The wreck of the City of Jamestown
By JACK WILLIAMS
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10/14/2006 - Screams mixed with laughter awakened me as they crowded through my bedroom windows. They were followed by the sounds of doors slamming and outboard motors being cranked. It seemed as though every boat on the Chautauqua shore was roaring off to some emergency midnight rendezvous. Then I heard someone cry, ‘‘It’s the City of Jamestown! She’s sinking.’’ My feet hit the floor running.
My father loved to fish. He especially loved fishing for muskellunge, so every year during the ’50s my family drove from Meadville, Pa., to vacation at a cottage near Bemus Point on the eastern shore of Lake Chautauqua.
Dad fished; Mom read and enjoyed the sun. My sister and I enjoyed the childhood freedom of the lake. We explored the neighborhood and the shore with other kids, horsed around in the water and on the raft a few yards down the beach and waterskied with anyone who had an available boat and driver. My sister and I did everything we could to avoid the long, boring hours of trolling for muskies with Dad.
Our gray and white cottage sat toward the rear of a shaded lawn that ran down to a three-foot concrete seawall at water’s edge. Two huge oak trees provided protection from the sun and a cottage-wide screened-in front porch provided a haven for hours of Monopoly and reading during rainstorms. A small shrub-covered peninsula reached into the water to a sandbar a few hundred yards south of the seawall, forming one end of a small bay on the 17-mile lake. Over two miles of open water stretched out beyond the sand bar.
Dad could fish all day, Mom could read all day and we could play all day. What a deal!
Lakes are reservoirs for both water and memories. I can clearly remember the sounds of Lake Chautauqua during the ’50s — distant fishing and ski boats, kids playing both on shore and in the water and the subtle backdrops of waves splashing against the seawall.
At night, the sounds were more relaxed, quieter. My bedroom was at the front of the cottage, so I could fall asleep to the softer sounds of my parents chatting quietly on the dock and the ever-present rhythm of the waves.
But the big treat was the sound of the old triple-decked passenger steamboat, City of Jamestown, making its regular night-time voyage between Mayville and Jamestown — lake-end to lake-end. As the big boat slowly cruised down the middle of the lake, distant sounds of party music and raucous laughter slid across the water.
Tonight the sounds were different. I quickly pulled on my pants and ran downstairs to see the lights of the City of Jamestown only a few hundred feet from our dock. Music blared; passengers laughed. Someone screamed. Motorboats roared and those of us left on shore guessed excitedly about what was happening.
The City of Jamestown had stopped. The old steamboat’s bow was close against the sandbar at the end of the peninsula; she had run aground.
How I wished I could drive my own boat. But I had to wait for reports from the adults who had launched at least 50 boats to rescue stranded passengers. All we on shore could do was listen to the confusing cacophony of laughs, screams, splashes, music and motor sounds flooding over the water.
I don’t know when all the passengers got ashore. But the reports from the returning boats were that the passengers continued to dance and party and that they were throwing deviled eggs, olives and chicken salad sandwiches at their rescuers. The most popular story was that the last man rescued was standing in waist-deep water trying to push the 110-foot steamer off the sandbar.
Even though I begged for the privilege, I was not allowed to stay up and watch the rest of the excitement that night. The steamboat was gone when I awoke the next morning. Perhaps the lawyers and the bank took charge afterward because I never saw the City of Jamestown on the water again. For years its absence left a large, empty hole in the night-time sounds of Lake Chautauqua.
Jack William’s family vacationed at Bemus Point on Lake Chautauqua during the 50’s. The cottage they rented now abuts the Chautauqua Bridge and the sandbar that the City of Jamestown hit lies directly under the eastern landfall of the bridge.
My father loved to fish. He especially loved fishing for muskellunge, so every year during the ’50s my family drove from Meadville, Pa., to vacation at a cottage near Bemus Point on the eastern shore of Lake Chautauqua.
Dad fished; Mom read and enjoyed the sun. My sister and I enjoyed the childhood freedom of the lake. We explored the neighborhood and the shore with other kids, horsed around in the water and on the raft a few yards down the beach and waterskied with anyone who had an available boat and driver. My sister and I did everything we could to avoid the long, boring hours of trolling for muskies with Dad.
Our gray and white cottage sat toward the rear of a shaded lawn that ran down to a three-foot concrete seawall at water’s edge. Two huge oak trees provided protection from the sun and a cottage-wide screened-in front porch provided a haven for hours of Monopoly and reading during rainstorms. A small shrub-covered peninsula reached into the water to a sandbar a few hundred yards south of the seawall, forming one end of a small bay on the 17-mile lake. Over two miles of open water stretched out beyond the sand bar.
Dad could fish all day, Mom could read all day and we could play all day. What a deal!
Lakes are reservoirs for both water and memories. I can clearly remember the sounds of Lake Chautauqua during the ’50s — distant fishing and ski boats, kids playing both on shore and in the water and the subtle backdrops of waves splashing against the seawall.
At night, the sounds were more relaxed, quieter. My bedroom was at the front of the cottage, so I could fall asleep to the softer sounds of my parents chatting quietly on the dock and the ever-present rhythm of the waves.
But the big treat was the sound of the old triple-decked passenger steamboat, City of Jamestown, making its regular night-time voyage between Mayville and Jamestown — lake-end to lake-end. As the big boat slowly cruised down the middle of the lake, distant sounds of party music and raucous laughter slid across the water.
Tonight the sounds were different. I quickly pulled on my pants and ran downstairs to see the lights of the City of Jamestown only a few hundred feet from our dock. Music blared; passengers laughed. Someone screamed. Motorboats roared and those of us left on shore guessed excitedly about what was happening.
The City of Jamestown had stopped. The old steamboat’s bow was close against the sandbar at the end of the peninsula; she had run aground.
How I wished I could drive my own boat. But I had to wait for reports from the adults who had launched at least 50 boats to rescue stranded passengers. All we on shore could do was listen to the confusing cacophony of laughs, screams, splashes, music and motor sounds flooding over the water.
I don’t know when all the passengers got ashore. But the reports from the returning boats were that the passengers continued to dance and party and that they were throwing deviled eggs, olives and chicken salad sandwiches at their rescuers. The most popular story was that the last man rescued was standing in waist-deep water trying to push the 110-foot steamer off the sandbar.
Even though I begged for the privilege, I was not allowed to stay up and watch the rest of the excitement that night. The steamboat was gone when I awoke the next morning. Perhaps the lawyers and the bank took charge afterward because I never saw the City of Jamestown on the water again. For years its absence left a large, empty hole in the night-time sounds of Lake Chautauqua.
Jack William’s family vacationed at Bemus Point on Lake Chautauqua during the 50’s. The cottage they rented now abuts the Chautauqua Bridge and the sandbar that the City of Jamestown hit lies directly under the eastern landfall of the bridge.
For more information on Chautauqua Lake Real Estate & Living visit: www.chautauqualakehomes.com
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