Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Boat" - Chapter 5

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 5

Alone again, Nina, while Uncle Ernest made his house call, my thoughts returned to the Burnt House, that swimming spot at Back Creek. My friends and I, arriving at the grassy bank, after sweating from the bike ride through the dump, would pull off our clothes, yell, “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” dash down the bank and splash, naked, into the cool water.

It was Pop who first taught me to swim at the Burnt House. 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.

As I started to tell you, Nina, that's where my dad taught me to swim when I was about six; 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 Pop told me to kick my feet. It took several of those training sessions, Nina, 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 bull for a while before swimming back to the Burnt House.

Ah, but that was in the ancient days, Nina, hundreds of years ago. The channel has 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: Pop's hand is still here, firm under the belly. And arms are still thrashing to stay afloat. And Pop's voice still rings in the air, sounding above the surging water: "Kick your feet, boy. That's it! Keep kicking." [To be continued Friday, 1/27/2012]