Truly weary and worn and "one more unfortunate," as Judge Milliken said in Third District Court this morning, Ormund Erikson, a starved, demented sailor, who was found eating grass on West Island, was given into the kindly hands of Chaplain S. Thurber of the Mariners Home after the court discharged him on a vagrancy count.

This noon the chaplain gave the castaway a square meal and arrayed him in clean garments at the Mariners Home. Then Mr. Thurber and his son, Wesley, started for Boston, with Erikson, by automobile. There the wanderer will be placed in one of the larger sailor havens, and it is hoped he will recover enough to tell who he is and how he came to West Island.

Before he left, the sea waif inquired in bewilderment, what place he was and what kind of a city was where a man could get food and clothing without paying for it? "I never knew anything like it before," he said. "Oh no, I don’t want to go to the Seaman’s Home," he mumbled when asked by Court Officer Parkinson if he wanted to be turned over to Mr. Thurber, who would give him a bed, good food and clothes. "That would be too fine for me." And he said something about washing dishes or "working on a farm."

Although many more mysterious and pitiful things have come from the sea, there has been nothing stranger or more pitiable than the mystery sailor and his mystery craft, swept into Buzzard’s Bay, it is believed, by the Southeast storm of last Sunday.

The patchwork craft can scarcely be called a boat, for it was made by himself, in Tarrytown, New York, the man has muttered, of boxboards and stray pieces of lumber and daylight can be seen through it most anywhere. It is about thirty-five feet long, but only four feet wide, open like a whaleboat, except for a few boards nailed across one end, which served as a cabin. It had holes for the mast, but no masts in it, only a stick for a jury mast about six feet high, rigged with the remnants of a shirt.

"That’s not a boat, that’s a coffin," Constable Walter H. Francis of Fairhaven, who was called to West Island to see the man, remarked.

Aboard it, as it lay high and dry at low tide on Crescent Beach, on the southeast side of the island yesterday afternoon, there were no identifying marks that could be discovered.

Aboard it there was no food, except a can of peanut butter, into which the salt water had swept bits of cork and other debris, a can of molded flour and a can of rotten potatoes and carrots.

The can of peanut butter showed traces of finger marks, where the man, with his bare hands, had clawed out handfuls of the contents.

Those who have seen the boat agree that Erikson, the name the castaway goes by, must have been demented before he put to sea in such a craft. This morning he proved a volauble talker, but little could be made from what he babbled, and that little, when compared did not agree.

He told Probation Officer Edward A. Dewolf, who questioned him in the court dock, that he had left New York to go to Portland, Maine to see his wife and family. He said he had planned to go through the Cape Cod Canal, despite the fact that he had no money to pay tolls. But he had previously told Constable Francis that he was single and he had no near relatives. The only folks he had, he said, were in Norway. He told Mr. Egbert that he had a father and mother in Seattle, Washington.

This morning he bobbed up and down in the court dock and occasionally broke forth with weird babblings. Now and then he laughed. Court Officer Parkinson had to quiet him several times.

He is 43 according to himself and is a man of slight build. He is emaciated and his eyes are red rimmed. His black hair is closely cropped. He has a ragged, reddish beard and moustache. His eyes are blue, his ears are rather particularly pointed.

He wore a once black frock coat, a black undershirt, two pairs of trousers, which together do not make one whole pair, and two pairs of shoes, the outer pair huge for his size, shot full of holes, which revealed gray socks.

After he had been fed at the Fairhaven Town Hall last evening by janitor Seth Hiller, he spent last night at police headquarters, where he was booked on a charge of vagrancy, until it was determined what should be done with him. He willingly submitted to an arrest, when assured that he would be given something to eat.

Monday morning, Egbert, whose winter home is in Saint Louis, Missouri, but summers on West Island, which he largely owns, was informed by three boys that a crazy man was down on the beach. When he neared the beach, he said he saw Erikson tugging two boards down to his boat, which was fast in the sand.

"When he saw me," Egbert said, "he took a small board and started to dig, like mad, in the sand, as though he was trying to dig his boat out and float it."

I noticed that he was chewing grass, and asked him if he was hungry, and offered to get him some food from the house."

"No, I’ve got plenty aboard the ship," the man replied, "I just want to get my ship floated, so that I can get away with the tide."

Mr. Egbert had a small motor boat, which he had reached the mainland, but yesterday morning he noticed that it was gone. Believing the weird stranger might know something about it he telephoned Constable Francis.

When Constable Francis with Special Policeman Edward Mello, went to the island about three yesterday afternoon the pitiable condition of the man was revealed. When the Constable went aboard the flimsy boat at high tide the castaway was baling desperately, but the water was rushing in through the many holes faster than he was throwing it out. No trace of the missing motor boat was found nor could the castaway enlighten the constable about it.

In dozens of places along the hull of the sea waif’s boat there were pieces of zinc and tin that had been tacked over holes. There was no skiff in the boat. There were piles of rocks in the bottom for ballast. The anchor was a five-gallon kerosene can, weighted and made fast with pieces of linoleum twisted together for a cable. The bunk on which the man had been sleeping was partially under water, where the vessel listed. The bunk was only a couple of planks.

The wrecked mariner’s clothes were soggy with water, his eyes were bloodshed and he was black with dirt. He admitted later that he had not taken a bath in six months. When Mr. Egbert saw him in the dock at the court this morning, after he had been washed, he did not recognize him.

He babbled incoherently and all the constable was able to get from him was that his name was Esmond Erikson a and he gave his address as "the water." He said he hadn’t worked for two years and he had no money. Constable Francis believes, although hardly believable, that the castaway had been drifting about here and there in the boat and going ashore when a storm threatened the unseaworthy makeshift craft.

An occasional word indicated that he had been a sailor since he was sixteen, most of the time a fisherman and that he had sailed over much of the world. He had said he built "his ship" at Tarrytown, New York. The constable offered to have him sent to a farm, having the State Farm at Bridgewater, in mind, where he would be given care and a chance to recover, mentally and bodily. The man eagerly welcomed the chance, and as soon as Francis said food, he was ready to accompany him anywhere. Constable Francis believes that the mention of a farm is responsible for the subsequent babblings of a farm.

At the Town Hall, where Mr. Miller before he fed him in the Police station, was obliged to open all the windows, he ate everything that Mr. Miller was able to bring him. "He couldn’t get it down fast enough," the janitor said. "I actually was afraid he would that he was going to eat everything, plates and all."

The castaway in court this morning did not at all comprehend the proceedings. When Clerk of Court Mitchell asked him to plead to the charge of being a vagrant since May 1, he burst forth, "I built it myself, I came down from Tarrytown."

After several futile attempts Judge Milliken ordered a plea of not guilty to be entered for him. He was then left sitting bolt upright in the dock until the other cases were disposed of. Constable Francis, Special Officer Mello, and Mr. Egbert told from the witness stand of how they had found the man and his patchwork craft.

"What are your plans for the future," the court asked?

"The wind was driving and the boat was leaking," Erikson replied. "I laid on the deck. I just kept bailing. I had no oars."

"No! No! Have you any relatives? Any relations living anywhere?"

"Yes, in the state of Washington," he answered.

"What do you want to do? Do you want to ship aboard a ship after you have recovered?"

The defendant said something about a farm again, and the court gave up the attempt to question him. Judge Milliken ordered Court Officer Parkinson to notify Mr. Thurber at the Mariner's Home on Johnny Cake Hill and ask him to come to the court to see if he could offer any solution as to what to do with the demented sailor.

Mr. Thurber, when he arrived a short time later, said that he would try to care for the castaway, temporarily at the Mariners Home and then transfer him to a Sailors Home in Boston. He said that it was customary to transfer unfortunates sailors to one of the larger homes in Boston where he would be cared for until he was sufficiently recovered to go on his way.

At first the Chaplain planned to send Erikson to Boston with a letter of introduction, but when he realized that he was not fit to travel by himself and said he would probably accompany him to Boston.

In case the stranded sailor does not his mental balance, he will, in all probability, never sail away from West Island in the strange craft, for it is resting far up the beach and will undoubtedly stay there until it is pounded to pieces. Constable Francis could discover no papers, nor any name on the boat yesterday afternoon, and believed it will be impossible to discover the castaway’s identity and homeport from any search of the wreck.

Unless Erikson, with good care and food, recovers sufficiently or relatives or friends learn of his story the strange mariner and his stranger boat, may remain as unexplained mystery of the sea.

(Special to the Standard) June 22

Osmund Erikson, mysterious mariner, who was skipper, cook and crew of the decrepit vessel which washed up on West Island Tuesday, was doing the rounds of the waterfront here today looking for a job.

Erikson was brought to the Seaman’s Rest Society haven here yesterday by Chaplain Charles Thurber of the New Bedford Seamen’s Bethel. He had been found munching grass along side his crazy craft, nearly starved and apparently mentally unbalanced as a result of the privations suffered from a voyage he said he made from New York. Upon his arrival in Boston yesterday, he immediately set out to look for work, but returned in the evening unsuccessful. He was given a shave, bath and a good supper and put to bed but bright and early this morning he was up, had a good breakfast and was off in quest of a billet again.

Authorities at the home said he was much improved, physically and mentally since his arrival, but would not talk about himself or his family.

"It might have sailed."

Such was the verdict of one person who on a visit to West Island, viewed the craft, which brought to that strip of land surrounded by waters, the weird sea waif, now know in the annals of Third District Court as the "West Island Castaway."

The boat itself, well that’s another matter. According to those who have seen it, there probably isn’t another like it in the wide, wide world.

Homemade, it certainly, is or was whatever tense you desire. It’s builder, owner and skipper, in one constructed it apparently out of box boards, and a whaling boat must have been his model. There was no floor. Pieces of tin and zinc plastered it’s sides in various forms and shapes, a coat of tar had been given and it’s numerous cracks and crevices had been plugged with bits of rope. The mast was still a cedar tree, with it’s bark stripped off, and the lonesome voyager, probably nailed the remnants of his rigs sail to it, for no halyards could be seen.

Inside the boat was a number of stones, apparently used for ballast and these stones bore mute evidence that the voyager had built his fire upon them.

Both ends of the boat were rounded, following the styles of the whaleboats, and on one end was erected a crude shelter. In this there was no floor either, but a shelf was there and crude coffeepot and a frying pan. It contained a crude bunk. For a stovepipe there was a tin pail.

A crude rudder also was in place.

And in view of all of this, one person still has said, "It might have sailed."

-See Details of West Island Castaway.

New Bedford mystery man Ormund Erikson, who with his un-seaworthy craft, was washed up on the shores of West Island, and was later turned over to Chaplain Charles S. Thurber of the Mariner’s Home after he had been discharged by Judge Milliken on a vagrancy charge was the subject this morning of a letter received by Mayor Remington from Israel F. Fischer, a United States appraiser of New York. In the letter Mr. Fischer said that he was enquiring of the man’s present whereabouts and the fullest information regarding him because a mother who had lost both of her sons in a ship wreck and lives in the hope that the sailor washed up on the shores here might possibly be one of her missing boys.

The letter received by the Mayor within which was enclosed a clipping of the finding of the demented sailor here.

"I enclose here with a newspaper clipping of regarding the finding of a demented sailor on West Island and would kindly ask that I be supplied with the fullest and most detailed information available concerning the subject."

"My interest in the matter is due to a most heart rendering appeal of a mother who lost her two sons, presumably in a shipwreck. Although she parted with them nearly two years ago, the deep anguish and grief over this distracted mother has aroused sympathetic interest in the community in which she lives. The sadness of which her two boys went out of her life and the complete absence of the slightest clue to their fate has almost unbalanced her reason and she spends both day and might searching and praying for some clue to her loved ones.

I know that you will appreciate the overwhelming tragedy to this devoted mother’s life and that you will lose no time in granting this request, since her heart will be torn with anxiety until she has exhausted this forlorn hope that it might be one of her boys. You will earn her undying gratitude by giving me all of the details at the earliest possible time.

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