cape’s summer population began to mushroom, and Provincetown in particular took on a distinctively Bohemian ambience during the 1920s and 1930s. At the same time, the descendants of the Portuguese immigrants came to dominate Provincetown’s fishing fleet. Even today nearly a third of its permanent population claims Portuguese descent and continues to give a distinctive Old World flavor to this community’s cuisine, culture, and local festivals.

Having lived with change throughout their history, Cape Codders adjusted to these outside influences with philosophy and pragmatism. As Cape historian Henry Kittredge observed in 1930: “If whales no longer visit their shores, rich city folk do, and with easy adaptability Cape men and women take the goods the gods provide them.” Some local residents began to rent out rooms in their old Cape houses, while others added on a front porch for a restaurant, set up a gas station or a beach plum jelly stand in the front yard, or an antiques store in the barn. Some took advantage of less legal commerce of the era; during Prohibition a number of trawler captains turned to the more lucrative sea-trade of rum-running.

At least one native industry survived, in fact flourished, during these years of decline and transformation. Cranberries had been commercially raised on the Cape’s bogs since the early 1800s, but the coming of the railroad opened off-Cape markets for the crop. The cranberry, as much as the cod, became the symbol of Cape Cod. In recent years, because of the success of modern marketing, many small bogs that were abandoned over the last half century have been put back into cultivation. One of these old bogs, established by James Howe in the 1880s on North Pamet Road in Truro, has been partially restored by the National Park Service.

The third and unquestionably the most sweeping transformation of the Cape’s culture and landscape has occurred since World War II. With the building of the Mid-Cape Highway and the expansion of the post-war economy, the first waves of modern “washashores,” or permanent immigrants, began to arrive over the Bourne and Sagamore bridges. From 1940 to 1990 the Cape’s year-round population increased from about 30,000 to more than 175,000, with a summertime population that swells to 500,000 or more. Each year from 1970 to 1990 an average of 5,000 acres (roughly the size of Provincetown) was developed for residential and commercial uses.

Though the Cape has been technically an island since 1914, it continues to be increasingly a part of the mainland. The old, indigenous, rural maritime culture of the Cape is irretrievably gone, though small fishing fleets continue to go out of local harbors and inlets. Cape Codders now live in a cosmopolitan contemporary culture, sharing more with their urban counterparts than with the sea captains in whose 200-year-old houses they may dwell or spend the night.

With this staggering growth and its resultant pressures on the Cape’s resources and natural habitats, there has been an increasing movement to protect the Cape’s fragile landscape and its wildlife. The most dramatic and sweeping manifestation of this was the Congressional authorization of the Cape Cod National Seashore itself in 1961, but a number of homegrown environmental research, conservation, and educational organizations have also been established. These groups include the Center for Coastal Studies in Provincetown, the Wellfleet Bay Audubon Sanctuary, the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History in Brewster, the Association for the Preservation of Cape Cod, and the Compact of Cape Cod Conservation Trusts.

In part because of the work of these and other groups, general environmental awareness has also grown. The Cape’s salt marshes are no longer regarded as wasteland to be dredged for marinas or filled for development but as one of the richest and most productive marine habitats in the world. Local kettle pond shores, once built up with little regard for environmental impact, are now recognized as important buffers protecting water quality and as important habitat for certain flowering plants, some of which are found in only a handful of sites worldwide.

No longer are local whales driven ashore or hunted with harpoons. Instead, today’s Cape Codders ply a lucrative trade running whale-watching trips out of Provincetown and other ports, and a Cape Cod Stranding Network has been established to aid stranded whales and other marine animals.

Shorebirds, too, have ceased to be slaughtered by the thousands on our beaches and in our marshes. Instead, areas such as the Monomoy Wildlife Refuge and the National Seashore provide protected feeding and resting stations for thousands of migrating shorebirds and waterfowl. Each summer sections of beaches and dunes within the Seashore and elsewhere are roped off and patrolled to insure the survival of such local nesting species as terns and piping plovers, and park talks and walks stress to visitors the importance and fragility of these breeding areas.

Besides changes in human attitudes and practice, natural changes in wildlife populations continue to take place as well. As ocean waters warm, cold-water species such as cod and halibut have moved farther north, while warmer-water species such as striped bass and bluefish seem to be increasing. Sizable numbers of wintering harbor seals have appeared in the Cape’s estuaries and offshore beaches in the past 20 years, and during the winter of 1989-90, for the first time ever, some rare gray seals gave birth to several pups on Monomoy Island. Willets and oystercatchers, after a long absence, are nesting on Cape beaches once again, and ospreys, responding to artificial nesting platforms, have returned to Cape bays and ponds after their disappearance during the 1960s from DDT poisoning. Other recent self-arrivals on the Cape’s wildlife scene include opossums, house finches, and even coyotes.

What do all these changes and transformations teach us? It may be, most importantly, that we still confront what the First Comers faced: the land itself, sea-born and sea-shaped. When we learn its history and observe the age-old forces that continue to work today, the lesson seems to be that any human occupation of the Earth is, at best, tentative and transitory, and particularly so here. The waves, beaches, dunes, and trees of the Cape continue to dance, and we have begun to learn to dance with them—to understand and adapt to the land’s rhythms, tempos, and limits—so that we and those who come after us may continue to enjoy all that it has to offer. For it is we, residents and visitors alike, who are today’s Cape Codders.

_White water lily_
_Pink ladyslipper_
_Dewberry_
_Purple aster_
_Seaside goldenrod_
_Beach plum_
_St. Johnswort_
_Sheep laurel_]

_Bittersweet nightshade_
_Prickly pear cactus_
_Creeping bellflower_
_Star-flower_
_Beach heather, or poverty grass_
_Beach-pea_
_Canada mayflower_
_Cypress spurge_]

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A Glacial Base