March on Long Beach

This Rockport wife and husband combination decided to vary its Sunday stroll around the streets of town by motoring to Long Beach to walk along its wintry strand. The beach has sure changed down through the years since Gloucester disdained to claim it and thereby Rockport succeeded to a gold mine. First thing we spotted was a new and ample house being built on the sands to the rear. Another new one had a big "for rent" sign, noting it also could be bought.

Long Beach is a warm and lively place through the summer months. There was none of that this brittle March Sunday. Yet it was far from lacking in appeal. We saw many visiting their cottages as if longing for the weeks to pass so that they could abandon their winter homes for the joys of their summer residence.

Most forlorn-looking establishment was behind the sign "Cocktails". Although the beach is perhaps two-thirds in Rockport, this place is located at the Gloucester end. It was a post-Prohibition innovation.

The rich and vibrant smell of the angered sea was welcomed. That and the background of Thacher's twin lights, one blacked out for years, reminded us of post cards we had back home.
Among those cards of a half century ago was one showing the little theater located where that cocktail sign is. We had nostalgic recollections of that theater, for if my memory serves us right we as as kids enjoyed hearing Clark's Military Band led by Ben Clark and the Acoriana Band whose leader we forget. Both gave Sunday band concerts that thrilled thousands.

The open electric cars did a land office business then. Big treat to the young fry was a front seat in an open car bumping over the wooden trestle from Bass Avenue to the Beach pavilion. It was sure worth the nickel (starting from the Main Street Waiting Station), and then some.

We noted a lot of people probing the rocks at the Gloucester end. We thought at first it was for the sea moss, only to learn they were collecting hen clams for the supper table. Most were from out of town -- the people, not the clams. Washed up on the beach by the blizzard were lobster pots, some of which must have come from quite a distance.

We got up onto the cement wall that goes the length of the beach in front of the cottages and was built by Rockport over a quarter century ago to keep tremendous seas from destroying the cottages. It must have been well built, considering its condition today.

The wife spotted the camp where her family stayed for many a summer in the old days. It was down toward the Gloucester end. In those days, a camp had a living room, one bedroom and a kitchen. Now the new ones are like year-round homes. Traces of board walks of old can still be seen. As a child, there was the extra thrill of jumping from them into the sand.

The breakers added much to that beach walk. It was a real good show, more so because there was no danger to us. Sheer white foam splashed over the shore rocks, spent itself, and returned in rushing rivulets to the sea. We were about half way along when we met up with Frank McLaughlin, his wife and mother. Frank is an official at the Gloucester Post Office. He has a camp there. He had been gathering hen clams. We visited with them and found his camp substantial in size, just right, and in one room, heat going. Frank says he is winterizing it so that when he retires in a few years they can live in the camp six months a year and in Florida for the remainng six months. Happy, happy thought.

About in front of his camp, the bones of an old wreck protruded from the sands. Not much was left, but enough to please an artist after a shore scene linking the past with the present, and to fire the imagination of youth in their daily games. By this time, as we emerged from the cottage warmth, we could see the gulls had descended on the frigid stretch and were rivalling the humans after hen clams. One bold winner had captured a clam and was soaring off with his find. Right behind him was a screeching squad hoping to get in on the kill.

They tell us that on Salt Island is an actual lake, fresh water, of course. We believe this is the island where a movie company, the silent variety, staked out a locale away, away back and with a fellow named Panzer in command, staged chapters of the "The Thirteenth Bride," a thriller that left the audience hanging on the edge of their uncomfortable chairs as the chapter came to a close with the exasperating three little words, "Continued Next Week".

That is a wee bit of Long Beach of the past and of the present, perhaps a more interesting past than a present. But that also may be we are getting old. Anyway it was a nice diversion for a winter walk.

J.P.C., Jr.