Walk to Whale Cove and Henry's Pond

Remember the time in Rockport when you could walk the length and breadth of the shore from the Headlands to Land's End without committing the crime of trespassing? Well, the wife and I recall such a day in the past. And we are minded that it was the shore path followed by the Coast Guardsmen at Straitsmouth Lifeboat Station when they nightly patroled the waterfront through winter wind and snow.

So on perhaps the finest October Sunday in years, weather-wise, the three of us, Molly, the spayed female boxer, the "missus" and myself decided to try to find a stretch of that path. And in the bargain we'd take a peep at the Whale Cove development.

We cheated a bit by riding as far as that spot on South Street where a sign to the left, decorated by an impressive black whale, read "The Smiths." It marked the home of Mrs. J. Raymond Smith and her son, Ray. Close by was another whale-decorated sign, reading: Whale Cove Lane, dead end, pass at your own risk." The daredevils in us took over as we chose to risk whatever was ahead. The Wife spoke of a flourishing brook that ran down alongside this lane.

The brook, however, had disappeared! Molly nosed out that fact, as she snooped along the bracken that had grown over the gully. As ancient as the brook that was, appeared drooping willows. In a neighboring pasture that swept down to the sea, a lone cow was blatting a mile a minute, maybe trying to attract the boxer's attention. But Molly is no cow dog, and though she looked, she must have decided against chancing the hooves of a something a lot bigger than she is.

Off to the starboard was a scene of the present. Modern homes, low and with long slightly sloping roof, are in such numbers to almost make up a village of its own, "Whale Cove Village."

Reaching the shoreline, we thought we might meander right to Land's End. We were advised by one of the neighbors that we could go a short distance, but through growth of high brush, and then by walking through somebody's backyard to get onto another lane that led back to South Street. That shore line walk amounted to no more than a couple of hundred feet. In the other direction, a public path is just as absent.

The view was the best. A couple miles offshore, what looked like a nautical hen with her brood following behind was apparently a fishing dragger towing a string of eight engine-less lobster boats down the coast. They tell us that hulls are bought this way and engines installed aat the home port. Something about the law somewhere. But it was no day to be listening to law.

Back to the car and a bit more walk-gypping as we decided to hit for the beach so the four-footer could have a real run The strand in front of Henry's Pond in South End, struck our fancy. The way that Molly ran from one end of the beach to the other and through the roaring surf, it seemed as if she had whippet blood, though they (who gave her to us) insist she has a pedigree.

The beach was far from deserted. At least four skindivers showed up. One of them said he was interested in collecting shells, that he had a big collection from the Hawaiian sea bottom, where he had done a great deal of diving. Even a charming swimmer appeared in a summery blue bathing suit. And she actually swam, though the water felt to our bare feet to be at the zero level.

We couldn't help but think what an enviable chance the town once had for a boulevard from the Headlands to Land's End! The path was there, and nobody ever figured the time would come when it would be lost to the public.

Anyway, it was a joyous day for strolling and as good a one for sunning on the beach It was Rockport at its best.

J.P.C., Jr.