When the fishing derby was on, you could almost walk across Lake Erie, from Port Colborne to America. Hundreds of small boats, maybe a thousand, resembled stepping stones on a pond.
Julie and I wanted to be part of it. Julie Girard. Jules was his real name but no one called him that, except teachers who couldn’t decide on “Jools” or “Jewels.” He lived in a rented house on Sugarloaf Street, with his extended family – just like me, except I was four blocks away on Charlotte.
It was the summer of 1952, we were fourteen. We couldn’t afford fishing equipment but Julie had a wooden canoe. His uncle won it in a poker game and had no use for it. The underside was coated with a layer of white electrical tape but it stayed afloat no matter what we did. Sixteen feet long, with two mismatched paddles, we could fit four kids in it, if we wanted – which we didn’t. It was the only thing Julie owned. He was the captain and liked it exclusive but needed help lifting. That’s where I came in.
Each morning, we carried the canoe upside down above our heads to Third Ferry, where concrete steps dipped into the Welland Ship Canal. We launched it there, unless a freighter was tied alongside, then we carried it to First Ferry, near the lift bridge.
It was a long paddle, against the current, watching out for cargo ships gaining speed to enter the canal. It took ten minutes to pass Maple Leaf Mills, perched on the last finger of land, and another five to reach the little lighthouse on the breakwater. We were in the thick of the derby once we cleared that. Boats and beer everywhere, sunlight glinting on the water, the thrill of seeing a steelhead or trout fighting on a line before breaching the surface.
We went home for lunch, for some reason we didn’t pack sandwiches that day, and found Leonard waiting near the canoe when we returned. He was a spoiled Mommy’s boy who lived in a big, turreted house on Adelaide Street, half a block inland from the canal. “Can I watch the derby with you guys?” he asked.
I didn’t have the heart to say no. Julie, though, he had something against Leonard. “I dunno. It’s a lotta work,” Julie said, rubbing his shoulders, pretending to be exhausted. We could go out and back ten times without getting tired.
“I’ll do all the rowing,” Leonard offered. “I want to do it.”
Shaking a finger, Julie piped up: “N-n-n no. No way. You don’t even know what you’re doing. You row with oars, those are paddles,” he pointed. “It takes ex-per-teez! You could flip us. Can you even swim?”
“I won’t flip the boat and you know I can swim.”
We did know. Everyone swam at Third Ferry once school let out. Everyone. All summer. Boat crews called us canal rats.
Julie signalled; we lifted the boat and edged toward the canal.
Leonard’s eyes flared. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’ll give you a quarter.”
That got Julie’s attention and we set the canoe down. “Okay,” Julie said, waiting to be paid. When Leonard handed over the quarter, Julie inspected it, bit it and read the year before putting it in his pocket. Gas was twenty cents a gallon back then. I was already driving – without a licence.
Leaving the canoe where it was, Julie looked at Leonard, spread both hands, palms out, and nodded like he was saying: Come on, in awkward silence. Come on.
“What do you want? I just paid you.”
“Where’s Ron’s quarter?”
I knew not to laugh. This was serious. Leonard’s dad sold insurance from the three story building on Clarence Street. They had money, the Van Alstines.
Leonard stamped his feet but neither of us budged. He crossed his arms. “You guys,” he exclaimed, threw his head back in a huff, then relented after a long glance down the canal, toward the lake. He reached in his pocket for another quarter.
Julie and I lowered the boat in two feet of water. We each held an end against the concrete step. When Leonard raised one foot, Julie said: “Way-way-way wait. You gotta take your shoes off. No shoes in the boat.”
He said this like he feared scuff marks on the teak deck of his luxury yacht.
“These are eighteen dollar shoes.”
That was a lot of money in those days. It would be years before I’d earn that much a month.
“That don’t matter. You can’t wear ’em in the boat,” Julie declared.
I chimed in: “It’s barefoot only.”
“You guys are unreal.” Leonard shook his head, spat, then smeared it with his foot.
“Leave ’em on the pier with ours,” Julie suggested.
Mouth open wide, Leonard bobbled his head like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “What? These are brand new eighteen dollar shoes. There’s no way they’ll be here when we get back.”
Julie looked at the kids playing nearby. “We’re all friends here.” And we were. There wasn’t a person in town we didn’t know. “No one’s gonna touch your shoes.”
“Look, okay? I’ll take ’em off, okay? I’ll put ’em under the seat, okay?!”
I said it would be fine but knew I’d be diving for those shoes on the bottom of Lake Erie before the day was done. They were a tan pair of lace-ups. I don’t remember what brand. Leonard never called them anything but Eighteen Dollar Shoes.
We shoved off and soon slipped into a cluster of fishing boats. Freighters were out there too, waiting to unload. It was a blast. Eager fishermen showed off their catch. Two Ukrainians caught a fifteen pounder and thought it was a winner. They wanted us to ask around and see if anyone had them beat. Two Dutch boats got their lines crossed, so Julie and I dove to untangle them, leaving Leonard alone in the canoe. All those hooks in the water were dangerous but we didn’t care. Everything seems harmless at that age.
Leonard worried about missing dinner. “I’ll catch heck from momma if I’m late,” he said, more than once.
“Your family eats too early,” Julie grumbled on our way back.
We were inside the breakwater, still a ways from the canal entrance, when Leonard said he wanted to paddle.
Julie claimed it took skill and said he wasn’t sure Leonard could do it.
“It’s not hard. You know I can do it.”
“All right.” Julie gave in too easy. “Let’s trade places, you take a paddle. Just don’t flip us over.”
Julie winked at me. I knew what was up. From my place in the bow, I glanced over the side. The bottom was visible; fifteen feet, maybe. I nodded Julie’s way and he smiled back.
Julie waited a few strokes before rocking the boat, making it look like the boat was rocking him.
“Leonard, you’re not doing it right,” he shouted over his shoulder.
“I am so. You’re the one rocking it.”
I felt the boat jolt again and played right along: “Leonard, come on. We do this together or we tip.” I tried being serious but couldn’t help laughing.
“You guys, stop it!” he shrieked.
“It’s you, Leonard. I knew you couldn’t do it right.”
Julie and I tipped the boat. Leonard screamed. He went flying and landed with a splash. When he surfaced, he spit, wiped his eyes and hollered: “My eighteen dollar shoes! Poppa’s gonna thrash me. He’s gonna thrash me something fierce.” He put his head under and scanned the bottom for his shoes, then looked to the hospital ashore, near the park. I could tell he wasn’t confident he could swim that far. “Good gosh, I’m in for it,” he wailed and blew water from his nose.
“It’s all right,” I told him, feeling guilty. I remembered a bruise on his cheek earlier that year. It hadn’t come from the playground. “We’ll climb back in and have you home before dinner.”
“I can’t leave my shoes.” His hand went to his forehead, holding his brain inside.
Julie looked all serious: “Them shoes are long gone.”
It wasn’t hard to right the boat. Julie and I did it all the time. We retrieved the floating paddles, then lifted ourselves out of the water in tandem, me up front, Julie in back. When Julie pulled Leonard on board, I leaned the opposite way for counterbalance. Leonard looked ready to cry as he stumbled to the middle seat, then peered over the edge.
“Where are they? You fellas have no idea the thrashing I’m in for.”
“It’s your fault,” Julie insisted, suppressing a laugh. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
“No, it’s your fault.” Leonard stretched out an arm and splashed a wall of water back at Julie, who didn’t care.
Leonard pounded his temples with both fists. He couldn’t sit still and begged us to pull up to the Government Grain Terminal, jutting far into the lake. It was the closest spot where he could walk the rest of the way home. The concrete pier supporting the grain elevators was high above the water – maybe ten, twelve feet – but rusty emergency ladders hung every fifty yards. Water dripped into the canoe as Leonard climbed, shaking and barefoot.
Once he was gone, we went back. Julie didn’t plan on it but I convinced him. I said: “He didn’t deserve that.”
We paddled in silence until Julie said: “My mom doesn’t deserve having her medical claims denied.”
I dove for the shoes, no problem; I could swim underwater better than anyone. When we caught up to Leonard, he was hobbling along the concrete edge of the canal, fists clenched. You could see him wince with every pebble he stepped on. These days I bet it’s all broken glass, chain link fences and ‘No Trespassing’ signs.
Gliding behind him in the canoe, he was high above us, but I heard him mumbling. I put a finger to my lips and shushed Julie. We stopped paddling and drifted on the current. It sounded familiar. Then I made out the words: “deliver us from evil.”
He was so scared he was saying the Lord’s Prayer, said it the entire way. It was still on his lips when we met him at Third Ferry, where I handed over his wet shoes, socks still tucked deep inside.
That night, I prayed too, for Leonard – and for Julie’s ailing mother.
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author bio:
Dave Gregory was a young writer in search of the world when he inadvertently ended up with a career in the cruise industry. Two decades later, he has retired from life at sea and returned to his first love – writing. His publication credits include Eunoia Review, Soft Cartel and Clever Magazine. You can find him at courtlandavenue.wordpress.com.
This story’s featured image is by the author.