Lost Treasure of the Grand Strand

By T. Clement Robison

Rick Watson thought his investigation days were over once he retired from the Myrtle Beach Police Departments Detective Bureau. But all that changed with his nephews discovery of an object aboard a long abandoned shrimp boat in Murrells Inlet.

The discovery takes Rick and his nephew Chip on a treasure hunting adventure that begins with an incident that occurred during World War II, through a bizarre maze of unanticipated twists and turns, ending in one of the most unlikely locations along the South Carolinas Grand Stand.

Set against the backdrop of military and southern history, the reader becomes a silent witness to the discovery of a trail of clues that leads to one of the most astonishing conclusions ever conceived.

Packed with mystery and intrigue, this is a story that challenges the imagination and fuels the spirit of adventure in all of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493152377

T. Clement Robison

Award winning author T. Clement Robison is a retired attorney. He lives with his wife on the beach in South Carolina. You can view and purchase his other works at: www.tcrobison.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1 June 1944

Off the coast of Bermuda

1930 hours

Mayday! Mayday! This is Navy Flight Four-One-Niner. I am experiencing engine difficulty and losing altitude, mayday… mayday, any station, do you read, over?

Navy Flight Four-One-Niner, this is Naval Air Station responding to your mayday. What is your location, over?

The incoming emergency call caught the attention of the naval officer on duty at Darrell Island Naval Air Station on the island of Bermuda. He rushed over to the communications console manned by a young sailor. He quickly turned and spoke to the radar operator. Do you have Four-One-Niner on the screen?

Negative, the sailor replied.

The officer checked the log for scheduled incoming flights from the mainland. There at the very bottom was a notation for Navy Flight 419. The note read:

Flight 419 is to be met at the taxiway by the Shore Patrol and the plane is to be escorted to Hangar 22 at the far end of the field. There it will be met by a representative of the Bureau of Yards and Docks.

The officer thought the message was strange, but he turned his attention back to the communications console, Ask the pilot to give his position again.

Navy Flight Four-One-Niner this is Bermuda Station, what is your location, over?

Seconds ticked by with no response. Again, the officer checked with the radar operator. Again, there was no contact on the screen.

After thirty seconds, the radio speaker sitting on top of the console crackled. Bermuda Station, Bermuda Station, this is Navy Flight Four-One-Niner, I believe my location is approximately fifteen miles southwest of (inaudible).

What did he say, what did he say? the officer shouted.

Couldn’t make it out, sir, the radio operator replied sheepishly.

In frustration, the officer took the microphone from the sailor’s hand and yelled, Navy Four-One-Niner, Four-One-Niner repeat, repeat location, over.

After a few seconds, the radio again came alive with a garbled message from Navy Flight 419.

Bermuda, Bermuda… (static) this… four-one (static) ten miles southwest… Kings… oint, over.

The officer looked at the map of the island on the far wall. Compared with the mainland of the United States located 640 miles directly west, the island was tiny in comparison. A speck of land sitting in the vast Atlantic Ocean that measured only about 20 square miles; one third the size of Washington D.C., it was easy to miss from the air, especially in the setting sun.

The island was shaped somewhat like a giant fish hook, with the hook to the south and west of the main part of the island.

Kings Point was located near the area inside of the hook called the Great Sound. If the pilot of Flight 419 was ten miles southwest of that location, he would have to turn northeast in order to have a chance of finding the island.

I have him on the screen, sir, the radar operator suddenly announced.

The officer rushed to the console that held a small circular screen emitting a greenish yellow glow. Where, where? the officer asked.

The radar operator pointed to an area on the screen where the speck had vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. Judging from the point where the radar operator thought he saw the blip, the officer now turned to the radio operator, Tell him to turn right twenty degrees, the officer ordered. Twenty degrees right, he repeated.

Navy Flight Four-One-Niner this is Bermuda Naval Air come right twenty degrees, do you read, over?

Negative, negative Bermuda (inaudible) . . . lost all power, ditching… into the sea, over and out, came the cryptic reply before the speaker went dead.

CHAPTER ONE

14 October 1979

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

8:30 a.m.

Chip, hurry up, Uncle Rick will be here any minute, Bernice Hartwig yelled up the back stairway.

I’m hurrying Mama, I’m hurrying.

For Christopher Hartwig today was a special day. Today he would celebrate his twelfth birthday by spending the day with his Uncle Rick and then coming home to a special dinner with his mother followed by a chocolate birthday cake and the opening of gifts.

Rick Watson was a retired Myrtle Beach police detective who had purchased a marine salvage yard in Little River after leaving the department. He liked to take young Christopher with him when he received a call to pick up an old boat that had been abandoned.

Christopher’s own father had been a Navy pilot shot down over North Vietnam in early1968. Since receiving the notice that Lieutenant Kenneth Hartwig was missing in action and presumed dead, Bernice’s brother, Rick, did his best to be the father Christopher never knew. They spent a great deal of time together and Rick treated Chip, as he called him, like the son he never had.

Within minutes the squeal of the pick-up truck’s brakes could be heard in the driveway. Chip, Uncle Rick is here, his mother yelled.

The young boy’s feet hit the landing of the old stairway with a heavy thud. The rest of the steps were covered in two smaller jumps.

Blonde hair and blue eyed, Christopher was the mirror image of his father at the same age. Like his father, his mouth curled into a smile every time he saw his mother.

Morning Mom.

Good morning Honey. Sit down and I’ll get you your breakfast.

The screen door banged shut as Uncle Rick walked into the large kitchen. Hey, can I get in on some of that too, Sis?

Sure can, I have plenty, she replied and sat a plate of fried eggs and bacon in front of both Chip and her brother.

Where are you guys headed this morning? she asked while pouring coffee into a large white cup.

Yeah, where we going, Uncle Rick?

Murrells Inlet: I got a call yesterday about an old shrimp boat that has been sitting around for years that has partially sunk and is causing navigation problems for some of the boaters in one of the channels. So they called me to see if I can salvage it.

Do they know who owns the boat, why didn’t they call the owner? his sister asked.

Don’t know the whole story. But if the old wreck is a hazard to navigation, the county has every right to have it removed, he replied.

Murrells Inlet was located 43 miles south of Little River. Highway 17 running along the Atlantic Coast connected the two cities. The area was commonly referred to as the Grand Strand. The term was coined by a local newspaper columnist by the name of Claude Dunnagan in 1949. It’s reported that he was referring to the long uninterrupted stretch of beaches forming a sixty mile arch along the coast from Little River to Charleston. The word strand came from the German meaning beach.

Murrells Inlet could have, at one time, been described as a quaint fishing village. Only seven and a half square miles in size, the surrounding countryside was once the rice capital of the South, but in modern times it is best known as the Seafood Capital of South Carolina because of the many famous seafood restaurants to be found along its main street.

History claims that Blackbeard and other pirates prowled its many channels and inlets waiting to prey on unsuspecting English and French merchant’s ships. The Spanish and other European explorers, and later the Civil War also visited the area.

For Rick Watson, Murrells Inlet was a trove of old fishing boats that needed to be salvaged once their usefulness was over. He had been called on to retrieve several small boats from the area in the past few years. Today, he was to begin one of the most mysterious and bizarre salvage jobs he had ever encountered.

You guys make sure you’re back by five o’clock. I have a special dinner planned for this evening, Bernice said as the screen door slammed hard against the jam.

No problem. We’ll be back in plenty of time, her brother said over his shoulder.

Bye, Mom, Chip yelled.

Bye Honey, have fun, she replied with a smile.

Seeing her son full of enthusiasm and life always brought a smile to her face. How his father would have enjoyed their little boy, she thought. She could close her eyes and envision the two of them doing things together; playing catch in the back yard, going on fishing trips and baseball games together, things that her brother now did with Chip instead.

Her smile broadened as she recalled the birth of their son that stormy night twelve years earlier. Ken had received a hardship leave from the Navy in order to fly home for the birth. He had arrived only an hour before she was hurried into the delivery room. Twenty minutes later she was holding their new born baby. Ken was smiling from ear to ear as he bent low and kissed their son on the forehead.

Rick was also there and the first to offer his hand in congratulations. It was then Rick saw how much the baby looked like his father; the blonde hair, straight angular nose, and the smile that curled up framed by dimples. The baby’s uncle first words would be the nickname that would stay with young Christopher for the rest of his life. "He’s a chip off the old block," Rick uttered.

Two days later Lieutenant Kenneth Hartwig was back on a transport plane heading to the west coast with orders for overseas deployment, orders that sent him 7,000 miles away from his wife and infant son, whom he would never see again. Those orders sent him to his new duty station aboard the aircraft carrier Yorktown circling in the Tonkin Gulf just off the coast of Vietnam.

Rick Watson never had any children of his own. Two years after graduating from college he married his high school sweetheart. Five years later cancer took her from him. He never fully recovered and he never remarried.

After receiving word that his brother-in-law had been shot down and was presumed dead, he stepped into the role of surrogate father for Chip. The role fulfilled his need to be a parent and hopefully filled the void he was sure Chip would someday experience.

The drive from his sister’s home in Myrtle Beach to Murrells Inlet took Chip and his uncle south along Kings Highway. They passed the hotels and restaurants section in the city of Myrtle Beach itself. Normally the trip was a straight shot, but Rick liked to take a small detour turning east on to Ocean Boulevard and driving south next to the ocean, past the site of the old Ocean Forest Hotel.

The hotel was once considered to be the best world class hotel in the South. It was built in February 1930 but was demolished 44 years later. It seemed like everyone in town turned out to watch the demolition on the September morning, two months before Rick Watson retired from the police force. He had a perfect viewing area having volunteered to help with crowd and traffic control. He recalled seeing tears in the eyes of several of the spectators as the beloved million dollar landmark imploded and then collapsed into a huge, smoldering pile of rubble. The three hundred room hotel that took nearly two years to build was leveled in a matter of seconds.

During its heyday the ten story hotel sat on thirteen acres right on the beach. Its marble stairways and crystal chandeliers, Greek columns, and oriental rugs attested to its elegance. The grand ballroom had been the site of thousands of weddings, graduations, and other special occasions. The hotel even had its own radio station.

Rick’s wedding had taken place there. He smiled as he recalled dancing to the orchestra’s music with his young bride under the stars on the Marine Patio with the hotel staff smartly dressed in gray and burgundy uniforms scurrying about serving their guests.

As a police officer he had been called several times to the hotel to investigate disturbances. He always enjoyed walking through the immense lobby area and out on to the well-manicured lawns and gardens. The place made everyone feel special. Besides, there was always the chance you would run into a dignitary or celebrity of some kind.

He especially remembered the night he was called to the hotel to investigate the questionable death of one of the guests. It was the first time he had come into contact with a dead body other than at a funeral.

The body had no marks to indicate that there had been a struggle of any kind and the room appeared neat and orderly. It wasn’t until Rick noticed a small empty prescription bottle on the night stand that an overdose of drugs was suspected and later verified by the autopsy as the cause of death.

Rick remembered how young the man was and what a needless waste of a life had been the self-induced death. He thought of Chip’s dad, another young life lost all too soon.

Chip’s question interrupted his thoughts. Uncle Rick, will we be stopping for lunch?

Lunch, you just had a big breakfast!

I know but we are passing McDonalds, and I like their french fries.

I guess we can stop a little later and get you some fries.

And maybe a cheeseburger; I really like their cheeseburgers?

Rick couldn’t help but smile, And maybe a cheeseburger.

Both Rick and his sister worried that they would spoil Chip. But he was a good kid, always helpful around the house and very respectable to everyone. He was a good student and well-liked by his teachers. Some of the death benefits Chip’s mom had received from the military had already gone into a college fund.

The truck sped south passing the Myrtle Beach Airport on the right and then the state park on the left. Their journey took them though the small beachside communities of Surfside Beach and Garden City finally arriving at their destination of Murrells Inlet. The truck turned left on to Murrells Inlet Road and came to a stop in the parking lot of the county government offices. The Zodiac boat and trailer attached to the back of the truck kicked up a swirl of dust as Rick opened the truck’s door.

Chip, you stay put. I have to make contact with a guy at the county and get the exact location of the old boat. I’ll be right back.

Okay, Uncle Rick, I’ll stay right here but I wish I had some french fries to keep me company.

Chip watched as his uncle disappeared into the air conditioned government office building. He reached over and turned the knob of the truck’s radio but his uncle had taken the keys with him.

The side mirror reflected the bright gray rubber boat with the big black Mercury outboard motor that his uncle had purchased just a month before. He could see the freshly painted lettering on the side that read: Watson’s Marine Salvage-Little River South Carolina in big blue letters. This would be the first time Chip would get to ride in the new boat. He wondered how different it would be from the old Boston Whaler his uncle used before when searching for abandoned boats along the coast.

The Zodiac was much smaller than the whaler and weighed much less. He had seen his uncle pick up the back of the trailer and move it and the Zodiac to the side. There was no way he could have done that with the heavy old fiberglass whaler.

Within minutes the door opened and his uncle sat down beside the boy. Now, that didn’t take long did it?

No sir. Did you find out where the old boat is, Uncle Rick?

I sure did. It’s resting on a point just before the big inlet, where Oaks Creek meets Main Creek. Apparently, those high winds we had last week dislodged it from where it had been beached farther up Oaks Creek just south of Huntington State Park. You remember the park; we went surf fishing there last winter?

I sure do, that was a lot of fun. When can we go fishing there again? the boy asked.

Soon enough, soon enough, first we’ve got some work to do.

The truck slowly pulled out of the driveway and back out onto Kings Highway, again heading south.

How are we going to get way out on the point near the inlet in the little boat we got? Chip asked.

It may be little but it’s a very stable boat. Besides it’s a lot better for beaching than that big heavy boat I used to have. We will have to drive up on the beach if we expect to get close enough to the old boat in order to examine it, his uncle explained.

Within a few minutes the truck turned off the highway and headed down Cherry Lane, a gravel road that led straight to the water.

Where are we going now? the boy asked excitedly.

Fortunately, a friend of mine owns a vacation home at the end of this road. He’s up north right now so we can put the Zodiac in at his place and head right out toward the inlet.

A few seconds later Rick brought the truck to a halt and then skillfully maneuvered the trailer around and slowly backed its wheels into the murky waters of Allston Creek.

Chip climbed out of the passenger seat and held the bow rope as his uncle slide the boat off the trailer. Once free of the trailer, Chip let the Zodiac float slowly out into the small creek until all the rope was fully extended. We could never have launched the old boat in such shallow water he thought.

His uncle handed him a bright orange life preserver that Chip knew he must wear anytime he was in the boat. His uncle always wore one.

With a camera in one hand and a small compass in the other, Rick motioned for Chip to haul the boat back to shore and climb in.

The big powerful motor roared to life and Rick cautiously backed the boat into deeper water and then pointed the nose north. Chip took a position at the bow and watched as a Limpkin, a large, dark brown marsh bird with long legs and a curved beak, slowly moved away from the noisy gray object that was scaring away the bird’s next meal.

The trip to the point would take some time. Property owners along the streams, creeks, and inlets that made up the salt marsh surrounding Murrells Inlet understandingly became upset anytime someone in a boat came roaring past on their way to open water. So upset in fact that the county sheriff’s river patrol had been called on many occasions to issue tickets to those who refused to heed the No Wake signs posted everywhere.

Chip shielded his eyes from the bright late morning sun reflecting off the water. The bow of the boat kicked up a cool salt-laden spray that struck Chip’s face and stung his eyes. He quickly turned toward the rear of the boat letting the spray hit the back of his head and drip down onto his collar. He watched as his uncle steered the boat around the points of land that jutted into the canals and small inlets while continually wiping the moisture from his sunglasses. Chip began to wish he had brought his sunglasses but he had neglected to retrieve them from the glove compartment of his uncle’s truck. Instead, he was forced to hold the palm of his hand above his eyes and squint.

Even though it was the middle of October, the air was still very warm and humid. But Chip liked this time of year most of all, especially the cool evenings when he could sit on the front porch and watch as cars drove by his house. He had made a game out of trying to identify the make and model of the automobile simply by their headlights. He often wondered why so many people were out driving around and not home watching television or sitting on their front porch watching the cars.

Once clear of the residential area, Rick opened up the throttle and the boat came up on plane skimming effortlessly over the small waves. The area before them opened into a huge water-covered world of decaying vegetation, called detritus, and vast fields of five-foot high cordgrass slowly turning from lush greens to light browns as the vegetation died.

The area was dotted with small mango brushes and larger mango trees in clumps ranging from two or three to larger clumps of a dozen or more.

The waters surrounding the small boat were the habitat of blue and fiddler crabs, spotted tail bass, marsh snails, and white shrimp. It was also home to several forms of reptiles such as diamond-backed terrapin along with other types of turtles, and in some places, alligators.

Salt marshes in the State of South Carolina alone cover more than three hundred thousand acres of land; more than any other state on the eastern seaboard of the United States. The salt marshes near Murrells Inlet and further south were commonly referred to as the Lowcountry Archipelago of islands.

A smile came over Chip’s face as a strong breeze swirled all around him and the pungent, musty odors of the salt marsh were replaced by