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t was one of those lovely summer days in the Adirondack Mountains, comfortably hot, with a few cumulus clouds and a light southerly breeze shuttling in slightly humid air from the east, but not unbearable or unpleasant. My wife, Joan and I decided to hike to Jabe’s Pond, about a mile and a half west of Lake George and our rental cottage. Jabe’s is isolated and pristine and about a mile long by a half mile wide. Every year we look forward to this hike, which has become an annual event. For the most part, the trail is a gentle climb, following a brook on a shady trail. While much of the area had been logged over more than once, there are a lot of tall pines, oaks, birch, maple and beech along the trail.
Invariable, in seems hotter and much more humid under the canopy of trees than out in the open. Whether this is due to our exertions or the fact that a breeze doesn’t penetrate the trees, I don’t know. But, insects like shade and still air and they didn’t waste any time finding us. I regretted not bringing insecticide. My arms were in continuous motion around my head to warn off the insects for most of the hike. Joan, with her dark hair, usually attracts insects more than I do, but this day I was there chosen quarry. Eventually, I broke off a cluster of leaves from a sapling and rhythmically struck first one side of my neck and then the other – sort of like a self-flagellation ritual. Up to a point, this worked well.
We made it to Jabe’s Pond, swam, and watch and listened to the melodic calls of a family of loons as they dove in the pond and resurfaced many yards away, again and again. We also watched transfixed as the tiniest fish I’ve ever seen navigated the pebbles in the shallows, whether in search of microscopic meals or a passage to deeper water, I couldn’t tell. I wondered at its chances of survival.
But, it is the story of our trip back to Silver Bay that I mean to relate to you now. Just as we were drying our feet and pulling on our walking shoes, a giant, prehistoric pterodactyl-sized mosquito – call it mosquito-dactyl or whatever you like – swooped down and grabbed Joan with its right foreleg and wrapped me tightly with its left, and off it went, with Joan and me dangling helplessly, looking up, able to see only the tip of its proboscis, the size of a Gatling gun and varnished with a dark sheen of dried blood from its last victim. At first, we struggled, but as we climbed above the treetops, we stopped struggling and held on for dear life. At first, it was hard to discern our direction of flight, but years of flying experience came in handy and I quickly picked out some landmarks and got my bearings. I could see that we were headed for Lake George and would, in fact, be flying right over our cabin. At first, I thought the giant mosquito was going to pass over the lake to the other side, but, whether due to fatigue or distracted by the glare of the sun reflecting off the windscreen of a speedboat making its way down the lake; and due to the fact that I weigh considerably more than Joan, the giant mosquito dropped me. As I slipped from its hoary grasp, I just managed to snag Joan leg and held tight. As luck would have it, the weight of both of us was just too much for the giant mosquito and it dropped us about a hundred feet above the lake, and we went hurtling through the air into the lake, making a tremendous splash.
It was at this moment that the speedboat – an enormous, beautiful mahogany job called the Black Arrow pulling a water skier – sped by. The skier, performing an intricate sweeping move to the outside of the speedboat’s wake, fell and cart wheeled off into the shallows adjacent a small island. As the tow rope came skittering by Joan and me, I grabbed the tow bar with my right hand and Joan with my left hand and – pop – we were up and out of the water, moving about sixty miles an hour – so fast, in fact, that we didn’t need skis; our hiking shoes were sufficient to stay upright and glide across the surface like water bugs. This was quite exhilarating and fun, although I think Joan suffered from a bit of whiplash from being jerked up so quickly. Anyway, as luck would have it, the boat circled across the lake right behind Slim Point and I was able to let go of the tow bar and glide smoothly into about a foot of water, where I sunk to my ankles but managed to stay upright. “Wow!” I said.
Joan wasn’t as thrilled. She looked at me and, with some irritation, due to the frequency of my losing my glasses, said, “Paul, what happened to your glasses?”
I reached up to my face and, sure enough, they were gone. “They must have come off when that mosquito-dactyl dropped us in the lake!” I said.
“Well,” she said, “they were brand new and cost a small fortune. You better go back out there and find them, and don’t come back until you do!”
I agreed. The idea of spending the second week of our vacation without glasses would have put a real crimp in my activities. In fact, I’m really lost without them. So I flew out to the middle of the lake. I know, I know. This is where I lose you. “What does he mean?” your thinking. Figuratively, he “flew out?” as in “hurried”? No, I’m being literal here. I’m sure you’ve believed everything I’ve told you so far, but “flying? Come on!” Well, I can assure you, its true. I’ve had lots of experience flying in dreams. In fact, I fly quite regularly. I learned when I was quite young, flying from chair to couch, eventually to the dining room table and then taking it outdoors to the park that had a nice gentle slope of grass that would cushion my falls. I got quite good at reading the winds, particularly the updrafts, and I managed to soar great distances. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had. The toughest part is learning to keep you feet together like a rudder. That’s the secret to maintaining a delicate balance. A helicopter pilot once told me that when flying a helicopter, “you don’t move the controls, you just think about moving the controls,” the touch is that sensitive. Well, human flight is much the same and it takes a lot of practice to learn how to do it right. I guess that’s why so few human beings fly. What with various mechanical means of flight available and the bad experience that some have had, like Icarus flying too high and depending on artificial wax wings that melted in the sun – what a dope! A lot of people just turned away from human flight entirely. But, I can assure you, it just takes patience. Any boy with a dream can do it.
So, I flew out to the middle of the lake and, when I thought I was just about to the place where the giant mosquito dropped us, I plunged into the water like a pelican diving for dinner. About ten or fifteen feet down, something quite extraordinary happen. The biggest lake trout I’ve ever seen came swimming by and, remarkable – are you with me here? – my glasses were draped across his occiput, just behind its eyes. I grabbed him by his tailfin as he swam by and demanded that he fin over my glasses. (Well, they don’t have hands.) I have to hand it to him, he tried. But fins a pretty slimy and the glasses slipped off and started to fall deeper and deeper, spinning as they fell, like a seedpod in the wind. Short of breath, I went back to the surface, took a deep gulp of air and then dove down after my glasses, which were slowing receding into the gloom. I dove and dove. Fifty feet, then a hundred feet, then two hundred feet, and on and on. I knew the lake wasn’t more than a few hundred feet deep, so I was really puzzled as to how it was that I was able to descend, deeper and deeper. Just as I was about to give up, the glasses snagged on a rocky outcropping and I was able to grab them and put them on. What a relief. But, as you can imagine, I was fairly out of breath and fearful that I might not be able to make it back to the surface!
I looked around and realized that I was in a deep cave at the bottom of the lake. It had been rumored for years that such a cave existed, but since no one had ever discovered it, we all discounted the likelihood of such a cavern. You can imagine how excited I was to confirm its existence now! I turned around quickly and bumped my elbow on something strange and turned to examine it more closely. I backed up in a fright, for it was a skeleton! And, attached to the skeleton was an aqua-lung of a style perhaps twenty or thirty years old. I examined the pressure gauge – I had to rub some of the algae off it first – and, as luck would have it, discovered that there was still air in it, just enough to get me to the surface! Quickly I unwrapped the aqua-lung from the tangle of bones that slipped away, one by one, as I worked it free, and managed to strap it to my back and take a big breath. You can’t imagine how relieved I was. I started for the surface. Half way up, perhaps at a depth of three hundred feet, the air ran out, so I had to hold my breath and hurry to the surface as fast as I could, all the while knowing that I risked getting the bends. But I had no choice. I breached the surface like a whale and took a big, grateful breath of air.
Nearby, an old man was sitting in a boat, quietly fishing. He had the crumpled look of someone who had stopped thinking about his appearance years ago, bringing to mind an unmade bed. His straggly grey hair stuck out from under his hat like clumps of dank straw, and he had sprouts of hair growing in the strangest places – from his ears, behind is jaw, under his chin. And, as if a time-traveler from of bygone era, he held a pipe clenched tightly in his jaws.
He startled some when I breached, more hopeful than frightened I suppose, then he resumed his solipsistic attitude of indifference, although I must have been a surprising sight, even to an old man who had probably seen everything.
Fatigued, it was all I could do to swim over to his boat – an old wooden craft with a high transom that for some reason reminded me of a Pogo comic – and, holding on to the gunnels, said, “Mister. I need to get to a decompression chamber, A.S.A.P.!”
I went on to explain about Jabe’s Pond and the giant mosquito-dactyl and my glasses and lake trout and the cave and the bones and acqua-lung. Taking his pipe from his mouth and stabbing the air with it, as though to spear that lake trout, he said, “that damn trout… I’ bin tryin’ t’snag him for better part of forty year, and wouldn’t ya knowd it, you had him in your grasp, by the finny fin fin! Then ya let him go!” Shaking his head, he spits a gob to leeward in exasperation. “Jezz! I give up. He-yer, climb in, mista. I’ll take ya back to my cabin and we can have a few beers. That’s the best way I know to decompress, and I sure could uses some decompressin’ meself!”
Well, I was bushed and that sounded pretty good to me. So I climbed in and he yanked the starter cord and off we went to a secluded little cove I had never noticed before, and pulled up to the most rickety string of docks you’ve ever seen; docks that looked like they had been tacked together with timber fall. Tied there were maybe a dozen or more boats of every description – Boston Whalers, an old Chris Craft, a few Grumman canoes, a perfect Century speedboat, an aluminum Aristocraft, a couple classic Lyman runabouts, and more. We tied up and strolled up to his cabin, just a few yards from the docks. He told me to have a seat in a wicker chair on the porch and went in to the cabin, returning a few moments later with as many beers as he could hold, six or eight maybe, and an old-fashioned beer can opener known as a churchkey. I studied the cans a moment. “Piels!” I said, “Where did you get them? They haven’t made Piels beer in years!”
“Yep, that’s so. Bought a whole boxcar when they closed up down-state and been drinkin’ it ever since, goin’ on thirty year or so.” He took a long pull on his can and belched quietly. “Perty good, ain’t it?”
I looked down at the can; its top pitted with rust, and wiped it on my shirt. Warily, I took a sip, then a longer pull and agreed. “But doesn’t it go stale after a while?”
“Suppose, but after a few cans, never noticed much. Decompresses just the same as them new fancy Rocky Mountain suds they try to pass off as beer nowdays. And don’t get me sta-ted. Lite beer is like sayin’ ‘buy fou-a cans where two might a done the job just fine’. No thanks, mista.”
“You got a point there. What are you going to drink when you run out of this?”
“Oh, that ain’t likely. See that shippin’ containa they-er back in the wood? Stock full it is.”
“Wow!”
So, we sat there on his porch drinking his ancient Piels, chewing the fat – literally, moose jerky he made himself, which oozed grease with every bite – delicious! – and sat there overlooking the prettiest, shady little cove that no one even knows exists.
Being a solitary sort, and not inclined to small talk, it didn’t take long for him to run out of conversation. Then we just sat quietly, drinking and enjoying the view. Eventually, it occurred to me that Joan was probably still waiting for me on Slim Point and would be getting pretty annoyed.
“Well,” I said, “I guess I better get back to the other side of the lake. My wife’s probably getting a little worried by now. I really thank you for your hospitality. Decompressing like this really works. I’m amazed!”
“Sho-wer. Beats the hell out of bein’ stuck in some kind of pressah cooka for hours,” he said. “Say, mista. Just take one of them boats they-er. I’ll swing by and pick it up sometime, or,” and then, almost inaudibly to himself, “oh hell, I don’t know, maybe I won’t.”
“Where did you get all those boats, anyway”?
“All them fools that come lookin’ for that cave down there. Once I started that rumor years ago, they just keep comin’. Lord. They strap all that heavy stuff on, dive down and then just never surface agin. It was just meant to be a joke, really,” he added, (a little defensively, I thought.) “I never even knowed it was they-er; not until today when you popped up and told that yarn about losing your eye-specs. I wouldn’t have believed it myself. But there must be a dozen fools down there still, lookin’ for a way out. Not until you told your yarn, did I believe it meself. Nobody knew.”
“Hmm…. Don’t you feel a little bad, given all the people been lost down there?”
“Nope. Never occurred to me to feel bad… fools all of ‘em,” his voice trailing off, wistful and quiet, as though the thought was new to him.
“Hmm. Well, OK then. I’ll be off. I’ll tie the boat up on the other side, at the Silver Bay dock. I’ll fill the gas; that’s the least I can do.”
“Oh, hell. Don’t botha. You can keep it if you want. Look around. I got dozens of boats. Don’t need ‘em all. Take that Chris-Craft they-er. It’s a ’54 or so. Needs a slap’a varnish but the engine tics sweet as a parlor clock. Them ol’ flathead eights; you just can’t beat ‘em. But she’s been sitting here at the dock for a goin’ on two years now. Won’t last if she ain’t tended to. High maintenance ladies, them varnish boats are.”
Then, as an afterthought, almost sheepishly, I thought, “Hmm. Aah,” clearing his throat, “Ahem. I’d be much obliged if you didn’t mention the cave to anyone, or my little cove he-yer, for that matta, if you don’t mind. See, I make a pretty good livin’ sellin’ them boats and I wouldn’t want to spoil a good thing. That Century they-er should see me through five years or mo-wer.”
“Wow! … Really? Must be worth a lot!” I said. “OK, I guess. I’ll be sure to keep your little secret. Hell! Who would believe my crazy story anyhow? It’s just too farfetched.”
“That’s so. That’s so,” he said.
With that, before he could change his mind, I leaped the gunnels of the Chris Craft, hit the starter, untied it from the dock and sped off, waving my farewell.
On the trip back across the lake, it occurred to me that someone might recognize this boat someday, but I was willing to take a chance. If anyone claimed it, I’d give it over. But nobody’s ever even hinted at it. Briefly, I wondered if he offered up the Chris-Craft as a sort a bribe, to keep me quite. But I quickly put that out of my head. “Yahoo,” I said, as I pushed the throttle forward.
And you know the craziest thing? I’ve tried to find that cove many times since then but I’ve never been able to locate that narrow little inlet. But I’ll keep trying.
Anyway, that’s the story of how I come by this classic Chris Craft here. And, come to think of it, she’s the only proof I have that my story is true!
Oh yes. For dinner, we had corn on the cob, grilled chicken and fresh peas, and that’s the whole truth, so help me god.
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