The Human Shore: Seacoasts in History

JOHN R. GILLIS is the author of Islands of the Mind; A World of Their Own Making: Myth, Ritual, and the Quest for Family Values; and Commemorations. A professor of history emeritus at Rutgers University, he now divides his time between two coasts: Northern California and Maine.

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2012 by John R. Gillis

All rights reserved. Published 2012.

Printed in the United States of America

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ISBN-13:978-0-226-92223-2 (cloth)

ISBN-13:978-0-226-92225-6 (e-book)

ISBN-10:0-226-92223-5 (cloth)

ISBN-10:0-226-92225-1 (e-book)

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Gillis, John R.

The human shore : seacoasts in history / John R. Gillis.

pages. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-226-92223-2 (cloth : alk. paper) —

ISBN 0-226-92223-5 (cloth : alk. paper) —

ISBN 978-0-226-92225-6 (e-book) —

ISBN 0-226-92225-1 (e-book) 1. Coasts. 2. Seashore. I. Title.

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The Human Shore

SEACOASTS IN HISTORY

JOHN R. GILLIS

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

To the memory of Rachel Carson, who brought us all back to the sea

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Introduction

1. An Alternative to Eden

2. Coasts of the Ancient Mariner

3. Sea Frontiers of the Early Modern Atlantic

4. Settling the Shores

5. The Second Discovery of the Sea

6. Coastal Dreams and Nightmares

Conclusion: Learning to Live with Coasts

Acknowledgments

Notes

Index

ILLUSTRATIONS

1. Cliffside sign at Sea Ranch, California

2. Shell mound at Emeryville, California, topped by a dance pavilion

3. View from cave at Pinnacle Point, South Africa

4. Map of world migration from 100,000 BCE

5. Drawing of Doggerland, a land bridge between Britain and Europe, ca. 3000 BCE

6. Tollundmannen, bog man found in Denmark

7. Mural representing a Chumash fishing village

8. Unearthed Stone Age village of Skara Brae, Orkney, Scotland

9. World as pictured by Hecataeus, 500 BC

10. Ship’s boat arriving on beach, Madras, India

11. Marshall Islands rebbelib

12. Portolan chart by Jorge de Agulon, 1492

13. Tjelvar’s shipgrave, Boge, Gotland

14. Skalholt map by Bishop Thordu Thorkaksson, 1670

15. Drowned church, Skagen, Denmark, abandoned 1775

16. Fishing stages at Ferryland, Newfoundland, James Yonge, seventeenth century

17. A mapp of Virginia by John Farrar

18. View of New Amsterdam by Johannes Vingboons, 1664

19. Bateau du port de San Francisco by Louis Chorus

20. Schoolhouse being barged on the Vinalhaven, Maine, waterfront

21. Representation of the effects of Lisbon earthquake and tsunami of 1755

22. Dog Hole Port on the coast of northern California

23. Bird’s Eye View of Manhattan, Currier & Ives, 1884

24. Painters’ icon, Motif Number 1, Rockport, Massachusetts

25. Waterfront at Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia

26. Land’s End, Cornwall

27. Driftwood by Winslow Homer, 1909

28. Shoreside view of Indian encampment at Bar Harbor, Maine, 1881

29. Tumblehome, by Peter Ralston

30. Bathing machines. Terror of the Sea, Thomas Rowlandson, ca. 1800

31. Pegwell Bay in Kent, A Memory from October 5, 1858

32. Blackpool, England, by Elliott Erwitt

33. Mixed group of watergazers by Elliott Erwitt

34. Beach health class at Ocean City, New Jersey, in 1920s

35. View from 9th Avenue by Saul Steinberg, 1976

36. Coexistence of working waterfront and bathing beach, Beer, Devon, England

37. German factory ship, Kiel NC105, 2008

38. The Peking docked at South Street Seaport Maritime Museum, New York

39. Container ships in San Francisco Bay

40. The Gulf Stream by Winslow Homer

41. Killer whales perform at Sea World, Orlando, Florida

42. Coastal guard in World War II England

43. Move path of the Cape Hatteras Light, 1999

44. Architect Lawrence Halprin’s vision of Sea Ranch

45. Storm surge during Hurricane Carol, 1969

46. Results of Japanese tsunami by Yomuri Shimbun, 2011

47. Fishing huts on the Long Island shore by Hal B. Fullerson, 1902

48. Effects of coastal erosion, Dauphin Island, Alabama, November 2005

49. Houseboats at Sausalito, California, 2004

50. The Evolution of Man by Nicholas Garland, 2009

INTRODUCTION

Coasts. There are all manner of coasts. Every person born in this world has a coast, an edge, a boundary, a transitional zone between themselves and the world.

JOHN A. MURRAY¹

Around the world there is an unprecedented surge to the sea. Half of all the globe’s peoples now live within one hundred miles of an ocean. In the United States, coastal populations have increased about 30 percent in thirty years. Today, what has been termed the coastal zone, constituting only 15 percent of the US land area, is inhabited by 53 percent of the US population. In similar ways, Australia, South America, Asia, and Europe have been turned inside out. Only Africa has not been hollowed out, and even there coastal populations, particularly urban ones, are exploding. We are all now creatures of the edge, mentally as well as physically. Having experienced one of the greatest physical migrations in human history, we are in the midst of a cultural reorientation of vast significance.²

In my own lifetime, coasts have changed more than any other feature of the landscape. Not only has the colonization of the coast by interior peoples drastically altered marine environments, but it has utterly transformed the nature of coastal communities. The coasts themselves have taken on an entirely new cultural meaning, not only for those who live there but also for inlanders, who are increasingly oriented toward the sea. Today we are all, in some way or another, coastal. Not only do we live on coasts but we think with them. They are a part of our mythical as well as physical geography.

My own life recapitulates in a small way this epic return to the sea. I was born in New Jersey and taken to its shore as a small child. But most of my childhood and youth was spent in the American interior, and it was not until I was married and the father of two boys that I took up seasonal residence on a small island off the Maine coast. Though I did not realize it at the time, I was participating in what, in retrospect, now appears to have been a historical shift of great significance. Today I am member of that demographic called bicoastals, living in the Bay Area for most of the year and Maine in the summer.

It has taken me a half-century to become fully aware of what this has meant to me and to society more generally. Even now, I am still discovering the different ways it is possible to be coastal. Every summer I am made painfully aware of just how different my relationship to the sea is from that of my Maine neighbors who make their livings from the ocean. I have come to appreciate the difference between living on coasts and living with them, and have learned to make a sharp distinction between people located on coasts and coastal people whose historical relationships with the coastal environment goes beyond mere residence. Mainers like to remind those of us from away just how different we are from those native to their shores. I now accept their judgment.³

In Rachel Carson’s classic The Sea around Us, the ocean is the beginning of all life. In time some creatures learned to live on land, and a few, like the whale and the seal, found their way back to the sea. Eventually man, too, found his way back to the sea, not to return to it physically but rather to re-enter it mentally and imaginatively. This is precisely what Carson did so brilliantly as a scientist and supremely gifted writer. She brought millions of readers to the edge of the sea, reintroducing them to the precious environment that lies on both sides of the tide line. And this is also what I aspire to do as a historian, except that my task is to cross the time line that separates coastal present from coastal past.⁴

Writing about coasts and coastal people has been a marvelous journey of the mind, full of surprises and discoveries. Many of them have come from our small island within sight of Acadia National Park, where I find it easier to cross the line of tide and time than anywhere else. Its cemetery records two hundred years of island life and death. We occupy a nineteenth-century sea captain’s house that once belonged to one of Maine’s best-known writers, Ruth Moore, who knew the lay of both land and sea as well as anyone. Her poems capture the enduring features of the coast but also the massive changes that have come to it over the centuries.⁵

The first summer people were Indians.

For some five thousand years

They built up shore-line shell heaps before

They lost to the pioneers.

Theirs was a time of history

And written records show

That their hold on the offshore islands began

Less than four hundred years ago.

Now comes the era of real estate,

Of the hundred thousand dollar lots,

Of the condominiums, side by side,

Along the shoreline [sic] choicest spots.

What follows the time of developers

No human voice can tell

But the silent offshore islands know,

And they handle their mysteries well.

On Moore’s coast, the past is ever present. Native Americans have never really gone away. Descendants of those who left shell heaps dating from the time of Christ return annually to clam and shoot deer. They are joined by the heirs of the first European settlers, who still fish and build boats in ways that would be familiar to any ancient mariner. On this coast, even summer people from the suburbs know how to hunt, gather, and garden in ways not much different from those of Stone Age peoples.

Evidence of such continuities is everywhere on Maine’s shores, but the connective tissue is largely invisible. I had been living there for almost a half-century before realizing how little I knew about their natural and human history. In part it was my own training as a historian that had blinkered me, for we have been taught to treat coasts as places where history begins and ends, of interest only as thresholds. Historians learn to privilege land over water, interior over coastal peoples. And we are not alone in our limitations. Despite Carson’s pioneering exploration of the edges of the sea, environmentalists have been slow to take up her challenge to occupy it mentally and imaginatively, to incorporate coasts into their historical perspective. They show deep concern for the fate of coastal flora and fauna but seem indifferent to the human element of coastal ecology, namely Homo littoralis, whose history is inseparable from that of the shore itself. We all suffer from a crippling amnesia, forgetting that coasts are very special places, known as ecotones, where two ecosystems overlap, the primal habitat of Homo sapiens and the locus of much of subsequent human history.⁶

There was once a time when coasts were home to a significant part of humanity, when, like any home, they were the locus of a sense of belonging, the center of a world rather than a periphery. Now, when coasts are considered edges of something else, of continents or islands, we live not in but only on them. Humanity’s current relationship to the shore is that of the stranger, for after millennia of coastal existence, it has forgotten how to live with coasts and oceans. Not that inhabiting shores was ever easy. Rising sea levels, overfishing, and pollution all happened in the past, and coastal peoples have always had to cope with natural and man-made disasters. By trial and error, they became adept at dealing physically and culturally with this challenging environment. But never before has the scale or frequency of threats been as great as now, complicated by the fact that so many who live on shores have no idea of how to live there in a sustainable way. There is not only an urgent need to understand the dynamics of climate change but also an imperative to draw on the adaptive strategies preserved in the historical record from times when coasts were a here rather than a there, places to dwell rather than just visit.⁷

James Hamilton-Paterson, author of Seven-Tenths: The Sea and Its Thresholds, who knows the seas and coasts as well as anyone, thinks we have lost our place and no longer know how to return. I am not quite so pessimistic; otherwise I would never have begun a journey that has traversed hundreds of thousands of years and taken me to the shores not just of North America and Europe but also of Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and Tasmania. Carson warned us that the edge of the sea remains an elusive and indefinable boundary. Not only are the physical properties of coasts constantly changing, but there are as many ways of being coastal as there have been coastal peoples. We need to recover some sense of all the ways that humans have lived with coasts, a story that spans at least 200,000 years. There are important lessons to be learned from our coastal ancestors, whether they be prehistoric hunter-gatherers, ancient mariners of the Indian Ocean and Mediterranean Sea, Dutch polder builders, or Long Island baymen.⁸

I did not anticipate when I set out on this journey into deep time and far space that I would end up writing an alternative account of global history. It came as something of a shock to discover that it was not the interior but the shore that was the original Eden and that Homo sapiens are best described as an edge species that has consistently thrived in the coastal ecotone where the ecosystems of land and sea meet. From the Stone Age to our own era of globalization, coastal peoples have been in the vanguard. It turns out that change has been consistently generated on edges rather than from interiors, and therefore we need to turn our landlocked histories inside out. This represents a challenge not only to the conventions of terracentric history, but also to the deep-sea preoccupations of conventional maritime studies. In what follows, I assay six major periods of coastal history beginning with the moment when mankind first came back to the sea from the interior of Africa, emphasizing the continuities but also the changes that have taken place around the world.

FIGURE 1. Cliffside sign at Sea Ranch, California. Photo by author.

The sign in figure 1 greets visitors wandering down to the cliffs of California’s Sea Ranch, a magnificent stretch of coast north of San Francisco. It stopped me in my tracks one fiercely bright April afternoon in 2007, and I could not get it out of my mind for weeks thereafter. In time I would come to see that NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON THE OCEAN was as much an invitation as a warning. It launched a quest to understand our complex relationship with the sea that took me around the world and into depths of time that few historians have ever visited.

In the process of writing this book, I was to learn that the shore was the original home of Homo sapiens. Our relationship to it has changed markedly over the last 200,000 years, but we have been inseparable from it from the very beginning and still are today. Coasts have played a vital role in making us human, and we, in turn, have made coasts what they are. I call this study The Human Shore to underline this interdependency. This is a story of coevolution, of cocreation. In this era of ecological crisis, it is vital that we be again at home in the place where land and water meet. We must learn to live with our shores, not just on them. Our survival and theirs depends on it.

1

AN ALTERNATIVE TO EDEN

The seashore is an edge . . . and it defies the usual idea of borders by being unfixed, fluctuant, and infinitely permeable.

REBECCA SOLNIT¹

Western civilization is landlocked, mentally if not physically. While it has a long history of aquatic accomplishments, these do not constitute its primary identity. In the Western world we imagine human history as beginning and ending on terra firma. Our understandings of our origins, both religious and scientific, are decidedly terrestrial, and we have had great difficulty in finding a place for water in either our histories or our geographies. We remember Lucy, whose three-million-year-old remains were found in 1974 in the bone-dry Olduvai Gorge, but forget that when she was alive the gorge was a lake and she was most likely a shore dweller. Only recently has underwater archaeology challenged assumptions based on terrestrial excavations, showing the extent to which humankind has been semiaquatic, foraging not just in freshwater but also, perhaps more important, at the edge of the sea.

The inability to regard place as anything but terrestrial, the eternal assumption that societies are boundaried, centered, contained, and enduring structures, is a distortion of retrospect, writes Eric Leed: it is a view of history filtered through the results of history. Sustained by religious as well as secular traditions, terracentricity has assumed the status of myth in Western culture. The oldest of the Greek gods was Gaia, Mother Earth: Mother of us all, the oldest of all, hard, splendid like a rock. The peoples we have come to know as the ancient Hebrews had just begun to settle down to an semiagrarian existence when they seized upon the idea of Eden. This terracentricity was passed on to Christianity, and, reinforced by Greek and Roman understandings of earth and water, became foundational to Western civilization. As long as the mass of humankind was tied to the land, it made sense, but now that this is no longer true, it must be called into question.²

In the Western tradition, the sea has always been an alien environment. Other societies have felt much more at home with its waters, although, as far as I know, no people entirely deny their terrestrial connections. Even the Moken and other so-called sea gypsies of Southeast Asia do not live entirely at sea. Fijians believe their island was brought into being by Rokomautu, who dove into the sea to bring soil to surface. The earth-diver story is common among people who live by or from the sea. The Haida people of the Queen Charlotte Islands of the Canadian Northwest tell a story of Raven, flying above the sea, who sees a small island and turns it into earth. Later, as Raven explores this new world, he hears a sound coming from a small clamshell and discovers five tiny humans, who became what the Haida people refer to as the earth surface people.³

For coastal and island peoples, it has been the edge of the sea that has been their perpetual Eden, for them not the margin but the center of their world. Unlike the Hebrews, for whom history was a long series of exiles, the coastal-dwelling Haida have no memory of coming from somewhere else. In the stories they tell themselves, the shores of the Pacific Northwest had always been their home. They live in a capacious environment of abundance, in an unchanging present, which produces no yearning for a lost past nor dreams of a redemptive future. It was not until Christian Europeans arrived and told them that all humankind had dispersed from a single landlocked place called the Garden of Eden, making them one of the Lost Tribes of Israel, that they even considered the possibility that they were strangers in their own land or that the sea constituted a danger. And even then they refused this tragic view of history as implausible, at odds with their sense of always having been the people of the xhaaydla, their term for the coast, belonging wholly neither to land or to sea, a different kind of place living on a different kind of time, somewhere not normally found on the surveyor’s map or the historian’s page.⁴

For the most part, coasts are still an unmarked category in both history and geography. Even today we barely acknowledge the 95 percent of human history that took place before the rise of agricultural civilizations. In this postindustrial era, our image of paradise is still the Garden of Eden and our model human the gardener. The book of Genesis would have us believe that our beginnings were wholly landlocked, but it was written at the time that the Hebrews were settling down to an agrarian existence. The story of Eden served admirably as the foundational myth for agricultural society, but it bears no relationship to the history and geography of humankind, including that of the Jews, that took place before it was written some 8,000 years ago. The story of modern humankind, Homo sapiens, that which I am concerned with here, begins 164,000 years ago. For most of our existence we have been foragers, and much of human evolution has taken place not in landlocked locations but where land and water meet. Not only does the idea of Eden misrepresent our past, but, now, when for the first time more humans live in cities than on the land, it is wholly misleading about our future.

We need to rediscover xhaaydla and find a narrative that is less terra-centric, one that recognizes humanity’s long relationship with the sea as an edge species, occupying the ecotones where land and water meet. We need to know ourselves as aquatic foragers, as gamekeepers as well as gardeners. Gardeners attempt to control nature, gamekeepers accept it and adapt to its conditions. As we shall see, on coasts gardening was often combined with hunting and gathering. And now that the limits of human beings’ control over nature are becoming so evident, it is all the more urgent that we recover that element of adaptability that was present when humans had a working relationship with the sea as well as with the land. In short, we require a new narrative, one with, as Steve Mentz suggests, fewer gardens, and more shipwrecks, one more in tune with the fluctuant nature of coasts in this age of massive climate change.⁵

Myth of the Garden

It is said that the Hebrews were the first people to conceive of themselves as living a life whose meaning was defined apart from nature. Their god was a gardener who provided Adam and Eve with a ready-made abundance that precluded any need to work and promised everlasting life. In the beginning, there was no wild nature. Wilderness was the product of the disobedience of Adam and Eve, which destroyed the original paradise and condemned humankind to toil and mortality. This was the origins story the Hebrews shared with other agrarian civilizations of the ancient Middle East, one that would have been utterly incomprehensible to hunter-gatherer peoples, whose gods were gamekeepers rather than gardeners, and who were at home in what Jews and Christians came to regard as wilderness.

The biblical creation myth begins with the declaration that the earth then was welter and waste and darkness over the deep and God’s breath hovering over the waters. One of his first acts was to tame the unruly waters. He created the heavens, saying, ‘Let the waters under the heavens be gathered in one place so that the dry land will appear,’ and so it was. And God called the dry land Earth and the gathering of waters He called Seas, and God saw that it was good. Earth produced grass and trees, while the waters were filled with fish and the air with birds. And God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that crawls . . . Only then did he create man and woman in our image, by our likeness, to hold sway over the fish of the sea and the fowl of the heavens, commanding them to be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and conquer it. ⁶

Land is the central player in biblical geography. As Alain Corbin has noted, there is no sea in the Garden of Eden. After the fall, the sea appears as an alien environment, a perpetual threat to humankind. It was from soil that God created man, giving him the name Adam, which comes from the Hebrew word adama, for earth. In this story, man gives birth to woman. Nowhere in Genesis is there any notion of Mother Earth, for land is itself a paternal rather than a maternal force. It is a creation of God the Father, who uses it to make Adam and from Adam’s rib to create Eve. Thus in this rendering of creation the biological norm is reversed. Earth is birthed by a patriarchical god.⁷

God the gardener created a world of limitless plentitude, promising an everlasting life without toil, disease, or death. Adam and Even might have lived forever in peaceful coexistence with other creatures had they not disobeyed God’s will. Their punishment for eating the forbidden fruit of the tree of knowledge was not only the forfeiture of everlasting life but the transformation of the earth itself into a wilderness of thorn and thistle, where daily bread could be won only through painful toil.

At the moment of the fall, the whole earth ceased to be paradise and the Garden of Eden was removed to the east, where it would remain inaccessible until the end of time. Everlasting life gave way to the everlasting ordeal of production and reproduction, for God burdened Eve and all the women who followed her with the pain of birth. Her firstborn, Cain, the first farmer, and Abel, the first shepherd, were also cursed. Cain was angered when God slighted his offering of the fruits of the soil in favor of his brother’s animal tribute. He killed Abel, and this led to a second exile to the even more barren lands of Nod east of Eden, where he began a family that was ultimately to become the people of Israel, who mixed sedentary farming with pastoral pursuits. Their fate was henceforth tightly bound to the vicissitudes of agriculture. Indeed, the story of expulsion from the Garden of Eden and the subsequent famine-related exiles narrated in the Old Testament were clearly related to the ecological disasters that we now know punctuated the history of agriculture in the ancient Middle East. The story of paradise lost was a product of the neolithic revolution and was the way that the Jews rationalized their own tragic history, their enslavement to the tragedies of landed existence.

The descendants of Adam wandered in lands repeatedly visited by both drought and flood. The commandment to go forth and multiply proved to be a further burden, because, in contrast to hunter-gatherers whose mobility keeps fertility relatively low, settled agricultural production favored large families, leading to overpopulation of the arid, fragile environments of the Middle East. It was farmers, not hunter-gatherers, who were forced to take up nomadic, diasporic strategies of survival. As the anthropologist Hugh Brody puts it: Genesis is the creation story in which aggressive, restless agriculture is explained, is rendered an inevitability. Foraging cultures also encounter periodic suffering at the hands of nature, but the story they tell is marked not by catastrophic events but by cycles of challenge and response in which continuity outweighs change. The Haida were also visited by floods, but their stories tell of how canoes repeatedly came to their rescue.⁸

Genesis provided the ancient Hebrews, and later, equally restless Christians, with an explanation of their expansionist history and an excuse for the conquest of lands once shared with neighboring hunter-gatherers. Contrary to conventional wisdom, it was not foragers but agriculturists who were most burdened by scarcity. The neolithic agricultural revolution had not lightened the toil of subsistence but intensified it. Hunter-gatherers remained the healthiest, least stressed part of humanity. They had no need to tell themselves tragic stories of loss and recovery, for as far as they were concerned, the world had never ceased to be an Eden.⁹

When the Hebrew God’s chosen people again displeased him, water would come into play as an instrument of divine publishment. He would send a great deluge, taking care that this act be witnessed by Noah and his family as a lesson to future generations.