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Holland Island: The Town That Sank Beneath the Bay
Stories In The Seventh State
PUBLISH DATE

October 25, 2025

DURATION

12:11

HOST(S)

Shane Hall

GUEST(S)

None

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MOVIE GENRE
Key Figures
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EPISODE SUMMARY

In this episode of S7ories in the Seventh State, Shane Hall tells the haunting, deeply human story of Holland Island — once a lively Dorchester County community of 360 people, with a church, a school, ballgames, watermen, and children playing on porches… now reduced to marsh, pilings, and tide.



We explore the island’s rise and fall:

  • Its soft foundation of clay and silt

  • The gnawing erosion of nor’easters

  • A coast slowly sinking

  • A bay slowly rising

  • A community forced to jack up houses, dismantle them, float them away, or abandon them

The story follows:

  • The brutal winter of 1922 when the world feared starvation on Holland — and found children ice-skating instead

  • The 1918 storm that broke the church

  • The homes ferried to Crisfield, Cambridge, and Fairmount

  • The last standing Victorian house, built in 1888, defying the tide into the 1990s

And then, the heart of the episode:


The retired waterman & Methodist minister Stephen White — the man who tried, alone, for 15 years, to save the island. He stacked timbers, hauled rock by hand, sank a barge, applied for grants, fought the physics of subsidence and sea rise… and refused to quit.


Ultimately, in 2010, the last house broke at the spine during a low tide. Floors collapsed. Walls folded. A bed hung from the second story as white sheets snapped in the wind. The image became national — the final ghost of Holland Island.


Shane reflects on the larger lesson:

  • Holland Island is not a ghost story

  • It is a geological story

  • A climate story

  • A human story about memory, place, and loss

  • And a reminder that the Chesapeake has swallowed many islands before — and will swallow moreriverside-shane-hall-raw-synced…

The people didn’t disappear — they moved. Their houses live on. Their church lives on. Their names live on. The island exists now in lumber, family histories, and marsh grass.


This is Maryland history at water level — fragile, fleeting, unforgettable.

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