By Andrew Priest
“Is this really it?”
I looked around the dock of Ewell as my mother and I departed the boat. A few boats in various conditions of repair lined the waterway. Empty crab pots sat stacked on top of a gravel driveway, leading to a half-solid, half-gravel road deeper into the island. Next to the crab pots sat a restaurant, deigned “Harborside” (of course it was). On my right, houses. People’s houses, with barely any space in between to maneuver. On my left, old oil containers that were more than a little rusted, with whatever silver finish was left gleaming against the sun of a cloudless sky.
And standing in place of me was this unappreciative brat, who had become accustomed to traveling to only the most popular destinations. The version of me writing this finds it abominable, though I suppose hindsight is 20/20.
The dock of Ewell on a sunny, cloudless fall day.
As I stepped off the boat, our captain and a few other men began unloading passengers and packages. The metaphorical horse we rode in on, christened “Island Belle II,” was more than just a ferry for curious tourists and Smith Island Locals—it also served as a mailboat, essentially. On the way over, I bumped shoulders not only with passengers, but packages from Amazon and the post office, as well. A woman rode up on a golf cart to greet the captain and returning locals.
“Oh, right,” I thought to myself, remembering my pre-travel research. You see, Smith Island is a very small island (roughly three by five miles), made up by three towns: Ewell (where I had landed and would be staying for the weekend), Rhodes Point, and Tylerton. As such, the people of Smith Island do not find a need to constantly use a car to get around. That’s not to say they don’t have cars—quite a few houses I would see later had them, they just weren’t being used all the time to get around. The alternatives involved traversing the island(s) by golf cart, bike, boat, or one’s own legs. In our own corner, the captain of the “Island Belle II” threw mail and luggage in the bed of a pickup truck.
Attempts to talk to the captain were somewhat successful as we began driving towards our destination. Otis was his name, and relative silence seemed to be his game. Not the most conversational person, and I completely understand now, but then, I thought he just wasn’t being very social with us. Back then, his lack of talking had made me nervous—here I was needing to talk to people and learn about the island, and nobody wanted to share with me? Man, I was screwed—or so I thought, as we pulled up to the bed and breakfast we had reserved for the weekend. There to greet us was our hostess’s mother, June. We had already been informed that June may step in for the hostess if she wasn’t available. She was a very sweet old lady with circular rimmed glasses. As we entered the house, she greeted us warmly, and explained the B & B to us.
The actual house was rather small, but not too much smaller than my own house at home—it was a house designed for maybe two consistent residents, with one or two guestrooms. The kitchen was slightly bigger than an office cubicle, an older-looking kitchen mixed with modern machinery. Adjacent to the kitchen was the dining room, the furniture covered in white sheets to protect them from damage and dust. In the corners of the room stood two china cabinets, filled with all kinds of precious-looking glassware, including some Depression glass. The Keurig sitting on top of the buffet table did not look out of place at all, somehow. Good to know there’s coffee. Next to the dining room was the living room—a small carpeted room with a large and rather comfy-looking couch, flanked on either side by tall, skinny lamps, all facing towards a TV set up inside of a wood-cabinet or some sorts. The coffee table in front of the sofa contained brochures of Smith Island, a TV guide, and a map, among other things a curious traveler/guest might peruse while flipping through channels. And then there was the crown jewel of it all—the front porch (which I had actually walked through to get in the house, but I guess I wasn’t being very observant at the time). The floors were a wood paneling of sorts, with wooden wicker chairs and a table for eating on said porch, along with two rocking chairs. The porch was enclosed by glass windows, which could be opened, should a guest be on the island when it was warmer, or if they just wanted to freeze their butts off, I guess. The stairs to the second floor felt small and a little cramped, but again, small house. The upstairs contained three bedrooms and a bathroom, all feeling like they had some age to them. Not ancient, necessarily, but a little old. As I was looking at the bedrooms, two frames on the wall caught my eye. Upon closer inspection, they were maps—with little magnetic pins stuck all over them, pointing to different places in the country and world. I made a mental not to ask about it later.
Having settled down, my mom and I began heading towards our first stop on the way through Smith Island: the Cultural Center, located in Ewell…about 300 feet from the house. As we began walking down the road, I finally took notice of the size of the road. It could fit three people walking abreast comfortably, maybe four, or one car, or two golf carts. One hot minute later, and we arrived at the Cultural Center (we had actually drive by it coming in). On the outside, the building was a rather unassuming brown, with a low porch that wrapped all the way around said building. Flower pots adorned the steps, and a “Welcome!” sign swayed in the breeze on the glass doors. As we entered the building, a woman in a little glass cubicle greeted us.
“Hello! How are we all doing today?”
I responded in kind. “Oh, I’m doing alright. Yourself?”
The woman left her glass cubicle to come to the register/front counter and introduce herself. Her name was Laura, and it turns out she was our hostess’s cousin (by marriage). And to think she was a stone’s throw away from the bed and breakfast. Huh. Anyway, I let her know I came to visit because I was writing about Smith Island, and Laura perked up right away. Turns out she had all kinds of information to share—about the people, the island, the Cultural Center, and even her dog who was with her, Zebeda; apparently, his father was a show dog once in the Westminster Dog Show. As we sat on some benches in the middle of the room, Laura put on a video for us about Smith Island—produced in 1996 (as much as I hate to say it, the entire Cultural Center felt like it hadn’t been updated since it was established in 1996). I started to get a feel for the people of Smith Island—hardworking, kind people who just want to make a living the way their ancestors had for generations—crabbing (hardshell in the fall/spring, softshell in the summer) and hunting for oysters (in the winter). This didn’t apply to everybody on the island, of course, but not everybody is the same. The women of Smith Island talked about their work in the video, peeling crabs, baking, helping out around the island. Turns out jobs on the island were not always restricted to one person—if you were available, you were more than welcome to help. Laura, for example, works more than just the Cultural Center (apparently, she works eight or nine other small jobs around the island. Whether this speaks to hardworking nature, or the economic situation of Somerset County is beyond me. Maybe both?). Then the video truly caught my attention as it turned to Ms. Kitching—one of the island’s best bakers, though she was long deceased by the time I got to the island. By bakers, I mean Smith Island cake bakers. Watching her make it on video was incredible. She flawlessly baked layer after layer of cake, saying “If it sizzes, it ain’t done. If it don’t siz, it’s done.” Allow me to detail some information about this cake: Smith Island cake is the state cake of Maryland. Originally, they were baked so that the watermen could take them out while they were crabbing. They are hardy cakes—the icing hardens slightly to protect the inside of the cake, so it can last longer and still be delicious. They traditionally have anywhere between eight to ten layers of cake of various flavors (though vanilla is a commonplace choice), with layers of icing (usually chocolate) in-between. Layers of both cake and icing are pencil-thin, thus requiring precision and careful attention of the baker. While it was not my primary objective of my visit, it was certainly a welcome part of it, and I sought to find as many cakes on the island as I could. The more I could eat—er, analyze them, the better.
We tried our own hands at Ms. Kitching’s recipe once we got home. Safe to say, we still need to practice some.
After the video, we decided to head out for the day and grab some dinner to eat. Everything on Smith Island basically shuts down after 6 p.m., so we needed to get moving. We settled on the Harborside restaurant that we had passed entering the dock. The Harborside isn’t quite a restaurant in the traditional sense—it’s more of a grocery store, with a restaurant business as a side gig. Inside were three isles for groceries, and some plastic tables and chairs on the right. A half-cut Smith Island cake sat in a clear glass cake stand near the register. A TV in the corner blared advice and stories from doctors on a talk show, while a few men sat at the tables, swapping stories of the day. Above the cash register was a menu that included cheesesteaks, hamburgers, and hot dogs. A pretty standard collection of American food. Not that the menu really caught my attention, considering the real prize sat in the cake stand by the register, begging me to try it. I settled on a cheesesteak for the evening, with a side of authentic Smith Island cake. Finally, I got to try it directly from the source! It was shorter than expected, but that was just because the layers were incredibly thin. I took my first bite, and immediately I knew this was the real deal. A moist vanilla cake meshed fantastically with a fudgy icing, stimulating my taste buds in all the right ways.
The next day, I had planned on visiting Tylerton, to get a feel for one of the other towns. The only problem was that it was raining, and windy. Not ideal conditions, especially since I had considered kayaking. When I finally decided we needed alternative transportation, our hostess (who we had finally met last night, Susan) suggested we check with Laura to see if anybody could give us a lift to the island. Boat was the only way to get to Tylerton, as it was on another island (Smith Island includes several smaller islands that are right next to it, and are considered part of the greater whole). Laura was able to get us a boat in the form of a weathered captain by the name of Barry. Barry was 77 years old, cheery, and had been a waterman for about 60 of those years. He had seen a lot, and his expertise handling his little craft showed it. On the trip over, we learned of the winter season of 1977—a winter so cold that the entire Bay area around Smith Island was frozen solid for eight weeks, and the Coast Guard had to fly supplies in via helicopter. Once we landed in Tylerton, Barry said he would wait for us at the town grocery store as we looked around, and to find him when we were ready to return. I scored another piece of Smith Island cake at said grocery store while in Tylerton, this time, with Butterfinger mixed in, a twist I had not encountered before, but a welcome one nonetheless. As we walked around, I met a man by the name of Charles—who, like us, was not a normal resident of Smith Island. Instead, he lived on the mainland, but had bought a house on Smith Island. The way he talked about the island was intriguing—he described Smith Island as a getaway from the rest of the world, somewhere he could relax. He tried to come every other weekend, weather and schedule permitting, of course. Evidently, there is some sort of charm that draws people to the island. I would later receive confirmation on this from Susan—her maps with the little magnetic pins displayed where people had come from to visit Smith Island, and they came from all over the world. Some of those locations included the following: New Zealand, India, Cuba, and various countries from Europe. Truly, this island is a charming wonder in its own right.
When we returned to Ewell, we headed back to the B & B to grab the bikes available for use outside the door. There was one town left: Rhodes Point. We began making the two to three mile trip over. The road took us through marshland and tall grasses, swaying gently in the breeze, as we traveled under a cloudy but sunlit sky. Rhodes Point itself consisted of houses in various states of repair lined up along the shoreline, all leading toward the shipyard at the end of the road. The shoreline itself was full of hundreds of birds, all enjoying the low tides to relax on the muddy sand. Seagulls squawked at each other, while egrets and herons paced the shoreline, watching us with a wary eye. One egret gave us a throaty grunt and flew off when we stepped too close to it. Once we reached the shipyard, boats sat like fish out of water; one boat was even hanging by the cables of whatever device pulls it out of the water. I imagined the boat looking like it was ready for surgery. I was reminded of Smith Island’s size when I reached the end of the dock—across from me, I could see Tylerton, nestled comfortably on its little island. As the sun fell peacefully over Rhodes Point, and we decided it was time to turn in for the night.
Traveling to (and through) Rhodes Point allowed for some quiet time to reflect upon the journey.
We planned on leaving Sunday, only to be surprised by high forty-five mile per hour winds (I say surprised, but the howling kept me up almost all night). So it was our last opportunity to explore the island. We looked around parts of Ewell that we had missed before. It was startling to look over the water at the incredibly low tides—so low that the seagulls looked like they were walking on water.
As we pulled out of Ewell Monday morning, I felt I was going to miss the island—its people, its nature, and especially its cake (though we did receive one as a parting gift from the B & B, and boy was that a good cake. Baked by Susan’s sister-in-law, in fact). I just wish I had more time to explore. There was so much more to do, more to see. I gave one last goodbye wave to the island as we pulled away, and the “Island Belle II” motored into the rising sun.
More Than Maryland 