Local professor seeks out deadrise boats

OYSTER

It wasn't so much the pile of liquor bottles that made Paul Ewell stop the car as it was the sight of Mary lying beside them, completely wasted.

He recognized her as a Maryland girl, though what she was doing here on a Northampton County back road was anyone's guess. She was pretty far gone, but she was still beautiful, all curves and grace, even resting on her side in the trash.

Mary, the deadrise oyster boat, was just what he was looking for. Ewell pulled over and got out.

The morning had begun as most Saturdays do for Ewell. He checked on his mother, who lives near Parksley, and then hit the road. He puts some miles on his Volvo, but that's nothing compared to the wear and tear on his quarry - deadrise boats that may be 90 years old or more.

Ewell is on a quest - largely self-funded - to archive every deadrise he can find on the Eastern Shore. As he goes, he records oral histories from the watermen, hoping to create an electronic database that will preserve the traditional way of life when the physical evidence is gone.

As a native son who paid his way through college by working on crab and oyster boats, the Virginia Wesleyan College professor is accepted by the Shore watermen in a way strangers can only envy.

"The Ewells came here in the late 1600s, so we do not qualify as 'come-heres'," he explained. "All the men were watermen, all the women were married to watermen and a few of the women were watermen. I'm sort of the one that didn't. The black sheep."

His first stop was Oyster, where a wave of old-crab odor blew through the car as he opened the door. "Ah, smell the... smell," he said. "I love the smell. Smells good."

He spoke into a digital recorder: "OK, No. 391 is a round-stern, located at Oyster, VA, on eleven twenty-one oh-nine. The name is Three Sons. The boat is approximately 42 feet long. Built in the '30s or '40s. Looks to be in pretty good condition."

He lowered the recorder. "That's a nice-looking round-stern," he said. "As we say on the Eastern Shore, she purty."

He turned to the deadrise tied up to the other side of the pier. "Another patent tong boat," he said as his assistant noted the name - Third Son.

"That's interesting. That is a gorgeous boat. How are you?" Ewell said, turning to a waterman in a Carolina skiff loaded with oysters.

"Everything's good," said Tim Bell, volunteering the information that Three Sons and Third Son were from the Western Shore, meaning the other side of the Bay.

"She's a clammer," Bell said. "They've been coming here for years."

"I did that with my dad when I was a kid," Ewell said.

"Get out!"

The two struck up a conversation about the good old days, and Bell offered that the new days were improving.

"Now we're back to oysters," he said. "It's what we should be doing."

While he talked, Ewell looked over Bell's boat.

"That's what my brother has, a Carolina skiff," Ewell said.

"Get out!"

Eventually, Bell went back to unloading, and Ewell went back to his camera and recorder.

On down the dock was a 38-, 39-foot box-stern deadrise named Elainet. Some of her seams were splitting, and rust stained her white paint.

"Now, that's an old boat," Ewell said.

"How old do you think?" the assistant asked.

"I would say probably 1920-something."

"Made in 1920-something?!"

"Yeah. This is truly an old boat, and probably won't be around much longer," Ewell said. "Watermen can't afford to maintain a boat like this. Fiberglass are easy. Wood are not."

And that is exactly why he is out every weekend with his camera and recorder, looking for boats like Mary.

The Chesapeake Bay deadrise is the state boat of Virginia, so named in 1988, about 100 years after it was designed. The name refers to the V-shaped keel that flattens as it goes from bow to sideboards. Deadrises were usually built by eye, without rulers and measuring tapes, making each one distinct.

Because of that, Ewell can often tell who built the boats he photographs. In many cases he can remember the vessels' original names because they are old friends - he also worked the water, rising at 4:30 a.m., fishing the floats, packing the catch, making the 7:30 school bus. He has cataloged nearly 400 vessels

"It's like a puzzle. Sometimes a week later it will hit me what that boat was 25 years ago."

Some days, Ewell will see a bit of rotting wood in a marsh and will put on boots to wade out to it, but this day he deemed too chilly for that. He contented himself with cataloging the Jimmy Crab - "Not sure of the original name, but I know it wasn't Jimmy Crab" - a 42-footer he deemed in poor condition - "I think she's seen her better days" - and the Fool's Gold, a 36-foot box-stern in the grass behind someone's house.

On the far side of the harbor he spotted a rusty trailer holding a dilapidated boat that, when he arrived, turned out to have no name.

"Worms have eaten her up," he said, prodding the stern with a finger as he sat tailor-fashion on the ground, looking up at the bottom. Built in the mid- to late '40s, he decreed, unwinding his legs to stand up and peer inside.

"Still got that smell. That's a good smell."

Ewell is building an electronic database that will eventually have photos, information on each boat, oral histories to preserve the watermen's dialects and transcripts as well.

He is also filling out paperwork to form a nonprofit to be called the Watermen's Heritage Foundation of Virginia's Eastern Shore, which would combine museum exhibits with consultation services for watermen, and scholarships for their children.

As a straight-A student in high school, Ewell faced a culture that told him he couldn't go to college because he wasn't smart enough and couldn't afford it. He has three degrees now and teaches IT and management classes at Wesleyan, in Virginia Beach.

One of his goals is to help real watermen use technology, even something as simple as a spreadsheet.

"They're just now realizing," he said, "that they can sell a softshell online for five times what they can get down the street."

This blend of nostalgia for the deadrise and futuristic sales visions keeps Ewell quite busy, but he says simply, "I put my head down, and I keep going - and if you keep going, you'll get there."

That's how he found Mary.

As the Volvo rounded a curve on Cliff Road, Ewell saw four or five rotting hulks in the marsh grass and exclaimed, "Aha! Here's what we want. This is a gold mine."

He stopped the car and got out, recorder in hand.

"Thirty-eight-foot box-stern, appears to be built in Maryland. Significant flare in the bow, Maryland-style cabin," he dictated. "No equipment left."

He climbed down the bank to reach Mary's exposed underside. From the stern to the cabin, the boards lay crosswise. From there to the bow, they ran lengthwise.

"This type of planking, they never used in Virginia," Ewell said. "This is probably a Hooper's Island boat. "

Mary's bow was split open, but the tell-tale Maryland flare was still there. Ewell ran a hand along it then turned to look at the graying hulks farther away in the marsh. "It's like a graveyard," he said.

With a finger, he traced the nearly invisible lettering of Mary's name. Looking down, he pointed out the remnants of a blue stripe on her copper line.

"See that blue?" Ewell said. "Watermen know you never ever ever put blue paint on a boat."

His own father bought a boat, he recalled, and refused to set foot aboard until Ewell had painted the blue rails green. Mary had an unlucky blue line on the hull, and here lay the remains, surrounded by liquor bottles and other trash.

"I always start these expeditions on a very happy note, and I always go back very somber," Ewell said. "I feel like hospice. When you leave, you don't know if you're going to see them again. It's sad."

He tucked the recorder back into its dashboard compartment and headed for Cape Charles. Should be some deadrises there, he said and, clearly, there was no time to waste.

Diane Tennant, (757) 446-2478, diane.tennant@pilotonline.com