The C&D Canal at
Chesapeake City, Early Forties (Part 1)
Tanker headed west through canal in 1941
So often these days, I think back to what it
was like growing up in the Chesapeake City of sixty or so years ago. The main
source of youthful activity then was the ever-flowing, ever-active C and D
Canal. The body of water had a life of its own and I lived to be in it, along
its shore, and upon its banks. The main attractions were fishing, crabbing, hunting,
trapping, boating, and swimming … especially swimming. Let me take you back
many years to this enchanting time and place; I won’t keep you long.
It was my father who first taught me to swim
at the Burnt House, our favorite swimming hole. I remember well how swift the
current was there, and how abruptly you'd drop off into the channel if you
walked out very far. A clean, sandy area was just opposite the lighthouse,
which was actually a coast guard channel marker. I recall an area of sharp sea
grass at the water's edge. The area was a few yards up towards the Chesapeake
Boat Company, and if you happened to walk that way the grass would slice nasty
cuts into your legs. But if you stayed by the lighthouse and didn't venture out
too far, it was a perfect place to swim or fish.
I was about six when Dad taught me to swim;
I'll never forget it. He led me into deep water, put his hand firmly under my
belly to shift me horizontally and keep me afloat. I thrashed my arms about
like mad without getting anywhere, but did better after he told me to kick my
feet. It took several of those training sessions before I finally learned to
doggy-paddle on my own. But what an accomplishment! A few years after that, I'd
be diving from the lighthouse into the deep channel. I'd swim to the middle of
Back Creek and tread water for long periods of time. And, many times, my
buddies and I would swim all the way across to the Marine Construction
Company's wharf, where we'd sit in the sun and shoot the breeze for a while
before swimming back to the Burnt House.
Ah, but that was in the ancient days, hundreds
of years ago. The channel has now been deepened, the lighthouse has been dug up
and destroyed, and the Burnt House has been gouged away and replaced with huge,
grey rocks. Not the slightest trace remains, except for electronic bits in the
brains of those who were there. But one thing I know: even now, Dad's hand is
still here, firm under the belly. And arms are still thrashing to stay afloat.
And his voice still resounds in my ears, ringing above the surging water:
"Kick your feet, boy. That's it! Keep kicking."
I remember so clearly another special
time when, as a boy of eight or so, I sat in the grass near our famous
Hole-in-the-Wall tavern one summer evening. I gazed across the canal and … what
a sight—that bright expanse of water stretched out in front of me! The tide was
coming in swiftly and to my right a laboring tug boat was fighting the current
as it pushed a fully-loaded barge along. Large, billowing puffs of black smoke
hovered above as the barge moved at a pace so slow that I thought for a moment
it was standing still, running in place you might say. The tug ran as if it
were mad at the water, its prop churning vigorously, causing a violent seaward
rush of muddy water that would suck large pebbles from the shore, and then the
rush would return and surge in all the way to the naked tree roots on its way
back. And then, gradually, as the tug and tow passed, the reciprocating action
would diminish, leaving, once again, the placid, flowing current of the canal.
About a half-mile behind the retreating tug, towards the Delaware end, an empty
tanker sat high in the water, looming like a black skyscraper in the distance.
A
pair of canvasbacks swooped abruptly into the little cove, set their wings in
unison, glided down softly in a semi-circle and, with resistant, expanded
wings, landed with a flutter—disturbing for an instant the flowing water in
front of me. As the pair fled towards deeper water, wary of my presence, I
noticed how the current continued to flow swiftly, carrying along assorted
driftwood, foam-covered seaweed, and other debris as it swept past. Towards the
left our jet-black lift bridge was raised to its height to accommodate the
barge and tanker. I could see a line of cars on each side waiting for the
bridge to lower.
To the right of the bridge was Schaefer’s
restaurant, the old fine restaurant before it was renovated and corrupted into
a high class eatery for the rich. None of the local folks could afford it after
that. But the old Schaefer's made fine crab cakes and, let me tell you, they
made the best sloppy Joe hamburgers I’ve ever sunk a tooth into. I kept my eyes
on the water as it moved and shimmered. The sun was setting at my left,
lengthening the shadows of the buildings before me on the water. To my
right—this side of the Corps of Engineers’ peninsula and the Basin where my
grandmother used to skate as a girl so many, many years ago—loomed the
long-deserted, dilapidated granary where I would creep under to change into my
bathing suit before diving into the canal for a swim.
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