The alternative was a trip straight to Davey Jones’ locker through body-numbing 35-degree water. When you’re a helmsman plying the frigid waters of New Jersey in the dead of winter, every detail, every nuance, every feature of sea and land must be observed and acted upon at a moment’s notice. His eyes, swollen almost shut by sun and salt water, were sharp as an eagle’s, and they had to be.
But his memory lives on, stirring me to think of his Errol Flynn-like exploits every time I gaze at Atlantic City.įor most of his life, Jake was reluctant to talk about the “old days,” perhaps not wanting his grandchildren and great-grandchildren to think he prided himself on breaking the law, which included outrunning and outsmarting the “Coasties” who were always in hot pursuit.īut on one occasion, after much pressure, he relented and began divulging his own fascinating part in America’s ban on liquor. With the seasoned street smarts of someone twice his age, Jake instinctively knew how to bring home “boatloads” of cash.Īll he had to do was walk three blocks to the boatyard.Ī number of years ago, he passed away after living a life straight out of a Hollywood movie. So, without hesitation, Jake set out to find work - no easy task since the Great Depression had up-ended the American economy.
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