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I find it ironic that my father should die this way. He was so safety-conscious that everything he built was two or three times stronger than necessary. We joked that his carnival rides were likely to sink through to China if a heavy rain ever hit. And everything he built was grounded, vented, and had backup systems.
On the other hand, my father was so obsessed with Oak Island that I had remarked to my husband as we left the island three years earlier that the only way my father would ever leave Oak Island was “feet first.” I had meant that he would find one way or another to hang on and keep trying until he died from old age. I certainly did not mean this.
Karl Graeser was a fine man with a wife and two daughters who deeply loved him. he was a successful businessman who was enthusiastic, adventuresome, and always ready to lend a hand. A terrible loss.
And Cyril Hiltz. He was no treasure hunter. He didn’t sign on to risk his life. He came to the island that day only to earn a few dollars. But when that crucial moment came, he rushed in to help the others. He was only 16 years old. His loss is especially cruel.
My father, Robert Ernest Restall, had lived a rich and varied life--the life he wanted. He was 60 years old. Not nearly enough time, but they were 60 good years.
My brother Bobby, Robert Keith Restall, is another matter. Twenty-four is too young to die. Bobby was smart and funny and always upbeat. He never had a chance. My brother deserved better than this.
But, of course, they all did.
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