Northport Nostalgia: Desperados Part I

Living in the seaside town of Northport just naturally fostered the love of salt water and we were no exception.

My brother Steve and I were full time summer residents of "three feet," a name we used for the three-foot wide harbor access path across from our 114 Bayview Avenue home. In 1954, we swam there and it was where our first family boat made it's debut, a small rowboat that Dad bought from Emerson Boat Shop for fifty bucks. Being new to boating, Dad listened to Mr. Emerson's advice in his "down eastern brogue." "This is a good Stat-tah boat - just weeps a little," he told Dad.

Those words stayed with our family for years afterward, with the vision of that boat sitting at anchor, swamped to the gunwales for the entire summer.

The next year was no better. When we wanted to use the boat to go rowing, we had to bail out the entire contents and keep bailing as we rowed. My mother was the thrust behind those projects.

1956 ushered in our first power boat, a 12 foot Skimmar with a 5 1/2 horse Johnson. We were happening, now! Steve and I were taking piloting and
seamanship lessons from Dad, of all people, whose maritime experience included having once been a passenger on the Staten Island Ferry. After a few weeks of watching Dad and a time or two at the tiller, he actually turned the boat over to us, with the restriction of not going past the 5 mile per hour sign! I was 10! We contemplated that restriction for about 10 minutes. Nah! 

Our appetite for power boating grew in leaps and bounds and soon Steve had saved enough money to buy his own Skimmar, but this time with a 10 horse. Mom and Dad had no objections and, soon enough, the Bruyn Brothers were aquatic forces to be reckoned with. Our idols were Sir Malcolm Campbell, world water speed record holder and Hydroplane driver/band leader Guy Lombardo.

We would soon be in the cross-hairs of Frank Farrell, the harbor cop who was the first and last word in speed enforcement, the 5 M.P.H. rule. Now in a small town like Northport, it cannot be overstated that "everybody knew your name." In the case of Frank Farrell, off duty we knew him as "Uncle Frank" since he was the foster father to so many of our friends who lived with he and "Aunt Marion."

We did have respect for the law, but we also knew that the wallowy harbor cop boat could only go about 15 miles per hour and we could top that by at least 2 or 3 miles per hour. In reality, we were already technologically superior at the ages of 10 and 13 respectively. 

Uncle Frank would wave his fist when he caught us speeding, but he never "went off on us." Probably his biggest peeve was that he knew couldn't catch us. Off duty, there was never any conversation about our misbehavior and we were treated as welcomed guests in his home. He seemed to compartmentalize his personal life from his professional life.

Soon, the village would buy a new cop boat that was capable of higher speeds and would replace Uncle Frank with the legendary "Altieri," a young cop that didn't cut much slack, especially for young punks like us. This challenge would call for faster boats and more horsepower if we were to remain "forces to reckon with."

To be continued...