Crossing the Esopus

Off the beaten paths of my stomping grounds it wasn’t unusual to see the occasional homemade dump. An interesting characteristic of these unsanctioned piles was their power to solicit anonymous contributions.

I once saw a wooden boat hull protruding from a heap of bent aluminum lawn chairs, bald tires, and rusted appliances. Possibly a modest yacht in its prime, now its husk was all that was left.

At the time, I was working for the Town of Ulster Highway Department. Every summer the town hired as many local teenage boys as its budget would allow, and busied their idle hands with two weeks of menial labor. We dubbed ourselves townies.

A dump truck shuttled us to various remote locations where we’d usually be turned loose on a mess of weeds that needed clearing. Our foreman, Bill, was a white-haired Highway Department retiree. His task was to teach us a thing or two about government work.

When we arrived at a worksite, Bill’s instructions were always the same. “Okay now boys, do a little somethin’.” We’d make a good show of it in the cool of the morning, then stop for a break at 10:30. A less enthusiastic effort generally led up to lunch, over which we’d linger for as long as possible. After lunch we’d mostly lean on our shovels and scythes until the truck returned for us around mid-afternoon. Before leaving, Bill would survey the area and say, “Well, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”

The discarded hull appeared on a day when we’d been dropped off near the Esopus Creek. The Esopus begins as a little trout stream, but ends up being sixty-five miles long and averaging forty feet across. It has many personalities. This particular stretch was muddy with frothy suds bobbing here and there. Nonetheless, its shady shore was the perfect place to take our sack lunches. Bill tacitly approved of the idea since we weren’t likely to be seen by passing taxpayers. On our way down the dirt road to the creek we spied the derelict vessel.

With more sweat than we’d shed on the town’s behalf that morning, we managed to haul her down to the water’s edge. I hollered that we should shove off and jump aboard. Everyone yelled, “Aye-aye!” and shoved hard, but only two of us jumped. The others had better sense than to board a boat that had been dragged from a trash heap.

The craft unexpectedly stayed afloat. The Yoo-hoo colored current turned out to be much stronger than it looked. We were quickly in the middle of the creek, drifting downstream. Clearly, the situation called for decisive action.

My accidental co-adventurer was barely an acquaintance. I don’t think I even knew his name, but we skipped the introductions. He had the bow, I had the stern. The back of his head is really all I remember about him.

I ripped a piece of wood from the hull and started paddling. My shipmate chipped in and paddled with his hands. We weren’t about to swallow our pride and turn back. Our cronies – who were now bent over with laughter – had to be shown how much fun they were missing. We aimed for the opposite shore.

Getting across wasn’t easy. The hull filled with water, and was mostly submerged by the time we finally struck land. We sloshed ashore to take stock of the situation.

The beach was a thin strip of sandy clay, walled by a steep, overgrown bank. I decided to climb up and just start walking once I got my bearings. As far as I was concerned, we’d reached the every-man-for-himself stage of our journey.

I scrambled up, hand and foot. It was a slippery, itchy business. I parted the last tangle of bushes and was surprised by the bared teeth of a snarling dog. He changed my mind about hopping the wire fence that separated us.

I slid back down the bank and saw something happening on the other shore. My buddies were putting the finishing touches on a makeshift raft. It involved two droopy inner tubes and a wooden pallet. Since it would hold only two, my fellow castaway and I would have to be rescued one at a time.

I was odd man out for the first return voyage, so I stood at the water’s edge and watched them arm-paddle the fifty-plus feet back to the other side. Not surprisingly, the raft came apart as they reached the shallows.

My friends tried to repair it, but it looked like I’d have to return the same way I’d come. I got busy emptying the sunken hull of as much creekwater as I could, and pushed off. Halfway across, she went down for good and I had to swim for it.

Swimming was never a strong suit of mine, but I knew enough to find a focal point on the shore and flail toward it with all my might. Panic escorted me until I got to where my feet could touch bottom. I splashed and spluttered out of the drink, and fell forward onto dry land. I lay there for a while, flat and thankful.

The rest of the day was ordinary, if a tad soggy. We finished our lunches and went back to hacking weeds. The dump truck rumbled up for us, and Bill pronounced his blessing on our labors.

“Well boys, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”