Brigadoon

 In his book about the actor Mel Gibson, David Regan wrote, "Viewed from above, all but hidden under the greenery of summer, Verplanck is Brigadoon". His description of that beloved hamlet is, in my recollections, accurate. I came to this realization during my many walks that took me along the same bicycle route that my friends and I rode as children so many years ago. Because of our inquisitive and imaginative young minds, summers on the Point (Verplanck juts out into the Hudson River) were creative and wondrous.

Our bike rides often took us along the river front, through the unpaved Battle Row Road, along the floodgate where Lake Mehaugh empties into the Hudson River, around the shore of Lake Mehaugh, and over the white sand dunes of Foley’s field. (During the Revolutionary War George Washington’s cannons were strung along Battle Row, poised to inflict their furry on any British warships that tried to make their way up the Hudson River). We always stopped at the natural spring on Battle Row Road for a drink of ice cold water. If the fish were jumping in the lake we cast our lines that were always secured underneath our bicycle seats. Our bait was a corn meal paste given to us by Carl, an elderly gentleman who religiously fished the lake.

Tom O’Brien, my best friend, had a brown German shepherd named "Tuffy" who always ran after us. When his paw was accidentally sprained as we rode our bikes on the narrow gravel quarry road Tom made a splint from wood we found lying alongside the road. With pieces of old rope we tied the splint on Tuffy’s leg, secured a plank to the rear fenders of our bicycles, and tied Tuffy to the plank. Transporting the dog back to Tom’s house required our slow synchronized peddling.

When we were ten years old Tom and I built a roe boat that to our amazement, floated. During that summer and for several summers thereafter, we used our creation to explore and fish Lake Mehaugh’s crystal clear waters.

Most of the material for our ship building project was driftwood that we found along the banks of the Hudson River, at low tide. Our search began on Bub’s Beach and continued northward through the brick laden beaches of the Steamboat and Coal Docks, and ended in the deep soft sand of White Beach. Wes Leverage, an elderly Verplanck native, was our main competitor for the driftwood. His long wagon with four large spoke wheels and several high vertical braces allowed him to haul three times the amount of wood as Tom and I.

Another source for our shipbuilding needs was Tom’s cellar where his uncle Mike kept a diverse supply of kindling wood and old coffee cans filled with nails of all sizes. He also hoarded an assortment of half-filled paint cans that were stacked on the basement’s metal shelving. Scattered about the shelves were paint brushes with bristles that were half worn down and rock hardened dry.

Our vessel was triangular and measured about five feet from bow to stern. It was approximately three feet wide at the stern, where one of the boat’s two seats was located. The other seat was in the center where the structure was much narrower. Except for our over exuberant use of nails, we closely followed Tom’s hand drawn plans.

Construction took place near the well pump at the rear of the O’Brien’s backyard. Most of our time and effort was spent cutting the wood with uncle Mike’s old rusty tooth saw, and jamming cloth caulking into the hulls endless amount of seams and knot holes. The final step of the ship building process was the application of several coats of Uncle Mike’s paint, which, by a conservative estimate, took a week to dry.

With the help of Tom’s reluctant sister Judy and Art Ferry, his young cousin, we lugged the boat across Westchester Avenue and dragged it through the winding sumac and honey suckle lined dirt path that led to the shore of Lake Mehaugh. There we sank the boat for a few days so that the wood would expand and seal the caulking. Afterwards, to test its floating capabilities, Tom persuaded a reluctant Art to sit inside the boat as we pushed it out into the lake’s deeper waters. Amazingly it passed inspection and fortunately for us Art did not fall into the lake.

On its maiden voyage, with Tuffy in the stern, we paddled the low floating dingy all around Lake Mehaugh. We saw huge water moccasins lying on the sun-drenched rocks of the lake’s only island. At the sound of jumping fish we jerked our heads and stared at the wake they made as they descended into their domain. As we floated along the shoreline we watched blackbirds, perched in mulberry trees, devour berries and mud turtles bob their heads up from the lake’s muddy floor. Restless, Tuffy jumped out of the boat and swam to shore. At days end our arms ached from the strain of paddling and from the bailing of water that constantly splashed over the boat’s low sides.

All summer long we searched and examined the many coves and brooks that fed into the lake.

Jewish folks who vacationed at Camp Higeology (currently The Montrose Marina) bought the carp that we caught for five cents apiece.