Wednesday, September 2, 2009

After the Straitsmouth Inn Fire

NOTE: The fire referred to demolished Straitsmouth Inn one New Year's Eve.

It was just comfortable and warm up-town for a Sunday afternoon stroll through Rockport. But no, that wouldn't do for the missus. She has to get a challenge out of it somehow, no matter how long or short the walk may be. That's how we found ourselves going the best part of the distance car hopping from home to the Straitsmouth Lifeboat Station of the U.S. Coast Guard. Destination, to glimpse how Straitsmouth Inn may be rising from the ashes of New Year's Eve.

Along the way we had to ford Swanson's Lake, on Marmion Way, the latest and of course as yet uncharted. Coming on it unexpectedly, we would have welcomed the loan of a periscope just for a moment. There wasn't a solitary buoy marker from shore to shore. Parking the jalopy as near to a driveway as decently possible, the three of us -- yup, Molly the boxer, never misses a buggy ride or a romp --started up the road on an inspection tour. That's when we realized all wasn't Florida in Rockport that day.

For here, the howling wind was plenty hefty, reaching in our reckoning as much as 50 miles per hour in gusts. And every gust breathed icicles down our necks. No wonder we weren't jostled by throngs. In fact not even the guardsmen poked their noses out of their duty home. Old Glory flapped and whipped with the strength of defiance we hope will always characterize her and fairly close by flew the Coat Guard pennon, setting off a smartly kept property. Th impressive radar tower rose over everything in the neighborhood, actually swaying in the gale.

Underfoot, it was muddy, icy, hardly a day for stepping out. The thick yellowed brush along the road kept the boxer busy inspecting every reed, snouting in through it, poking along the boulder mass. There was plenty of room to race and bid up with both ears pointed heavenward, hoping to catch the scent of an old or young feline. Such a waste of time.

Across the ocean's breadth, Thatcher's appeared grim and forbidding, snow rimmed, far from lending itself to visitors on a day like this. But there is always an attraction in the twin lights whether or not one was blacked out by Uncle Sam.

We were astonished to see how much Everett Wilkinson and his men have done to salvage what they could out of the destructive flames. He certainly means to make good his promise that there will still be a Straitsmouth Inn come summer. He has the large cottages that weren't touched. He is restoring th burned kitchen and dining room and this building looks good.

Of course to one side is the shambles of the inferno, the snarled bed-springs and bedposts, boilers, pipes, wires and whatnot. Bricks from the tall chimney are strewn around. No doubt when the weather is right, these will be bulldozed and trucked out of there to convert the area again into a place of beauty. The massive ship's anchor, its flanges to the ground, stands guard over it all, the ruins, the restored section, the natural expanse of boulders along the surf-washed shores.

A memorial sentinel on the shore side is the simple but effective tall cross that has a story often told by Rockporters to their summer visitors.

There were days when this area was popular with tautog fishermen, amateurs who enjoyed this sport as much as do the striper sportsmen of today, their surf casting through the night in this same vicinity. As we retraced our steps we saw the first group of similar intruders. With our backs to the breeze, we didn't envy them facing in the wrong direction for comfort. Confidentially speaking, Straitsmouth is a lot more enjoyable to visit in July and August.
J.P.C., Jr.



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