CARROWAY ISLAND HISTORY

Carroway Island does not appear in most maps of consequence, nor does it insist upon itself in the manner of larger places. Yet for those who have come ashore, even briefly, it is understood that the island has a history both longer and more stubborn than its modest outline would suggest.

The earliest accounts speak of temporary camps set along the marsh edge, where watermen from neighboring shores would anchor for a tide or a season. These were not settlements in the formal sense, but rather practical arrangements, shelter from weather, proximity to oysters, and the quiet understanding that the bay provides best to those who do not overstay their welcome.

 A more lasting presence began in 1798, when Gulliver Peebles is said to have constructed the island’s first permanent form, a modest but stubborn structure set just above the reach of the highest known tides. Accounts differ as to its exact purpose. Some maintain it was a dwelling. Others insist it served as a storehouse, or even a place of quiet retreat from less agreeable company. What is generally agreed upon is that it remained standing longer than expected, and that its placement influenced where others would later build. 

By the late 1800s, a more permanent community began to take hold. Simple homes were raised on slightly higher ground, docks extended themselves into uncertain waters, and the routines of crabbing and oystering established the island’s daily rhythm. It was during this time that the first informal governance appeared, dockmasters, ferry schedules, and disputes settled not by law but by long memory and mutual dependence.

Among the more consequential events in the island’s early history is the widely recounted arrival of thirteen Union soldiers who, by all reasonable accounts, were not intended for Carroway at all.

During the closing movements of the war, the men are believed to have been part of a force bound for the invasion of Norfolk. Owing to navigational misjudgment, shifting currents, or what has since been described simply as “poor coastal understanding,” their vessel ran aground along the outer marshes of Carroway Island.

At the time, the island maintained a position of practical neutrality, owing less to political philosophy than to a general preference for avoiding involvement in matters requiring uniforms. The stranded soldiers were recovered by local watermen and brought ashore, where they were fed, housed, and, in time, made comfortable.

It is here that the historical record becomes both clearer and more unusual.

Accustomed to the lean rations of campaign life, the soldiers reportedly found themselves in a state of considerable improvement after only a short stay. Meals consisting of fresh oysters, soft-shell crabs, and stewed provisions were provided without ceremony but with consistency. Within weeks, the urgency of their original mission appears to have diminished.

No formal decision to remain was ever recorded. Rather, the soldiers simply did not leave.

Whether through contentment, confusion, or a collective reassessment of priorities, the thirteen men remained on Carroway Island, effectively removing themselves from the campaign. In so doing, it is occasionally suggested, though not without debate, that the island played a quiet but decisive role in preventing the intended action against Norfolk.

Today, many island families trace some portion of their lineage to these thirteen men, though the exact accounting varies depending on who is asked and how recently the subject has been discussed.

No monument marks the event. None has been proposed.

It is, however, generally agreed that the island fed them well—and that, in the end, this proved sufficient.

The Carroway Island Ledger, first issued in 1902, became the island’s record of note. It reported on ferry arrivals, weather irregularities, misplaced crab pots, and the occasional matter of public concern. Its tone, steady and unhurried, remains unchanged to this day.

Through storms, shifting channels, and the slow departures of those seeking easier lives elsewhere, Carroway Island has persisted. It has done so not by growth, but by continuation, each generation inheriting not only land and water, but a way of understanding both.

Visitors often remark that the island feels unchanged. This is not entirely accurate. It has changed in all the ways that matter, but never in a hurry, and never without reason.

 In the years following the last great war, the island saw its only formal venture into aviation, owing largely to the determined efforts of the Crowley family. After their son Tobias was, as the story is most often told, “struck by the flying bug” upon acquiring a surplus Curtiss SBC Helldiver, sometime in 1943, the family undertook the clearing and leveling of a modest grass landing strip along the island’s flatter western reach, constructed expressly to accommodate the aircraft and its particular requirements. 

The Helldiver itself, widely recognized as the last biplane combat aircraft ever procured by the United States and the final biplane built for U.S. military service, proved both a marvel and a complication. Its presence brought brief excitement, occasional concern, and a steady number of onlookers during its more successful takeoffs. While the landing strip remains, maintained in a fashion consistent with island priorities, it has seen less regular use in recent years, though not, it should be noted, complete abandonment.