Dakin's Cove, Santa Catalina Island
Dakin's Cove, Santa Catalina Island is a former name of Avalon Bay and Timm's Harbor.
C. H. Dakin was a Santa Catalina Island resident in 1876, and a member of the Grand Army of the Republic, a fraternal organization composed of veterans of the Union Army (United States Army), Union Navy (U.S. Navy), Marines and the U.S. Revenue Cutter Service who served in the American Civil War. Dakin was elected Quartermaster of the organization in San Pedro in 1912.
Dakin, Santa Catalina Island , California, Stehman Forney, 1876.—On the high ridge running across the island from north to south, forming the west side of the valley in which Dakin's house is located; about a quarter of a mile south of the top of the hill from the east side of Gallaghers Canyon; on a smooth hill at the northern end of this ridge and about 500 yards south of the trail running from Dakin's house to Catalina and Isthmus Cove harbors. (Note 20, p. 617.) [Annual Report of the Director, U.S. Coast & Geodetic Survey, 1904]
Sugarloaf Spur, Santa Catalina Island , California, Stehman Forney, 1876.—On the ridge forming the west side of Dakin's Cove, of which the high regular-shaped rock at the west point of the cove, called Sugar Loaf Rock, is the prolongation, about 200 yards from the nearest point of the shore. (Note 20, p. 617.) [Annual Report of the Director, U.S. Coast & Geodetic Survey, 1904]
In the News~
August 12, 1890 [Riverside Daily Press]: “...We started about 10 a.m. and plowed the blue waters in a southerly direction for six hours, till at 4 p.m. we cast anchor in Dakin's Cove where Tom Gallagher lives out his lonely life. The island is 30 miles from Catalina and 60 from Laguna. It is 21-3/4 miles long—just the same as Catalina, and from one to five miles broad. We had heard that it was a sand island, but it is nearly as hilly as Catalina, the highest point being 1960 feet...The southern shore of Clemente is the most desolate coast I have ever seen. It fairly gives me the horrors. Extensive sand slopes stretch down to the beach, which is lined with black and jagged rocks, around which the surf thunders ominously. But it is par excellence the place to find abalone shells. Here you can pry them off the rocks or pick them up empty. Chinamen had lately been along collecting abalone meat, which they cook and dry. They throw away the shells and Riverside orchardists pick them up. The rarest are the yellow ones, which must be pulled out from under with boat hooks. Marion Waite got a perfect Indian skull, McFarland a nearly complete skeleton, Dr. Way a whale's vertebra and rib, and the rest, limpets, black and white key-hole varieties. As for abalones, we all got all we could lug over the hill. Gallagher's billy goat is a character. The old man said he had been known to eat a plug of tobacco. To test it, Dr. Shugart cut off a good sized pipeful and handed it to him with a Jewfish kind of smile. Billy took it, winked once and swallowed it promptly. Having begged in vain for more he resumed his former diet of old newspapers, tin cans, etc. The old Crusoe keeps the goat to get the sheep into any corral he wants them in. The goat understands it, and marches out of one corral into another, the sheep following. They are sheared in February, 50 men coming over for the purpose. Last time they sheared 14,000 and a good many got away. There used to be twice as many, Gallagher said, but they have gradually killed all the brush and water-containing shrubs on the island, and are now decreasing. There is no spring of water on the isle, and it is a singular fact that they live from July till November without getting a single drink. In July the "tanks" or ponds dry up, and no more water till next rains...They even chew the cactus, or "tunies”, because it is filled with moisture. The poor things sometimes drink sea water, which kills them. Yet they keep fat, and on the whole seem to enjoy themselves better than some people I know. Just think of going to far Clemente for a hot chicken dinner! We had one there. The venerable occupant keeps fouls and we bought one for fifty cents, cooked it on his big range, and ate it with relish. T. B. Gallagher was born in Ireland nearly 70 years ago, he does not know his age but looks about that. He came to "Ameriky" when a lad, served ten years in the "rigular arrmy, Oh!", came to San Bernardino some time before the war, visited San Clemente 30 years ago, and has resided there for 28 years past. He is employed to remain as a guard for the sheep and property for the owners—Goodwin, Mace & Hubbell of Los Angeles. He has now with him a Mexican, Alvitre Martinez by name, who has been there since last shearing time, five months. He can't speak Spanish and Alvitre "no spikky mucho Engliss," so they must have an interesting time. I was witness to an unsuccessful attempt on Gallagher's part to make him understand a question. It was a no go. But for many, many years Old Tom has had to "go it alone", his solitude being interrupted only by the annual shearing and occasional yachting parties. When asked if he did not get lonesome, he laughed and said "Oh, I often go over to the mainland, but I soon get tired of it and come back. I needn't stay if I don't want to." He looks hale and hearty, and sticks close to his pipe, and is good for many years yet, no doubt; but some morning he won't get up any more, and the two white dogs will howl and nobody will be there to feed them. After one day and two nights on the island we bade adieu to the hospitable master of this inhospitable shore, shoved off the bouldery beach, climbed gladly up the side of the Hattie, steamed three miles to the isthmus, debarked and got more shells, bones and "trash", returned and at 1 o'clock hoisted sail and "sailed the ocean blue" till Castle Rock (dubbed Gallagher's Nose by our party) disappeared beneath the horizon and Catalina loomed loftily along the lee...”
