When a pond and a river were heaven on earth
Issue 46 : Jan/Feb 2006
I grew up on an old farm in Connecticut. A hundred yards behind the house was what we called “the cow pasture” — a boggy area beyond which were fields and orchards. It was fed by one little stream and numerous springs, and overgrown with alder trees and brush. It was the haunt of birds and frogs and one small boy.
When I was six, my father had a portion of the cow pasture dredged, creating a pond 100 feet long, half that in width, and deep enough to hide a hippopotamus. It was large enough to swim in summer-long and big enough for a hockey rink all winter, provided one was willing to shovel snow.
My father went to the state Extension Center and procured two milk cans (antiques now, no doubt) alive with fingerling fish: one of largemouth bass, the other with bluegills and sunfish. In a couple of years the pond was alive with fish, frogs, turtles, and muskrats — heaven on earth for a little boy . . . but dirtier. I fished, I swam, and I chased whatever moved with a fine mesh net. I learned to eat bass and frogs’ legs, studied dragonfly larvae, and watched the wood ducks teach their young to swim.
Life was complete. Except that I needed a boat. A couple of steel drums and a wooden deck and — behold! I had a raft. The deck was nearly awash and was rather tippy. Every time I shoved with my pole, one corner went under water. My very first boat! I even tried a mast and a sail but without much real success. When I was 12 my father bought me a pram. I painted it royal blue inside and out. I had a miniature Navy anchor, a life jacket, and oars.
Discovered the river
What more could I want? A lot. My father helped me build a trailer to pull behind our car. The pram and I discovered the Connecticut River, a mile down the road. We set a mooring and rigged a clothesline arrangement to an old pier. Two 20- foot shad boats were all the neighbors I had. I knew enough by then — and had permission — to venture off alone. Not very far. There were plenty of places to fish within a mile. I rowed and rowed and saved my lawn-mowing money. The following summer, I went to Montgomery Ward and bought a motor: three whole horsepower. Now I was Lord of the River.
About this time I started sailing lessons downstream in Essex. It was a 10-mile drive but only a 4-mile boat ride — not including the mile walk to the boat. With tide and current and wind to contend with, it took me at least an hour to go each way. An hour buzzing along in my little boat — what utter bliss. In those days the boat traffic on the river was negligible: a couple of tankers a day bringing oil to Hartford, a few motorboats, occasionally a canoe. Weekends in the summer were rather busy, but still there was not the franticness of today. I never saw a cigarette boat until I was in my 20s. The craze for plastic kayaks was 30 years off.
Knowing enough to avoid the channel, a child of 14 could laze down the river any afternoon and stay out of trouble. And I learned the channel and had a chart almost immediately — my father had been a navigator in the Navy. And I learned to sail. Three summers I attended sailing school; we raced little Bluejays around and around the marks. I was overwhelmed by one consuming desire: to have a real sailboat of my own. With just enough money to purchase a sail, there was only one viable option: convert my 8-foot pram to a sailing boat. So I did. Life was complete. With 3-horse motor, 5-foot oars, and a sail, what could stop me from circumnavigating this little world?
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
