Bald Head—
Island Paradise Deserted
By EUGENE FALLON
Four miles across the Cape
Fear River and the bay from
Southport lies Bald Head Island,
one of the last unspoiled bodies
of land bordering upon the At
lantic Ocean. And not only does
this island with the unusual name
hold the magic appeal of all
bodies of land separated from the
mainland by stretches of water,
Bald Head is unique in that it is
covered with tropical vegetation
which includes towering palm
trees—the northernmost point
along the Atlantic seaboard where
they can be found in natural
abundance.
It is almost as though a por
tion of Florida had broken free
and had drifted several hundred
miles north, to come to rest here
at the mouth of the Cape Fear
River.
Reece Swan, Southport native
presently is caretaker of the is
land and is the only human in
habitant, this despite the fact
that once there was a village on
the island; and as short time as
25-years ago Miss Bertha Reid
of Winnabow was the head of a
one-teacher public school for
children of men who were in the
Coast Guard and lighthouse ser
vice.
Once there was a large human
population on the island. A citi
zen of Southport, Captain Charlie
Swan, retired lighthouse-keeper
who tended a light at Bald Head
for 30 years, beginning in April
of 1903, settled back on a couch
in his comfortable West Street
home, and sent his memory back
over the trail of years.
"I was bom in Southport,” he
stated, ‘‘and I’ll never see 80
again . . . Yes, there was a
settlement on Bald Head. Call it
a town, if you will it was named
Bald Head Back in he 1880’s
there wereat least 150 p< rsons liv
ing over there. There vere the
lighthouse-keepers and their fami
lies and there were the South
port pilots, and their families.
“As you may know, piloting
was a highly-competitive business
back in those days. The first
pilot-boat to reach a ship pre
paring to enter the harbor, get
the job of taking them over the
bar and up the river. For that
reason many of the pilots moved
over to Bald Head, to get a start
on those who stayed on the main
“The minute a ship was safely
through the channel, friendly re
lations started again. The pilots
all built houses close together.
It was a community in the woods.
There were perhaps 25 or 30 Ne
groes brought over. These also
lived on the island and helped
launch, and secure, the pilot
boats. A few of these were pretty
big affairs—regular two-masted
sloops.”
There was a church—interde
nominational —and a schoolhouse,
to which went the children of the
pilots. Insofar as Capt. Swan
could recall, none of the island
dwellers was enterprising enough
to stock a store and set up for
trade, and one of the bigger boats
would sail for Southport each
week, rain or shine, to purchase
provisions for all inhabitants.
Although Southport was only
across the harbor, the islanders
lived a lonely existence. In the
evenings books were read aloud.
Occasionally an old salt would
take a fiddle from its case, and
the birds in the forest would be
treated to the strains of “Listen
to the Mockingbird,” while inside
the housewives and children alike
wept a little over “Hallie, Sweet
Hallie, lying in her grave . . .”
How did the island receive its
odd name, a name which is found
today on all official charts of the
area? Well, as stated above, there
were two hills on the island, one
called Thompson’s Hill, the other
—and larger—referred to as Bald
Head. Here, trees grew up the
slopes almost to the top, but
not quite. At the top, where the
winds had full play, the soil
would not stay together long
enough to suffer a twig to
flourish. The hill, in its command
ing position, resembled nothing
on garth more than a man with a
bald head.
I
The soil in the valleyg, how
ever, was of extreme fertility.
Capt. Swan set out a small or
chard consisting of some 25 peach
trees during his long tentire. And
the fruit flourished mightily. Red
cheeked, they were, according to
the ancient keeper-of-the-lights,
and sweeter than any frqm
Georgia.
“I never saw a bug or * worm
in my orchard,” declared Capt.
Swan warmly. ‘‘Never had to
spray a single time.”
But the good captain became
somewhat discouraged with his
market in Southport. Bringing
over a few bushels on his visits
to the mainland, he could realize
only a dollar or two for them.
Another small source of income
for Swan was the fur-bearing
crop supplied by nature. The
light-keeper trapped coon, foxes,
and an occasional mjpii»..4,nd.-s«id
the hides.
The island originally belonged
to the Sprunt brothers, James
and Alexander, of Wilmington.
The tallest palmettos in that city,
those located at Front and Dock
streets, were removed by the
Sprunts from Bald Head Island,
to decorate the Sprunt property.
A lighter was used to transport
the tall, tropical trees, and they
are said to have sorely resisted
the change—dying by the dozens
—to be replaced, again and again,
by the perservering brothers.
Sometime prior to World War
1, T. H. Boyd bought the island
from the James Walker estate.
Walker had acquired the inland
from the Sprunts.
Boyd, a Hamlet native, built a
house and a dock on the isle, and
lived there himself for a couple
of years. It was Boyd who first
dreamed of turning this Eastern
Catalina into a pleasure resort.
He even began a hotel building,
but for some reason or another
abandoned that project less than
half-completed. The Hamlet pro
moter did throw up a pavilion
However; a building spreading
40x40 feet. Time has destroyed
this structure dedicated to the
pursuit of pleasure. The jungle
hides the pitiful remnants—a few
rotted timbers, some brick pilings.
Boyd appears to have been a
bit of an agronomist, stoeking the
island with sheep, hogs and some
80 cows. These animals received
at first the best of care, but after
Boyd departed the island they
were more or less forced to shift
for themselves. Like the passen
ger pigeon, the sheep and cows
of Bald Head Island are now ex
tinct. But the hogs hung1 on. Even
today there are reports of wild
razorback hogs seen on the is
land. A few have been shot—
only to display a telltale “ring”
about their bodies which prove
they are, indeed, no razorbacks
at all but of a known domestic
strain. One suspects that hunters
helped greatly in decimating the
Boyd herds of cows and sheep.
Prank O. Sherrill of Charlotte,
owner of the S&W Restaurant
chain, now owns the island. Boyd
it seems either lost interest in
his island, or lost his money. At
all events unpaid taxes mounted
and mounted, finally resulting in
foreclosing by the county.
Sherill owns all the island with
the exception of some 20 acres
retained by the U. S. Government
and leased to him. This plot is
not all in our piece, but com
prises two small plots whereon
stands Bald Head lighthouse and
where Cape Fear lighthouse once
stood.
Always there has clung to Bald
Head an air of mystery and ro
mance. Rumor has it that Stede
Bonnet, an old time gentle
man of piratical instincts, fre
quented the island long ago. The
fact that Bonnell was taken just
off Bald Head and sent thereaftei
to a gallows lends credence to
these rumors. There is (and was)
a creek providing anchorage anc
cover at the same time. And sev
eral streams of sweet water once
trickled across the wooded island.
A perfect hideaway, not Only for
pirates, but for their purloined
doubloons and jewels stolen. Is
there any more concrete evidence
to support these hopeful assump
tions? One. Let Capt. Swan tell
it in his own words.
Always The Greatest
DISCOUNT PAINT BARGAINS
ON ALL PAINT
702 NORTH THIRD ST.
WILMINGTON, N. C.
, “I spent many an hour huntin’ j
for Bonnet’s buried treasures," he
admits frankly enough. "One day, |
about dark, while I was making
my trap-run deep in the woods, I
j picked up a discolored old coin.
| It is a large coin and, I think, a
copper one. I have it yet. I
burnished it up some—enough to
make out the design of a palm
' tree. Couldn’t read any of the
writing. It was all worn off.
There was no date or anything
to tell the nationality.
“Next day I went back with a
shovel and pick. Dug a big hole
in the woods. But I never found
another thing.”
Since the old coin was uncover
ed in the deep forest, it is ex
ceeding doubtful that it fell from
the pocket of a hunter or one of
the pilots. Who can swear that,
somewhere buried on Bald Head
is not-a King’s ransom ?
There are rumors flying again
of new treasurers to be opened.
It is said that Frank Sherrill
means to do something with his
beautiful, tropic isle, that a city
will be developed here on the
lovely breast of the ocean.
In the meanwhile there lives
on Bald Head one lone, young
man. Reese Swan dwells, in soli
tary splendor, in the very house
in which his father and mother
were married in April of 1917. It
was a war year. The very month
when Wilson, tired of the Hun’s
barbarities and insolences, de
Continued On Page 2
Bathing Beauties
BEACH PARTY—Bald Head Island has through the years been one of the
most popular places in Brunswick county for visitors, as witness the above photo
of unidentified bathing beauties whose modest attire dates them somewhere about
the early twenties. The box instrument mounted on tripod and shown in the
right background was a camera the girls carried along to get a snapshot of their
outing. This scene was mounted upon a cardboard background which called it
“View On Palmetto Island.” That was the name used when T. H. Boyd was at
tempting his resort promotion.
Waterfront
How would you like to see
hundreds of wild ducks swimming
about in the water, right before
your eyes—and here in Bruns
wick County?
Well, that’s what happened to
us Monday morning. We had gone
up to Orton Plantation on an
other matter, and in walking
through the garden looking for
Alex Bogie, we passed along the
edge of the old rice field. One
of tire most thrilling sights we
ever saw in connection with wild
life were the hundreds of ducks
swimming about and feeding al
most within gunshot.
That latter reference is entire
ly a figure of speech, for the
very. fact. Jijiere -has been no
gunfire in that area in many
years is what accounts for the
presence of the large waterfowl
population. That and the bounti
ful supply of feed that was raised
there during the past season un
der the direction of employees
of the Federal Wildlife Service.
Orton is a Wildlife Sanctuary,
and as such is under rigid pro
tection.
It is a little early for a very
great show of color in the gar
dens at Orton, although camellias
are beginning to bloom and the
plants aJce heavily budded; but for*
the husband who wants the thrill
of hunting—even vicariously—an
invitation to his wife for a visit
to the gardens sometime this
month probably will bring about
more all-around family pleasure
than any other trip he has made
to that fabulous place.
Hundreds of ducks!
The present visit of the USE
Dredge Gerig has had us confused
by a succession of events. The
first came when the big hopper
dredge arrived for maintenance
work on the Cape Fear River
bar and we did not know any
thing about it. Our first knowl
edge was when we started to see
several strange automobiles park
ed .overnight ,at. the foot of Howe
street. Next came the query from
a visiting Long Beach resident
as to why a big ship had been
anchored off the bar late Sunday
afternoon. We knew the water
was rough—we had that on the
word of Pilot Robert Thompson,
who boarded a ship out there late
that day. But it was much later
that we determined the big ship
was actually a big dredge, and
that instead of being anchored it
actually was working.
Then Monday we had another
visitor ask why a big ship ha<£
Continued On Page 2
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