This is the modern Sydney Lanier Bridge connecting the Georgia mainland to Jekyll Island. A remnant of the original mainland end of the bridge (lower left) remains as a fishing and observation pier. It ends near the spot from which I fell from the old bridge as a ten-year old. I hope a reader will send me a photo of the old bridge. This image is from the official Glynn County site.

Life was risky around my father. A mix of fierce physicality, keen mind and, when circumstances required, genteel manners. He occasionally could be dangerous. Once when a careless truck driver nearly caused a crash by running a stop sign, my father pulled the driver over, dragged him out of the cab of his truck and beat him while we watched. 

Dad, “Honey”, we called him as children, thought boys learned by osmosis, by experience. This toughened them. God would protect them no matter how dangerous the pursuit. Air rifle at eight, shotgun at twelve. A life spent in the woods or along the creek. This is how he was raised. Unless our mother was near to dispel the dangerous clouds gathering around us, we were on our own and spent our time in the outdoors-away from too much scrutiny. And, when I was ten, we moved to the sea.

     Nothing else measures up to living by the sea. Adventure rises with the tide to envelop those who come near it. If we chance her currents and ride her winds, we can never forget her ceaseless movement or the mysteries that swarm beneath her waves.  Her majesty and beauty, as well as her secrets, will always hold our hearts in an enchanting embrace.

     When the very first Jekyll Island bridge was being built, Honey took me and my brother, Jack, out to the site on weekends and we fished from the wooden  scaffolding erected alongside the half- finished bridge.  Easily bored, Jack and I usually stowed our rods and reels if the fish were not biting and dropped our crab traps into the gray current twenty-five feet below, off  the end of the scaffolding. The traps, baited with chunks of meat, were tethered by hand-held lines that were used to snap the traps shut and to haul them up with a crab or two scrambling inside. Occasionally the chunk of bait, raw stew beef or chicken necks, was mysteriously missing and we speculated about what kind of monster had grabbed the meat. Occasionally, if the light was right, we could see a giant sea ray ghost by beneath the surface on dark wings; or, a pod of porpoises would scroll across the current, eyeing us.

     We tossed our crabs into a wooden fruit hamper, salvaged from the Piggly Wiggly grocery store’s trash for just this purpose. It was soon filled with blue crabs crawling all over each other in a vain effort to escape.

Then, as if a celestial switch had been thrown, the tide and weather shifted. Currents crawled back toward the open sea, and a sudden wind stirred black clouds overhead. Warm air off the land carried sheets of rain. The crabs became indifferent and our catch baskets were full enough. So, we gave up, retrieved our lines and traps, and made our way along the narrow boards toward shore. My way obscured by a hamper and the trap I carried, I stepped into space. In an instant I fell twenty five feet (the distance has grown greater with each telling) and found myself struggling for air beneath the cold salt water.  

      In my mind the sea was swarming with sharks and rays that had been patrolling beneath us , just waiting for this opportunity to devour one of us. The crabs, released from the confines of the overturned hamper were all around me.

       Honey had taken refuge from the wind and the chill. It had occurred to me earlier that he was probably admiring his two son’s skill at crabbing, while enjoying a few pulls off the Four Roses bottle tucked under the seat of our aging Buick. He saw me fall.

     I grabbed a wooden piling as the current carried me near, cutting my fingers on the barnacle- encrusted post. From there I watched as Honey raced to the bridge’s end, at first wading, then swimming toward me. He paddled against the tide from piling to piling until he reached me. Whatever failings my father had, hesitation in the face of danger was not one of them. He told me as he grabbed my arm, “We have to swim to shore and you have to help.” I felt my own courage rise as he pulled me back as he had come, from piling to piling.

Jack saw it all, and half my age, made it back along the catwalk to land with his hamper, crabs and all. The half-hour drive home was ample time for Honey to explain the possibilities that our mother might never allow us to go crabbing again if we shared the details of this adventure with her. He swore us to secrecy. We carefully contrived an explanation for why Honey and I were soaked with salt water, while Jack was dry as a bone.

So, it was crab stew and hush puppies (spoonfuls of fried corn bread) for supper for the survivor, the life-saver, and the witness, all prepared by my mother who gradually pieced the story together anyway. Boys cannot be trusted to resist the telling of secrets. Our tongues loosened in the safety and warmth of a family supper and we chattered on about the day at the bridge. As our stomachs filled, details escaped our lips. Mothers can do that. They can read the minds of small boys and draw out the truth from a reticent husband, especially if Four Roses has lulled him into relaxed contentment.

Footnote: Ironically, many years later I was at a professional meeting of historians in Brunswick, when a cargo ship of foreign registry struck the old bridge, weakening it to the point that a new bridge was deemed necessary. A friend and I drove out that evening to see the damage. As best I recall, access onto the bridge was still permitted. We parked and walked to the point where the bridge had been struck. I hope a reader will send a photo of the old bridge or and I would be pleased to publish it along with a brief and relevant comment.