Tuesday, January 29, 2013

The C&D Canal at Chesapeake City, Early Forties (Part 1)


The C&D Canal at Chesapeake City, Early Forties (Part 1)

                                             Swimming off City Dock in 1944, north view
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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