The
Daredevil of City Dock
South Chesapeake City, with Rees’
Granary at far left, circa 1950
Aerial view of the Chesapeake Boat
Company, circa 1955
I was a happy boy that day back in
the early forties because I knew that Uncle Ernest would be at the farm with us
for a few days. And, alert reader, I’m sure you remember the story he promised
to tell me about his magic submarine and his girlfriend, Helen. But he arrived
late that first day so he only had time to mention the story before he had to leave
the house for what he called his “rejuvenating night of liquid entertainment.” So,
that next morning, excited, I got up early just in time to see him sort of
wobble through our screen door and collapse on our living room couch. Well, I
knew he’d feel better later, so after breakfast I crossed the field and headed
for City Dock to take a swim in the canal.
Most of the time I swam there at the
pier next to Ralph Rees’ granary, a monstrous, dilapidated shell of what it
once was. I’d dive down and grab mud off the ten-foot bottom, bring it up and
treading water heave it at one of my buddies, who usually saw it coming and
ducked under in time. But our water skills were child’s play compared to a
crazy and doomed fellow we called Gibby. Gibby was a marvel. He’d climb to the rooftop
of that 30-foot granary, almost falling through the rusted tin roof, and stand
there with his coal-black hair waving in the air, a human weather vane. Now,
Gibby had occasional seizures—fits we called them—and when he had one he was
like a wild man. I recall hearing about the last one he suffered in town.
Bystanders reported that his uncontrollable frenzy culminated in his heaving a
brick through Charles Tatman’s grocery store window. And so, he was sent to a
special asylum in Cambridge, never to be seen and marveled at again by us local
teenaged ruffians.
But Gibby is still there in my
mind’s eye, there atop that long-gone granary (its rotting pilings can still be
seen at low tide. They’re just beyond the Canal Creamery that stands in its
place). Oh sure, he’s still there, waving his arms histrionically for a few
minutes before his swan dive into five feet of water. At which point he’d disappear
and be under for a long time, maybe three minutes, and one of us would say, “My
God, he’s had a fit under there!” But then, just when we were ready to panic,
one of us would shout, “There he is!” And we’d all see his head bobbing
somewhere way out in the canal. Or, maybe he’d emerge across the basin near the
Corps’ Mindy Building.
As
we watched he’d disappear again and emerge again at a spot where we’d not be
looking, far from where he first was, like a crippled duck you’re chasing and
trying to shoot before he dives again. Then down he’d go again, and maybe pop
up out toward Schaefer’s wharf or maybe toward the North Side Ferry Slip.
Strangely enough, I don’t recall that he ever returned to shore to mingle with
the pedestrian antics of us amateurs assembled at City Dock. And if I didn’t
know better—know about Cambridge—I’d think that he was still out there
somewhere, ducking under and bobbing up just where you’d least expect him to.
All of a sudden something clicked in
my brain for I remembered that Uncle Ernest was at our house. So I ran on home,
even taking the shortcut across the north field. And, sure enough, there was
Unk relaxing on our porch swing. That ancient swing still hovers on the front
porch today, serving our grandkids, just as it did when Pop first hung it up
back in the thirties. Cousin John Sager had one just like it. He told me that
they were sold by the Chesapeake Boat Company when Townsend Johnson owned it.
The site is under water now, having been dredged out in the sixties when the
canal was widened and deepened.
Anyway,
Townsend Johnson was T.H. Johnson’s dad, and T.H. was my first Sunday school
teacher. That’s right, I was five and he was six when he schooled me in how to
fight with my feet, elbows, and knees. Somehow we had both crawled under a table
where his lesson was indoctrinated with authority. Oh yeah, our raucous interplay
caused quite a disturbance until Helen Foard separated us. So it was concerned
reader that at five years old I figured that if this was what religion was
about, then . . . I not only was going to like it, I was going to make the most
of it. And sure, his sermon was well-presented, there on the floor amongst the
dust bunnies of the Trinity
Methodist Church
So,
as I was saying before T.H. interrupted, I saw Uncle Ernest on the swing, and
when I flopped next to him he began telling me his promised tale. We swung
gently in the quiet beauty of the afternoon as he told his story, interrupted
only by his trips to the inside of the house to freshen his ice cubes. And here
for your enjoyment is the true story he related to me:
“Yeah,
Moose the Goose, that magic submarine carried me halfway around the world to a
place called Troytown. When I got there I tied off the sub and started walking
toward mid-town. Soon I came upon a horse-drawn chariot beside the road, and
inside was the prettiest blonde I’d ever seen, even prettier than these
beauties in Chesapeake
City Paris
“And
of course you know what I had to do: when the scoundrel stepped into the
chariot I clobbered him. Then I took Helen to the sub and asked her if she
wanted to be my girlfriend and come back with me to one of the greatest towns
in the world, Chesapeake
City
“When
we arrived, Mendy thanked me with bows and handshakes. He said that I saved him
a lot of trouble because he with his army and navy were all ready to invade
Troytown to get Helen back. He said that all the ships in the entire country
were stocked and ready to set sail. So then, Moose, my deed was done, and after
a few more kisses and hugs I came on back to Schaefer’s Wharf.”
And that was all for that day, because he had to get
ready for another night on the town. I’ll tell you, I really admired Uncle
Ernest. Here I was, a 9-year-old boy from a small town, with a true hero kin like
Unk. I was mighty proud of his bravery and his irresistible ways with the
ladies. The next afternoon he left, saying that the ponies at Delaware Park
were calling him, whatever that meant. So, sadly, I would have to cool my heels
until his next visit, just as you’ll have to cool yours, patient reader, until my
next posting.
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