Old Quawk was a fisherman, often venturing out into Pamlico Sound in his sail skiff when cautious islanders stayed in port waiting for more propitious weather.
On this date, March 16, many years past, Old Quawk made his last voyage into Pamlico Sound. Storm clouds were piling up in the darkening sky. Legend has it that Old Quawk defiantly disregarded the warnings of other islanders, raised his clenched fist to the heavens and dared the gods to thwart him, then set out in his sail skiff. A frightful gale churned the Sound into a wild turbulence and swamped Old Quawk's tiny craft. Neither Old Quawk nor his boat were ever found.
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| "Old Quawk" in July 4th Parade |
For many years Ocracoke fishermen refused to go out in their boats on March 16. Even today it's best to be prudent on Old Quawk's Day. There's no telling what the weather gods will dish out on March 16.
Our latest Ocracoke Newsletter is the story of Beatrice Wells, child evangelist, who preached at Ocracoke in the late 1930s/early 1940s. You can read it here: http://www.villagecraftsmen.com/news022116.htm.
And on this day started my tradition... but more recently than 200 years. :-) Here's my contribution to this fateful day. From my book ( http://www.amazon.com/Lyrics-Shenandoah-Robert-Tredick-Foster/dp/1518695809 )
ReplyDeleteOld Quawk’s Day - by me (Robert Foster)
March, the ides, of Winter's end
A sorrowed tale will oft portend
That Caesar is just one to fall
The season, late, had one more squall
We stood in awe of dark'ning skies
The winter, still, had one reprise
The song she sang that day Cimmerian
For we, the children, here Silurian
We bade the day considered lost
For no man, wise, would pay the cost
To fish amongst a roiling sound
To cast that day, our ending, drowned
But on that day one stood too proud
Cursing God and Mother loud
He left this isle and safety’s sight
To save his nets despite this plight
Unto his own he stayed up north
So rarely would he venture forth
He left us here to pine upon
Why here, these shores, he wandered on?
Bolder he than all of us
Above the gale we heard him cuss
Raucous wails, the tempest spoke
Though, not above this fiery bloke!
Some say a pirate, some shipwrecked
This moorish hermit, we suspect
These tales as told will have no end
The squawking recluse failed to bend
For on that fateful mid-March Day
We watched the cullion sail away
No trace of him was ever found
No blighted skiff adrift, the sound
Beware the Ides of March, my friend
And if you doubt, I’ll swear again
Pay heed, old Quawk, we never found
This day, the wise, stay island bound
Great poem, Robb. Thanks again for sharing.
Delete:-D I went to "do" with a group of poets last night who are now fully aware of Old Mr. Quawk and his misfortune.
ReplyDelete