I tried to fly one day in the summer of 1956, but it didn’t work out too well.
Six of us ‘buddies’ had rented a cottage for a week of vacation on Chippewa Bay in the Thousand Islands area of northern New York State. The bay opens to the Saint Lawrence River and was supposed to be a great place to fish for pike, muskies, and small mouth bass. The bay is also close to the town Alexandria Bay which is a favorite of tourists. We looked forward to having a great week. Jake and I were riding with Tom, Joe and Ralph were in Dick’s car.
We started our journey north and planned on stopping in Syracuse to say hello to my parents. The day was cloudy and it began raining as we neared Cortland; the rain turned out to be less than a good omen.
I was sitting in the front passenger’s seat when Tom remarked that the lead car was traveling a bit too fast for the road conditions. I had driven the route many times on my frequent trips to my parents’ home, and knew a shortcut around the city of Cortland. I suggested to Tom that we alert the lead car and motion them to follow us; we would then be in the lead and could drive at a more appropriate speed. Tom thought that was a good idea, so he tooted the horn and made a signal for Dick to slow down. We drew alongside and told him to follow us around the shortcut. So far, so good.
The shortcut would take us over a small hill and would bring us to the little town of Homer, just north of Cortland. Tom’s car was running like a fine watch as we started over the hill. As I recall, he was driving a two door 1951 Chevrolet, and had just spent well over a hundred dollars having the engine overhauled. I owned a four door 1951 Mercury sedan at that time, but the car was on its last legs, so to speak, so Tom volunteered his car for the trip.
As we approached the top of the hill there was a fork in the road and we took it, following the advice given by Yogi Berra in one of his uniquely colorful quotes… “If you come to a fork in the road, take it.” Actually, we bore to the left and I mentioned to Tom that the road would start to descend and turn a bit more to the left as soon as we crested the hill. We were experiencing a light but steady rainfall as we started down.
Then, completely to Tom’s surprise because we were traveling slowly, the car began to hydroplane on the rain slicked surface; he tried to steer, but succeeded only in putting the car into a spin. BANG! The car hit a cement guardrail on the left side of the road. The trunk popped open and out flew a stream of groceries, golf clubs, and unopened beer cans, but the car kept moving. BANG... another guardrail met Tom’s Chevy, or vice versa. I don’t recall how the car was spinning at this point, but there was a third BANG and the passenger’s side door popped open. I was the passenger who would demonstrate Newton’s First Law of Motion; my body was in motion, and tended to stay in motion. Out the door I went even as I was scrambling to find a handhold. This was my first and only attempt at flight.
The guys in the following car told me, later, that I came out of the car in a sitting position, bounced my butt twice on the road, and came to rest (still in a sitting position) against one of those cement guardrails as I hit it with my head. Dick pulled his car to the right side of the road and he and his passengers ran back to see how badly I’d been injured.
I was a bit shaken, but not injured at all if you discount the little bump that was beginning to form behind my right ear. I got to my feet, unassisted, and said “I think I need a drink.” Thank goodness the whiskey that we brought (one never knows when one may need a snake bite remedy) was in Dick’s car. He ran to get the bottle and I took a healthy swig.
Once it was clear that I was perfectly fine, the laughter erupted. Tom, Jake and I were treated to a detailed description of the entire incident, complete with what seemed like an item-by-item count of the missiles spewing out of the trunk. The relatively new golf clubs belonged to Jake, so he and another guy went off into the adjacent field to retrieve them along with whatever groceries they could find. Tom was moaning as he inspected the damage to his car; the driver’s side door wouldn’t close properly, and there were distinct impressions of guardrails in the front and left side. He decided not to drive it in that condition, so Dick drove into Homer to find a tow truck operator.
We all ended up in an automotive body shop in Cortland where the dents were pounded out so as not to rub on the tires and the driver’s door was wired closed. We then continued to Syracuse after a two hour delay. That shortcut turned out to be anything but a time saver.
We made the scheduled visit to my parents where everyone related their version of what happened. Mom had to feel the bump on my head, which she diagnosed as nothing serious, and Dad went out to look at Tom’s car. My father advised Tom not to drive the car up to the Bay, but suggested that we take his car; he would drive Tom’s car to his place of work which was relatively close by, that is if Tom approved. He did, and we left a short time later with me driving Dad’s car as we continued north.
I certainly wouldn’t rank the week at Chippewa Bay as the best vacation I ever had, as a matter of fact it was closer to, if not, the worst. The negatives were the lump on my head, the ear infection that prevented me from swimming, the harrowing crossing of the bay in an outboard driven but dinky little boat, and the lack of fish. On the positive side, we took a tourist boat trip up through The Thousand Islands to Canada, stopped to tour Boldt’s Castle (built on an island by a millionaire for his wife who died before it was completed), hit a few good bars at night, played a lot of poker, and just generally goofed off. One of the bars had a tradition of cutting the necktie off any male who was wearing one when he came in. The severed ties were pinned to the ceiling and they would move slightly as people passed beneath them. They gave the place a sort of strange, garish, tropical look. The ceiling was a good conversation starter for newcomers.
Now, a little bit about that harrowing boat ride across the bay. We had taken two outboard motor driven boats into the bay for some morning fishing; the day was clear and sunny. We moved the boats several times trying to locate a spot where the elusive fish might be feeding, but we never did catch anything. We did see a moderately sized island close by. It was about three quarters of a mile from our dock, and was close to the Saint Lawrence River channel; we could see the ocean-going cargo ships as they made their way through the channel on their trip to the sea. We decided to look around the island just to see what was there. It was barren except for a couple of picnic tables that were probably built there with lumber brought across the bay. We didn’t spend much time there at all because we noticed that a storm was forming off to the west. The wind picked up considerably as we started a straight course back to the dock. Ralph was operating the motor and steering the boat, I was in the middle seat, and Joe (who was a poor swimmer) was in the front with a hand gripping each side of the bow. His knuckles grew whiter as the waves, coming from left to right, grew choppier and threatened to swamp the boat. We were amazed at how quickly the storm had moved.
Ralph knew what he was doing, and turned the boat right to set a diagonal course across the bay that would take us about a half mile beyond our dock. He would then make a quick U-turn and go back toward the dock while heading directly into the wind. He did a great job in that we didn’t take on any water. We arrived at the dock in pouring rain, and I thought that we would have to pry Joe’s hands of the bow. He was never happier to get out of a boat.
The trip home was uneventful. I didn’t make any shortcut suggestions, and didn’t get a chance to see if I could improve on my flying technique. There is something to be said for that old expression ‘All’s well that ends well.’
F. A. Zedik
08-08-07