by Denis O'Shea
In my day, part of the rite of passage for boys who had survived the ravages of Saltaire to reach the echelon of boys aged 10-14, was the treasured overnight to the Sunken Forest. I’m not certain in how many years this trip had been made before; I just know that when I first made the trip our group was not the first to do an overnight there. These photos were taken in early August 1963 as the gang that would make this voyage prepared to depart. I have no shots of our escapades on route or once there but these few serve to jog my memories and perhaps your own of what transpired.
Preflight briefing
(click photo to enlarge)
That’s Gen O’Shea, my mom, giving me a briefing on how to spot poisonous snakes and trip wires to Claymores on the forest floor. The Sunken Forest had a mysterious reputation, it was filled with bogs, skeletons, goblins (after dark) and word was that a “hermit” lived in the forest, a wicked little old man with a nasty temperament. The forest trails (there were no boardwalks in those days) were only to be trod in daylight and then only in groups for safety’s sake. We had heard of only a few who had made the trip and returned to tell their tales. Right behind my mother’s left had you’ll note a shed in the background pinned up next to that house (the O’Shea abode), where Billy Ervin kept his gas tanks and boating supplies. The first smell of a summer day in our house was a morning whiff of gasoline, I rather liked it actually.
(click to enlarge)
Cathy MacAdam has just reminded me that monsters lurked in the Sunken Forest. I was doing my best to show her that I wasn’t scared.
(click photo)
That’s Billy Ervin’s red skiff on the beach, Billy being the counselor of our troupe, provided the mode of transit to the forest. Uncle Pete in a white shirt is near the stern reviewing a military style checklist, me in front of him with the oilskin on and Alfie Lapp, wearing the ubiquitous green Lapp family T-shirt color (Mrs. Lapp used to dye them by the gross for her clan), is next to the hull. Lurking somewhere outside the gaze of Uncle Pete was Danny Weinlandt and (I seem to recall) Allen Aherne. Uncle Pete, you see, was not meant to make the trip. Instead Billy, the fine son of two of Saltaire’s leading citizens, Tom and Norma, was entrusted with our care. The plot thickens.
Capt'n Billy
(click photo)
We’re off. That’s Billy at the tiller of his trusty 18 HP Johnson Seahorse. I’m in the bow, Stevie MacManus is behind me on the starboard side, Robbie MacAdam on port and Alfie in the stern next to Billy. I’m not certain whose lap strake boat that is next to us. You’ll note the wind is out of the north northwest, a sign of clearing skies which paid off later that night but made the ride down rough once we got past the lee of West and East Islands. Billy was nice enough to slow the boat down at that point because I was getting beat up and about to get tossed out of the boat. Too bad Billy didn’t think of that himself later on.
After a wet ride we neared the Sunken Forest, we had a sense that it knew we were coming and it seemed a smirk spread across its broad face as we approached our fates. We gathered our gear and then began to trudge across the forest to the swale beyond the second dune where we would sleep. Being late afternoon there was no goblins out yet but there was plenty of talk of the hermit being just beyond the next bush. We survived our trek and gathered with the 15 – 20 boys who had the courage to come. Grabbed some grub, can’t remember if we had a fire or what we ate, and the evening settled into darkness. Then, to our surprise, Billy and his buddies announced that they had to go back to the boats to get something. “What, and leave us with that hermit out there,” we thought but we didn’t argue with them, they were teenagers, gods almost who could crush your spleen with one blow.
Our worry about the hermit kept us alert as we waited but Billy and crew did not return anytime soon. So we lay on our backs in our sleeping bags and then Mother Nature on that cool clear night put on a spectacular show. We had the luck to pick the night of the Perseids meteor shower. This is an annual event each August, usually around the 12th known sometimes for 30 + meteors per hour. Since that evening, the nights have never seemed as clear, there’s more haze in the sky and of course those awful sodium lights on the mainland that pollute the Saltaire sky view. But that night it was perfect and we watched with wonder as dozens and dozens of meteors streaked across the canvas of an ink black starry sky. I lost count at 60.
After several hours we began to hear strange shrieks from the forest like someone screaming. The hermit! He was on to us and we were defenseless. Then the screams turned to raucous laughter and we heard thrashing and cussing. No, it was not the hermit, it was Billy and his crew and they sounded like they were in a murderous mood. Something had happened or someone had crossed them. We pretended to sleep and hid in our bags hoping they wouldn’t trip over or crush us.
Years later while out on the bay fishing with Danny Weinlandt I found out what caused all the fuss that night. Billy, Dan and Alan had gone down to O.B. to Houser’s where the drinking age was about 15 (depending on your appearance) and they really tied one on. In the boat ride on the way back to the forest, with the wind still out of the north, a chop was bouncing them around. After one memorable wave, Danny turned around and Billy (who had been driving) was NOT IN THE BOAT!
He’d fallen out! At night! In the middle of the bay! With about 10 beers aboard! Somehow Dan and Allen (I think) located Billy and dragged him back into the boat and made their way back to their innocent charges. So it wasn’t hermits or goblins that made that overnight dangerous, it was the reckless, abandon of our youth. But fortunately they were lucky and when I heard the other side of this tale just a couple of years ago, it made that evening long ago that much more memorable.
(Originally posted 3 26 2008)
