Rowing Lessons

by Jesse Deupree

Bicycles in Ohio and boats in Maine had a similar place in my childhood: both meant the possibility of freedom, the chance to move and do whatever I wanted without being watched all the time. The first boat that delivered on this possibility was my family’s Dyer Dhow, bought as a tender for our first cruising boat. My father named it Me Go Too. It was the first boat I was allowed to use alone, and use it I did.

Each morning I would go down to the Yacht Club where someone helped me launch it off the dock; my undersized nine-year-old body was unable to manage the weight of a less than nine-foot boat. Once it was in the water, I would set out to sea alone for a day’s adventure, which meant rowing endlessly around the Pool’s inner harbor. I was not allowed to go out the Gut to the outer harbor -- even freedom had limits.

Rowing was the beginning of my nautical education. Even within the confines of a small Maine fishing harbor, a knowledge of depth and current was required to plan and reach a destination, even if that destination was just a salt marsh. One day by chance I discovered and landed on a sand spit that, at this particular stage of the tide, made a wonderful tiny island with the necessary curves and lumps to form the harbors my imagination was always voyaging to. Like the Little Prince on his planet, I strode about my domain for a blissful half hour until the rising tide forced me back into Me Go Too, and left me gazing down from the floating dinghy at my footprints below the water’s surface.

The Pool at high tide. (JH photo)

For days afterward I searched for that island, trying to rediscover that transitory spit and rekindle my imagination. In my struggle to find it, I began to understand the changing tidal patterns, even though I never learned to predict when conditions would be just right for the return of my miniature kingdom. Two weeks is a long time when you are nine years old.

My lessons and adventures were solitary. I learned to row from watching lobstermen and visiting cruisers. Sometimes I liked to sit in the stern and push the oars facing forward as the fishermen did. My slight weight aft did not disturb the trim of my little boat at all. Occasionally I would sit in the bow and paddle stern first, charting my gondola through the canals between the docks and the granite walls of the Yacht Club. 

If there was any distance to cover, I would face aft, put my back in it and try to feather the oars for speed. My memories are diffuse and precise at the same time. I remember the wakes generated by the tips of the oars when I feathered them and then rested them lightly on the water, trying to go as far as possible between strokes, yet can’t recall just how old I was or just what boat I was rowing when a given adventure took place.

One day, though, I have never forgotten. Returning to the Yacht Club at the end of the afternoon, I approached in my standard manner, prepared to grab the dock after a head-on bang with the bow of my boat. Just as I dropped my oars and turned around to reach for the dock, I felt my boat being pushed away, saw the shoe doing the pushing, and heard the gruff voice of Andy Lindsay, the club manager, saying, “That’s no way to land a boat; now circle around and do it right!” I promptly burst into tears, having no idea what the right way was, but now wanting desperately to do it.

I circled out and headed back, trying my best to hear and follow his commands. “Now ship your port oar – no, the other one. Now get your oarlock in. Now drag your starboard oar” (There was only one oar left, so I got that right the first time). “Now push it back.” Despite my tears, my pounding heart and my overwhelming wish ”WHY WON’T HE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE”, I followed his instructions and the boat responded to me. On the third try, Me Go Too swung sharply side-to and stopped smoothly alongside the dock, the oarlock swinging softly and safely against the inside of the dinghy.

 

I’ve never had a problem landing a rowboat since then, and I’ve always been grateful for the knowledge Andy taught me. There was a time I might have told you I even appreciated how the lesson was taught, but I don’t feel that way now. Some spots are still tender.

MEMORIES OF THE POOL Part 2

by Carrington Williams, Jr (1917-2014)

       

Originally written in 1997 & revised in 2006

submitted by Dabney McCoy

When I was a child, ice, milk, and groceries were delivered daily. Ice was cut in the winter from the Great Pond to the east of the Marie Joseph Spiritual Center and was stored in sawdust in the ice house on the west side of the pond. Groceries were brought by Mr. Milbanks and Mr. Epstein, and the lobster pound was operated by Mr. Crowley. “The Store” was owned and operated by the Goldthwaite family and has actually changed very little over the years.

I remember that around 1930, there was a total eclipse of the sun, and I was at Andy Lindsay’s on Staples Street. It got so dark that dogs, cats, and chickens went to bed, and when the sun emerged later, cocks crowed just as if it were dawn!

 At about the same time, Howdy Turner organized a puppet theater in the basement of the Dupee cottage, and we had regular shows there in the summer.

 In our early teen years, when we could not legally drive, Harry Buzby was given an electric car by his father. It was called a “Redbug,” and he drove all over the Pool but would never let any of us ride with him. Chan and Joe Robbins, who were older, drove around in a roadster with the top down and two mongrel terriers named Petey and Bussie sitting haughtily in the back seat. Those early teenage years were lots of fun!

Drinking seemed to be heavier in those days, and it is a wonder that there were so few bad accidents on the old and very winding road from Biddeford Pool to Kennebunkport. On one notable occasion, when my father, acting as a good Samaritan, was taking one very inebriated young man home in his new Huppmobile sedan. He dropped Mother off on his way from the dance at Auldstocke. The passenger took the wheel, roared up the hill by the Fire Barn, took the left fork at the top of the hill and continued to the left, ending up in the rocks in the bottom of the property now owned by David and Christy Millett.

The Yacht Club was founded by teenage boys who wanted to learn sailing, the first members being the Blacks, Lindsays, Wakelins and Shafers. The Yacht Club is very active today, providing moorings for pleasure craft and sailing lessons for the young people.

The Abenakee Club, then as now, was the center of much activity and, as boys, my brothers Mason and Armistead and I learned to play tennis and golf. In 1931, both Mason and I won cups in our age division in tennis. In the 1980s, my grandsons Tim and Chris McCoy also won cups in their age divisions.

I started hitting golf balls when I was about 8 years old and developed an affinity for the game. When I was a teenager, I found a beautiful diamond and sapphire brooch lying in the rough of the third or fourth hole. The owner was a Mrs. Strong from Cleveland, and when I returned it to her, she rewarded me with a set of golf clubs and bag from Abercrombie and Fitch! I only wish I knew what had happened to them.

Mr. James Emmons and Mr. Gray Emmons awed me with their drives on the first hole, which in the old days went around the swamp to a green below the cemetery. The second hole was then a par three, up over the corner of the graveyard to the present first green. As boys, we used to caddy, and once I was conked on the head by the tee shot of a lady hitting on the second hole. Her male companion was so scared by this that he gave me five dollars and carried the bag, so I simply walked along! Because of the parallel fairways on holes six, seven and eight, getting hit by errant shots was not rare.

Instead of today’s scramble format, there was a Monkey Golf tournament in which the four players on a team were given a wood, a five iron, a wedge and a putter. The player whose turn it was to hit the ball had to use the club assigned. Using a wood from a trap or a putter to drive made for great fun! There were some refreshment stands at several spots on the course, and some participants had to be carted (literally) back to the clubhouse. Today’s Captain’s Choice events are mild in comparison. The golfing tradition continues in our family, as my son, Mason, and grandson Tim have won the club championship several times.