Belle Isle is a small island in the middle of the half-mile wide Detroit River, located between the shores of downtown Detroit and Windsor, Ontario, Canada. The island has a notorious background including its usage as a loading point for bootleggers, ferrying alcohol from Canada during Prohibition. One obtained access to the island by crossing over a quarter-mile long bridge from the east shore of Detroit, unless of course, one has a boat; several marinas with docks could moor any size watercraft. In 1906, it was from this very same bridge that the famed magician, Harry Houdini, attempted a dangerous trick called the “Overboard Packing Box Escape”. For the performance, Houdini was tied and handcuffed inside of a wooden box. The box was then nailed and tied shut with overlapping ropes. Finally, with Houdini inside, the crate was lowered through a hole in the ice of the river. Houdini had mere seconds to escape from both the restraints and the box. The myth we all heard while growing up in the old neighborhood was that Houdini had drowned in these waters during a similar failed stunt, but in reality, his trick was a success and a nearby boat picked him up. He died twenty years later in 1926.
The residents of Detroit came to this island for relaxation and to escape the heat and stresses of big city living. During a summer weekend, the beaches, picnic areas, athletic fields, zoo, aquarium, and flower gardens overflowed with visitors.
As an alternative to visiting the crowded public places, many people simply cruised the loop around the island, driving slowly to enjoy the cool island air. The panorama of freshly manicured lawns, ornamental flower beds lining the road, and lovers paddling canoes through the many internal canals were enough to tranquilize the senses.
It was common to see families either sitting on blankets at the shoreline or sitting in parked cars on the side of the road. Everyone watched in awe as giant lake freighters and pleasure boats passed by in both directions.
For families of modest means – such as mine – Belle Isle offered the closest thing to a vacation they’d experience, and for many, it was their only frame of reference for the great outdoors.
In the early 1960’s, our family lived only a few blocks away from the Belle Isle bridge. During the summer months, my friends and I spent every sunny day on the island. As preteens, we either bummed a ride or walked to the beach. Being fearless and feeling invincible, we sometimes ended up doing stupid things that appeared to be an adventure at the time.
We usually spent our days at the boathouse adjacent to the beach. The wooden docks rose five feet above the water and extended beyond a line of barrels, marking a boundary for swimmers. Water depths at the dock’s end were eight to ten feet. Nearby lifeguards allowed swimmers to jump and dive from them; wooden ladders made it easy for swimmers to climb out of the water for a repeat performance. Here, the riverbed was “mushy” and covered with seaweed. One of our in-group challenges was to see who could jump the deepest into the muck below; the texture was like melted clay and left telltale prints on our legs, coating them with a mixture of goop that remained until we scraped it off with a stick or flat stone, making it easy to determine the winner.
We had all experienced going too deep into the muck and getting stuck on occasion. Panic stricken, we’d claw at the seaweed and try desperately to escape from the suction imprisoning us. It seemed like the more we panicked, the more difficult it was to get free. We couldn’t use our hands to push off from the bottom because of the mucky texture. Through trial and error, we soon learned that if we relaxed and tried to crawl along the bottom, we could pull ourselves free and rise to the top.
I do remember one time when one of us got into trouble and almost drowned. Michael Tomas, the youngest and skinniest of the group, jumped in and wasn’t coming back up. We stood there on the deck waiting for him to surface and watched the water for signs. When a stream of bubbles burst to the surface, the three of us jumped in without hesitation. Michael had trapped himself in slime beyond his knees but he was conscious when we managed to pull him free and get him back onto the dock. Thankfully, he was still breathing. It was a good thing, too, because none of us guys were willing to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation! We all laughed about the incident later, but the lifeguard wasn’t pleased. He expelled us from the docks, thus ending our day of swimming.
Another time, a construction company was repairing the bridge by working from a floating platform on the river. They had constructed scaffolding on the raft extending fifty feet up to the underside of the arched structure. The platform, anchored about the same distance from the seawall, sat on the city side of the river, in front of the massive Wonder Bread Company monument; a three-story replica of an antique black iron kitchen stove which faced Jefferson Avenue.
We had no idea of the water’s depth but thought it would be cool to swim out to the platform and dive from the scaffolding. We agreed that one of us had to stay behind with a rope to help the others climb back up the seawall, since no ladder was mounted anywhere nearby. We drew blades of grass to determine the loser; the shortest stayed behind. Michael lost – or won – depending on how you look at it.
We weren’t aware that the city dredged the clay river bottom here, or that the current was treacherous. Unfortunately, we discovered this the hard way. We were all strong swimmers for 12 year-old boys, as we participated on the local Boy Scout swimming team. Having regularly dove into the river from various heights on the island side, the eight-foot high seawall didn’t intimidate us. However, when the three of us jumped into the water together, the current immediately took hold of us and pulled us away from the floating scaffold. We swam with all our might, but didn’t make any progress in closing the distance. Our efforts matched the speed of the current and only kept us stationary at a point of no return, halfway between the shore and the raft.
Michael, already in panic mode, paced back and forth along the seawall with a twenty-foot long rope. It wasn’t long enough to reach us, but if we could swim to it, then Michael could help us up. I tried to tell Patrick and James about my idea, but the waves lapping against my face made me gag while attempting to get the words out.
Finally, I relayed the message using pantomime: pointing to the rope in the water, and hollering, “ROPE” several times. They acknowledged and began making their way in that direction. Michael kept pace with them as the current moved them away from the bridge and along the seawall.
I saw nothing to grasp along the seawall and figured that three of us trying to reach the rope would actually make it harder for us to get out. I focused on the raft instead, burying my face in the water and swimming as if I were participating in one of our weekly races in the high school’s swimming pool.
The current relinquished its death grip on me once I moved farther from shore. This reprieve allowed me to swim toward the bridge and then approach the floating platform from behind. I saw a ladder mounted on an attached platform; it was used to unload and store supplies for the much larger stationary raft. I summoned the last of my strength and swam the final twenty feet toward salvation. Snatching the lowest rung, I held on tightly as the small raft bobbed up and down in the water, behaving like a bronco bull trying to throw me off. It was now or never.
I managed to pull myself up and fell onto the bobbing platform. My muscles spasmed, my lungs were on fire, and my ribs screamed in pain as they all expanded to accommodate every deep, gulping breath. Feeling dizzy, I knew I was hyperventilating from the whole experience. Trying to control my breathing, I exhaled into my clasped fists, using it like a paper bag. My two friends still struggled in the water. They held on to Michael’s dangling rope like landed fish hanging at the end of a storage line. Energy expended, neither had enough strength to pull himself up the eight-foot high seawall. Confident that they were safe for the moment, I relaxed momentarily. However, the constant bobbing brought on a case of motion sickness. I bent over the side and hurled my earlier breakfast into the water, watching the regurgitated glob of cereal, pancakes, and bile move downriver away from me. I prayed that my friends didn’t see me as it would definitely hurt my image.
Suddenly, I spotted a police car driving over the top of the slope above Michael, heading directly toward him. Michael waved frantically to get the officer’s attention, but they were already well aware of us. Looking up for the first time, I noticed groups of people gathered on the bridge above, all watching us, many exhibiting looks of sheer terror on their faces. The ladies bit their fists and the men held their partners tightly in their arms. Somebody up there had called the police.
To make matters worse, a small Coast Guard vessel manned with four officers arrived on the scene. The captain fought the current and held the boat stationary while two Coasties pulled Patrick and James into the craft. A medic checked them over while the cruiser motored toward me to pluck me from the bobbing platform. Spectators on the bridge clapped and cheered – a near disaster avoided. They continued watching the vessel as it moved slowly across the river toward the island.
The Coasties were extremely kind. They covered us with wool blankets and appeared genuinely concerned about our well-being. The three of us were excited and agreed that this was turning out to be one great adventure so far.
After we tied off at the Coast Guard Station, we saw Michael standing near the dock with two police officers, our clothes and shoes sitting in a pile at his feet. Michael was crying. Thin rivulets of tears created trails running down his dust-encrusted face; they dripped onto his shoes from the edge of his chin. The look on his face gave us pause. Michael was not a weak person and seldom cried. Maybe the police officers told him that he would go to jail for his part in what they now called a prank.
We began to worry while drying off and redressing in our crumpled clothes. Why were the police officers still hanging around? We didn’t do anything wrong! We were just on an adventure, challenging ourselves – and each other – to try something new.
Once we were dressed, the police officers escorted the four of us to an office containing a long table and a dozen chairs. After taking their seats, the officers eyeballed each of us, shaking their heads in disgust. None of us dared move; fear kept us frozen to the spot. This adventure was no longer fun.
The officers greatly intimidated us. They threatened us with a stint in a juvenile detention facility and hundreds of dollars in fines for doing something so stupid. Petrified, we shivered uncontrollably. Needless to say, none of us wanted to be taken away from our homes, and we had no money to pay the fines. We started crying, promising that we would never do anything like that again, but they weren’t listening to us and just tuned us out.
When they told us that our parents were telephoned, informed about our stupid stunt, and were on their way to pick us up, we freaked out! Fighting the river currents wasn’t that big of a big deal to us, and in our naiveté, none of us were truly scared during the ordeal; it was more of an adrenaline rush... a real adventure. The reality of drowning never entered our minds. However, real fear surfaced when the four of us thought about what our parents would do to us when we got home. The anticipation of the unknown had its way with me, and the first of many future panic attacks began. It’s unfortunate that they had to start at such a young age.
Our parents soon filed in, first smothering us with hugs and kisses for not dying, then subjecting themselves to a severe tongue-lashing from the head police officer. They remained humbled and were not defensive. Instead, they exhibited respect and patience while waiting until they could take us home. The officers released us to the custody of our parents and did not press charges. Four separate cars exited the Coast Guard Station parking lot and merged into the bridge traffic returning to the city.
My parents didn’t say a single word on the drive home. Dad’s face was red and stern, his mind trying to sort through these recent events. He glanced at me a few times in the rear-view mirror, but I knew better than to say anything. When we arrived home, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I felt safe from the reach of my parents while still in the car with the doors locked. When Dad saw that I wasn’t getting out, he returned, opened the door and looked in with an angry look on his face, then growled, “Into the house, Mr. Olympic Swimmer.” He didn’t smile or mean it as a joke. I hesitated, still unsure if I should or shouldn’t move. Dad lost his patience and shouted, “NOW!” His voice alarmed me enough to launch me out of the car. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, taking the porch steps two at a time, and then dashing through the open front door in a blur. I continued straight to my bedroom, slammed my door, and propped my desk chair under the doorknob to keep them out. When my father banged on the door and yelled my name repeatedly, my lack of response didn’t fool him into thinking that I wasn’t there. After a couple more hard knocks with his fist and wild jostling of the handle, the door suddenly burst open. Dad stepped into my room, swinging his brown leather belt from his right hand.
Yeah, I was punished, big time. My parents forbade me to go to Belle Isle for the rest of the summer, doling out additional chores and confining me to my room for the next two weeks. Of course, I didn’t have a computer, video games, or a cell phone to pass the time – those inventions were still decades away – leaving me with only an AM radio and my comic books for company. I didn’t see my buddies, Michael, Patrick or James until the first day of school at the beginning of the following month. It seemed like the parents collaborated because all of our punishments were similar.
Oh, and I should add that when I left for Vietnam, I still had the welts running across my ass from where dad’s leather belt roasted my flesh only six years earlier. The whole misadventure of diving under the bridge, turned out to be a foolish and painful experience.
But... I have to confess... what a rush it was!